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"I know it's not there but that doesn't matter now, anyway."
The boy sits in silence, not hearing a single thing said, muttered... voices all around him, some perhaps even talking to him, but they all merge into the same toneless babble.
"She told him no but he kept going anyway, it was funny."
Like colours that don't have taste, and memories that don't have emotions, sentences that sound like single words being muttered over and over again, the sudden realisation that every word ever spoken is the exact same word. Every tale and every story is the repeat of a story that's been told a thousand times before. And no-one has anything interesting to say. And everybody is blind. Utterly blind.
"It span a few times, it was fantastic. I've never been so scared in my life."
Thousands of cows all muttering and mooing to each other, trying to express themselves in any possible way they can. Trying for a second to make someone love them. To see them. But to never know them. People do not want to be known. People are unable to be loved for who they are.
"The f**ker spilt beer all over me, I could have punched him right there and then, I really wanted to, but my f**king girlfriend was there, you know what it's like."
And if people would only understand they're so angry, they're so mad, they're so upset because they're never themselves... they never speak their minds, they have to face things on their own. That's not the way to be. You need outlets. You need escapes.
"Tim's a right t**t sometimes. I can't believe he wouldn't come out with us."
For what's the real difference between someone who's dying for a fag, and someone who just wants to curl up and cry? Why is it seen more macho and more acceptable to be allowed to go and be calmed by a cigarette, than to be calmed by a hug, or a kiss? Why is it so that we're allowed to be comforted by alcohol in our society and be smiled upon by others, but not be comforted by talking about your emotions? Isn't that odd?
"They went really crap after the first three albums, so I only bought those ones."
And what happens, perhaps, if you're unable to really communicate with anyone... if you refuse to smoke or drink... or be comforted at all? What happens to those people?
"Huge t*ts though. Shame about the face."
What happens to those that hide back into their imagination, hide right away and live in their mind? What happens to those that can't control their imagination, and can't sleep?
"He's mad, this one time, he had to be held down to stop him from attacking someone with a chair... I don't know what's wrong with him."
What happens to people that keep seeing things? What happens to those that have nightmares, or close their eyes and see the people they love the most being hurt in their imagination? See the things they love drowning, the people they love being stabbed and raped in their mind? What would ever happen to those?
"No, I'll never go to Africa, it's too hot, and the n**gers would give me the freaks."
What happens to the people that feel so suicidal? The ones that have seen the true light, and know what this Earth is really like, and have no-one to talk to? No-one to really help them understand that no-one can EVER know what this world is truly like. No-one to help them understand that there is more, there is always more. More than you can imagine.
"Stupid sl*t told all her friends that I fingered her in the toliet. She must be dying for the attention."
But we refuse to believe it. We refuse to believe there's any more out there. But trust me, there is.
"Yeah, they cost like two hundred pounds, but I can see right down through the water when I wear them, it's cool."
Because they're only there, to help us see. They're only there so we can be stronger. They're only there so we can fight on, become the things we want to be, do the things we want to do, and make this world the place we so desperately want it to be.
"Hey man?"
The boy looked up, and around, blinked a few times.
"Hey?"
"You alright? You look really bad."
"I'm fine." He says, and smiles the smile he's smiled a thousand times before.
And they always read it the wrong way.
Until it's too late.
The boy sits in silence, not hearing a single thing said, muttered... voices all around him, some perhaps even talking to him, but they all merge into the same toneless babble.
"She told him no but he kept going anyway, it was funny."
Like colours that don't have taste, and memories that don't have emotions, sentences that sound like single words being muttered over and over again, the sudden realisation that every word ever spoken is the exact same word. Every tale and every story is the repeat of a story that's been told a thousand times before. And no-one has anything interesting to say. And everybody is blind. Utterly blind.
"It span a few times, it was fantastic. I've never been so scared in my life."
Thousands of cows all muttering and mooing to each other, trying to express themselves in any possible way they can. Trying for a second to make someone love them. To see them. But to never know them. People do not want to be known. People are unable to be loved for who they are.
"The f**ker spilt beer all over me, I could have punched him right there and then, I really wanted to, but my f**king girlfriend was there, you know what it's like."
And if people would only understand they're so angry, they're so mad, they're so upset because they're never themselves... they never speak their minds, they have to face things on their own. That's not the way to be. You need outlets. You need escapes.
"Tim's a right t**t sometimes. I can't believe he wouldn't come out with us."
For what's the real difference between someone who's dying for a fag, and someone who just wants to curl up and cry? Why is it seen more macho and more acceptable to be allowed to go and be calmed by a cigarette, than to be calmed by a hug, or a kiss? Why is it so that we're allowed to be comforted by alcohol in our society and be smiled upon by others, but not be comforted by talking about your emotions? Isn't that odd?
