Perfection.

I am sitting in a wholly dark room; the darkness compounded by the loss of light, so temporal in its life, so fleeting in its flickering ebullience; the darkness so utterly compelling to those fresh from the flickering length of light left, in all its entirety, behind; in this darkness I sit and I notice things I miss during the day; I become recalcitrant, subservient, insubordinate; crepuscular in my inhibitions and predilections; an admixture of empathic notions splayed out across me; compound emotion frustrated and compelled into cohesion: inchoate and senseless, fluttering of movement lost in the blink of the light-starved eyelids; a docile and soporific weight pressing down upon me, trapped in my hubris and conceit; to amalgamate all that is good, all that is just, all that is loving, all that is care, hate, fear, loathing; humanity; to compel these paradigms of mortality is to bask in the glowing oppression of darkness; God's own catechism laid slowly against the beating breast - the only sign of the still moving human - sexualised, equalised, paroxysms of confusion and self-efficacy thrown wayward to the ever encroaching swirling miasma masquerading as the oncoming dawn; lost for all eternity, trapped within the foibles of consciousness deprived of rudimentary function; motor skills and thought; a child-brain; all coagulating beneath the stagnant veneer of deprivation; an ever increasing turbulence of grandstanding in the arena of your choosing; teased longingly by tendrils of tender tenacity, snatched back by the oppression, the gloom; falling, ever falling, the fatalism of nature, all on you; everything is all on you; the lyricism of Nature herself; the tune plays lovingly in your ear, caresses the very fibre of your being, gently lulls you into unconsciousness; imploring you to turn, just ever so gently, turn to the right; bring me something physical, get me out of this hole of my creation; help me.

To my right there is a bottle of water, dripping slowly onto my time-worn desk; the contents splashing in time to the bass of my heart, my soul; the bottle itself, perfect in its imperfection; casting gloomy silhouettes against the fabric of the curtains, as if crying out, declaiming its rightful place in the fibre of time; look at me, I'm ever so artificial; this creation everlasting, morally indefensible, a bastion of contemporary humanity; plastic wrapping, plastic container, plastic water: a testament to life and its conveniences; thrown together hastily in a twenty-four hour work-a-day environment of soul destroying hypocrisy.

To my left is my mouse; strange, that, why it would be there: I am right-handed, so it seems queer to find my mouse on the left, as if in protest to my lack of dexterity; obsolete mocking from my technological friends; its flickering light a beacon of hope in the perishing darkness of the now - a light in the dark, to bring the misguided soul into landing,... safe - the achromatic sublimity inconsequential in design, perfect in its simplicity; its complicity.

My glasses are filthy; the grime of the day finally noticeable after hours in the perishing, bitter winds and rain of a mid-December day; the greyness of reality masked by the natural; finally shown in their clarity whence darkness has fallen, a paradigm for modernity -- strange to contemplate that I have allowed this dirt to rest on my face for nearing half a day; as if it's a shrine to me, or something -- they need to be clean, to purify the other is to cleanse oneself of sin, of debauchery; the glasses an analogy for us in our darkest of days: our depths of depravity.

Excuse me, I must clean my glasses.

I'm startled by the light as it hits me, now blemish free; incongruous in the light-deprived solitude of my only place of mental reserve, the bedroom.

Just in front of me, slightly to the left, there is a constant, yet tiny, red light; standby, get ready for what, I'm not sure; I don't understand this red light, it perturbs me in my quietude and privated state; the only consistency is predictability; faultless and imperfect in a discordant dance, ever fighting for supremacy; a peripheral battle for our souls, for the sake of progress, to avoid degeneration; in my emotional primacy, with baseless concepts tickling the hairs on the back of my neck, I see these ghosts, these haunting phantoms made incarnate, hellishly real in their mawkishness, from whence you came, my irrationality wouldst cast you back; to hell with you, constant light; mocking me, snide, I don't understand your purpose; purposeless, I suppose; which only adds to my confusion: the feeling of the uncanny increase tenfold by the irrationality burbling up from my unconscious; that which I don't understand must leave. Plug out.