"They went really crap after the first three albums, so I only bought those ones."
And what happens, perhaps, if you're unable to really communicate with anyone... if you refuse to smoke or drink... or be comforted at all? What happens to those people?
"Huge t*ts though. Shame about the face."
What happens to those that hide back into their imagination, hide right away and live in their mind? What happens to those that can't control their imagination, and can't sleep?
"He's mad, this one time, he had to be held down to stop him from attacking someone with a chair... I don't know what's wrong with him."
What happens to people that keep seeing things? What happens to those that have nightmares, or close their eyes and see the people they love the most being hurt in their imagination? See the things they love drowning, the people they love being stabbed and raped in their mind? What would ever happen to those?
"No, I'll never go to Africa, it's too hot, and the n**gers would give me the freaks."
What happens to the people that feel so suicidal? The ones that have seen the true light, and know what this Earth is really like, and have no-one to talk to? No-one to really help them understand that no-one can EVER know what this world is truly like. No-one to help them understand that there is more, there is always more. More than you can imagine.
"Stupid sl*t told all her friends that I fingered her in the toliet. She must be dying for the attention."
But we refuse to believe it. We refuse to believe there's any more out there. But trust me, there is.
"Yeah, they cost like two hundred pounds, but I can see right down through the water when I wear them, it's cool."
Because they're only there, to help us see. They're only there so we can be stronger. They're only there so we can fight on, become the things we want to be, do the things we want to do, and make this world the place we so desperately want it to be.
"Hey man?"
The boy looked up, and around, blinked a few times.
"Hey?"
"You alright? You look really bad."
"I'm fine." He says, and smiles the smile he's smiled a thousand times before.
And they always read it the wrong way.
Until it's too late.
Read it.
Liked it.
Can't really reply.
Liked it.
Can't really reply.
Everybody is a writer, someone once said, but they don't realise it. Because a writer is just someone with a story to tell. And everybody has a story to tell. Those stories are what is important. Not how they are told or how well written they are. Because people who try and tell their story are communicating. And that's what no-one seems to do anymore.
The talk and chat and gas and natter and speak and scream and shout and it's all so empty. Maybe some of them will spend their entire lives without ever thinking a single worthwhile thought. It is the most depressing thought.
But occasionally amidst the walls of white noise something happens that completely restores your faith in humanity, even if it's only short-lived. Because there are people who feel the same way about the white noise, and the only thing they can do to endure it is to try and break down the barriers to other people and show them hope.
Hope is worth living for.
The talk and chat and gas and natter and speak and scream and shout and it's all so empty. Maybe some of them will spend their entire lives without ever thinking a single worthwhile thought. It is the most depressing thought.
But occasionally amidst the walls of white noise something happens that completely restores your faith in humanity, even if it's only short-lived. Because there are people who feel the same way about the white noise, and the only thing they can do to endure it is to try and break down the barriers to other people and show them hope.
Hope is worth living for.
"I know it's not there but that doesn't matter now, anyway."
The boy sits in silence, not hearing a single thing said, muttered... voices all around him, some perhaps even talking to him, but they all merge into the same toneless babble.
"She told him no but he kept going anyway, it was funny."
Like colours that don't have taste, and memories that don't have emotions, sentences that sound like single words being muttered over and over again, the sudden realisation that every word ever spoken is the exact same word. Every tale and every story is the repeat of a story that's been told a thousand times before. And no-one has anything interesting to say. And everybody is blind. Utterly blind.
"It span a few times, it was fantastic. I've never been so scared in my life."
Thousands of cows all muttering and mooing to each other, trying to express themselves in any possible way they can. Trying for a second to make someone love them. To see them. But to never know them. People do not want to be known. People are unable to be loved for who they are.
"The f**ker spilt beer all over me, I could have punched him right there and then, I really wanted to, but my f**king girlfriend was there, you know what it's like."
And if people would only understand they're so angry, they're so mad, they're so upset because they're never themselves... they never speak their minds, they have to face things on their own. That's not the way to be. You need outlets. You need escapes.
"Tim's a right t**t sometimes. I can't believe he wouldn't come out with us."
For what's the real difference between someone who's dying for a fag, and someone who just wants to curl up and cry? Why is it seen more macho and more acceptable to be allowed to go and be calmed by a cigarette, than to be calmed by a hug, or a kiss? Why is it so that we're allowed to be comforted by alcohol in our society and be smiled upon by others, but not be comforted by talking about your emotions? Isn't that odd?
"They went really crap after the first three albums, so I only bought those ones."
And what happens, perhaps, if you're unable to really communicate with anyone... if you refuse to smoke or drink... or be comforted at all? What happens to those people?