I cannot see my ceiling; it is lost to me, as dank and as impenetrable as the castles of heaven; anything could rest there, biding its time, crawling, inching, gambolling - who knows - across the ceiling in the invisible dance of the ages; waiting for my neurons to blink their last resistance, and capitulate to the inevitability of sleep; to drop down upon me as a weight from a height, crashing down imperceptibly onto my chest; formulaic in its tedium; failing in its ignorance of my insomnia. I laugh at you, possible-ceiling-dweller; you will not penetrate the inner sanctum of my being; for inside you would find a box incomprehensible to your diminutive mind: it is fear, my friend, my enemy; it is fear: fear of the unknown and understood; the two in a twirling ballet of opposition, as two magnets facing each other across the schoolboy playing-field; you stare longingly at one another, wishing for the unobtainable embrace of your love. I cannot but run from my ceiling, as it hangs precariously; a yawning precipice above my bed - contrast flipped and distorted - the skewing of my reality from my horizontal prostration; run, but stop, foiled by the intractable physics of reality, of solidity and of fluidity; to entreat the mind to allow passage into the bastion of safety; unconsciousness. I hide from you, ceiling, with your innumerate meanings and distortions.

On my feet are a pair of boots; soft-tan, woollen, plush insides against rough exteriors; as the degeneration, misunderstood criminals of the fin-de-siècle; an artefact of life's lost humanity; a synecdoche for who I am, my entire personality included in this... this materialism; any sense of purpose or choice lost to bigotry, to misanthropic tendencies; pre-determined antiquation of ideology, sprayed in vitriol against my person; as tar congeals and bubbles to its own surfaces; as do my insecurities, my fears, my self-loathing, my humanity laid bare for all the world to see, as I stand naked, alone in front of arbitrators, afraid and shaking at my own weak nature. These boots represent what life has come to, what revolution and humanitarian efforts have culminated in; house-boots, as a concept; hundreds of years for a fucking fashion accessory; libertarian laughter bouncing against the walls of my skull; the futility of it all, the fruitless questing and searching, pleading and remonstrating with the order of life, of humanity, of nature; allow me, embrace me, let me rest here; why can not the man wear a boot? Puzzling and struck depressingly again and again; the organ of destiny crashing through its closing bars; the resounding triumph of failure set against the backdrop of irony.

Perception becomes blurred at the ending of the day; at the dawning of the day; the infinite vastness of temporality, working against our reason; in cahoots with a laughing super-being; your determinism be damned, I shall not capitulate, I repudiate your claims, your stake on my soul; these are my own choices, and I shall make them as I see fit; not hide, not run, not fear; never back down, no sacrifice; if it is as it takes, we shan’t be long for this life; if this is the pinnacle of being, we are loathe to see the fall; as the mountaineer forgets the descent, so we are lost in the mines of hubris; the fogs of vainglorious exuberance; misting realities and truths a lost compound structure, indecipherable, meaningless in the foreground of our vanity; hopeless, effortless, pointless.

Just behind and to the left of my head sits a speaker, from my CD player; its mesh bouncing gaily to the beat it produces; mellow caterwauling in my ear, if a concept is permitted in the stupidity of infancy. As the casing moves incrementally up, and down, up, and down, I realise that I do not, cannot, and will not ever understand how, why, or when this happened; I will never fathom out the mechanics; the inner-workings: the entire structure of that which I take for granted is entirely beyond me remit, beyond my knowledge; beyond even my aptitude; I have no capacity for learning the technology I embraced so readily for the sheer sense of sublime it injects into my darkness; an interesting question: unphrased, and unheard, but heard by me; to what purpose do I strive, inanimate and stagnant in my bitter being; a tool, one purpose, one meaning, one use, all meaningless; the object understands and realises that which is beyond us; it is not only the working which alludes me, but the thought which escapes my grasp too: how can that which is built solely for my, for our, use quest out further than I, than we?