"Huge t*ts though. Shame about the face."
What happens to those that hide back into their imagination, hide right away and live in their mind? What happens to those that can't control their imagination, and can't sleep?
"He's mad, this one time, he had to be held down to stop him from attacking someone with a chair... I don't know what's wrong with him."
What happens to people that keep seeing things? What happens to those that have nightmares, or close their eyes and see the people they love the most being hurt in their imagination? See the things they love drowning, the people they love being stabbed and raped in their mind? What would ever happen to those?
"No, I'll never go to Africa, it's too hot, and the n**gers would give me the freaks."
What happens to the people that feel so suicidal? The ones that have seen the true light, and know what this Earth is really like, and have no-one to talk to? No-one to really help them understand that no-one can EVER know what this world is truly like. No-one to help them understand that there is more, there is always more. More than you can imagine.
"Stupid sl*t told all her friends that I fingered her in the toliet. She must be dying for the attention."
But we refuse to believe it. We refuse to believe there's any more out there. But trust me, there is.
"Yeah, they cost like two hundred pounds, but I can see right down through the water when I wear them, it's cool."
Because they're only there, to help us see. They're only there so we can be stronger. They're only there so we can fight on, become the things we want to be, do the things we want to do, and make this world the place we so desperately want it to be.
"Hey man?"
The boy looked up, and around, blinked a few times.
"Hey?"
"You alright? You look really bad."
"I'm fine." He says, and smiles the smile he's smiled a thousand times before.
And they always read it the wrong way.
Until it's too late.
The boy sits in silence, not hearing a single thing said, muttered... voices all around him, some perhaps even talking to him, but they all merge into the same toneless babble.
"She told him no but he kept going anyway, it was funny."
Like colours that don't have taste, and memories that don't have emotions, sentences that sound like single words being muttered over and over again, the sudden realisation that every word ever spoken is the exact same word. Every tale and every story is the repeat of a story that's been told a thousand times before. And no-one has anything interesting to say. And everybody is blind. Utterly blind.
"It span a few times, it was fantastic. I've never been so scared in my life."
Thousands of cows all muttering and mooing to each other, trying to express themselves in any possible way they can. Trying for a second to make someone love them. To see them. But to never know them. People do not want to be known. People are unable to be loved for who they are.
"The f**ker spilt beer all over me, I could have punched him right there and then, I really wanted to, but my f**king girlfriend was there, you know what it's like."
And if people would only understand they're so angry, they're so mad, they're so upset because they're never themselves... they never speak their minds, they have to face things on their own. That's not the way to be. You need outlets. You need escapes.
"Tim's a right t**t sometimes. I can't believe he wouldn't come out with us."
For what's the real difference between someone who's dying for a fag, and someone who just wants to curl up and cry? Why is it seen more macho and more acceptable to be allowed to go and be calmed by a cigarette, than to be calmed by a hug, or a kiss? Why is it so that we're allowed to be comforted by alcohol in our society and be smiled upon by others, but not be comforted by talking about your emotions? Isn't that odd?
"They went really crap after the first three albums, so I only bought those ones."
And what happens, perhaps, if you're unable to really communicate with anyone... if you refuse to smoke or drink... or be comforted at all? What happens to those people?
"Huge t*ts though. Shame about the face."
What happens to those that hide back into their imagination, hide right away and live in their mind? What happens to those that can't control their imagination, and can't sleep?
"He's mad, this one time, he had to be held down to stop him from attacking someone with a chair... I don't know what's wrong with him."
What happens to people that keep seeing things? What happens to those that have nightmares, or close their eyes and see the people they love the most being hurt in their imagination? See the things they love drowning, the people they love being stabbed and raped in their mind? What would ever happen to those?
"No, I'll never go to Africa, it's too hot, and the n**gers would give me the freaks."
What happens to the people that feel so suicidal? The ones that have seen the true light, and know what this Earth is really like, and have no-one to talk to? No-one to really help them understand that no-one can EVER know what this world is truly like. No-one to help them understand that there is more, there is always more. More than you can imagine.
"Stupid sl*t told all her friends that I fingered her in the toliet. She must be dying for the attention."
But we refuse to believe it. We refuse to believe there's any more out there. But trust me, there is.
"Yeah, they cost like two hundred pounds, but I can see right down through the water when I wear them, it's cool."
Because they're only there, to help us see. They're only there so we can be stronger. They're only there so we can fight on, become the things we want to be, do the things we want to do, and make this world the place we so desperately want it to be.
"Hey man?"
The boy looked up, and around, blinked a few times.
"Hey?"
"You alright? You look really bad."
"I'm fine." He says, and smiles the smile he's smiled a thousand times before.
And they always read it the wrong way.
Until it's too late.