Underneath me is a carpet which hasn’t seen anything but a vacuum cleaner in... well, I don’t know how long; the crust of dirt that must build up instantly blessedly invisible to our eyes; a further supposition: if we are, as suggested, at this peak of evolutionary mobility, how do we find ourselves so blind to the workings of the world, to the fabric of reality, to the passage of time; to the tick-tick-tock of the ever-forward moving clock; and how are we so mute to the callings, to the cries, the pleas of our world; the pleas that fall on deaf ears, on deaf crows, on whole nations deafened by their own will and guile; how can you reach the nadir of progress and still be at the bottom?

I take a sip from my bottle of water and some of it misses my mouth and splashes down onto my t-shirt, and onto my desk; and I am struck by two realisations: I don’t understand where I end, and where I begin; and I do not understand how I work, how I fail at the rudimentary tasks I set myself each and every second that passes me by. I paddle towards self-affirmation, through the valleys which compel me back towards my entry, and I am confused and lost at every turn by this omnipresent sense of failure, sense of indecipherability, of labyrinthine conceptualised epiphany; so clear in its obscurity; obfuscated simplicity by the mere presence of my self: I try to drink, and water misses my mouth; I am wet, thirsty, irritated, and frustrated, I am also confused, and angered by my confusion; my one failure sets off this chain, unstoppable and unconquerable chain; self-propelling, smashing through all attempts to reconcile myself to equilibrium; now I sit forwards and my trousers are wet, now I move my hand and my elbow is wet; now I lean on my elbow and it slips and I hit my head; now I have a headache, now I stop writing; now I am frustrated and restless, but in pain and ever so tired; a never ending, always to be endured, crashing tsunami of predetermination, of action and reaction.

Far away to my right is a chest of drawers, or at least, I suppose it is a chest, though much longer than wide; the language of the everyday is entire lost to me; to think that which was so commonplace is now lost, but never-we-mind. On this chest, for I have decided it is a chest, there sits an iPod, a set of keys, a remote control, some spare change, a lighter, some cigarettes, a bottle-top, a pen, and all other ephemera I seem to prize so dearly; consummate and unswerving commercialism, materialism; anarchism. The testament to our modernity; the stalwart defender of all that we hold dear, resides solely within my technological dominion: I rest, alone, forever alone, in the heart of the cold, hard automaton that is where I am, is who I am, is where I am, is where I’ll be forever.

As I sit here, as I am, as I was, as I will be, I soliloquise, I philosophise; I attempt to elucidate that which appears to sparkling to me, that which seems innate in my being and my purpose; yet through the quagmire of my extended tongue, I find myself lost; trapped within this pyramid of language I don't understand.

My phone goes off. I'm staring at it, wondering whether or not I want to read what the message I have just been sent says; I think I almost prefer the not knowing, then I can invent the weird and wondrous that I know will never become real; I can play out my morbid, my fantastic, as purposeless as a puff of wind, as over-arching as a driving force behind you; I can make these dreams realities, no, metarealities; above and beyond that which life can ever hope, or dream, to offer me: in my head I have received confirmation of my knighthood, of my sainthood, of the destruction of religion, of equality as concept being accepted; of libertarianism, of idealism, or irrealism, of surrealism, and of myidealism; in here, before I step back into the banal, the ebb and flow of the mundane, I can be anywhere, or anything, or anyone; I can be with anything, anywhere, any time, anyone; I am selfless, bold, altruistic, forcible, philanthropist, lover, friend, giver, taker, receiver, thief, braggart, strangled, tense, feverish, I am febrile; this is stasis, this is activity; I am searching, I am lost, I am found; in here, I can be whatever I want. Always.

And if you were thinking that this makes sense, well, it does to me, and that is all I care about.