(This was written some twenty years ago, and is proof that I must have had some illegal substances when I went to university; either that or this was written the year I abstained from coffee – and paragraphs, it seems).
His world was the world of death; a marginal existence he lead, built upon the crimes of his own futile efforts to create a world outside of himself; a distraught and evil brownie in the realms of our dreams – that part of us that is more than Freddie Kruger. A hop, skip and a jump out of reality was a part of their lifestyle. I tried to delve into their minds but their minds were weak, they did not live life the way that they were supposed to jump; like rats in holes they lived lives that were only the merest sputum of the lives that they could have had. I looked upon their souls and saw the wintry nights of their despair leaping and frolicking in a hell of their own creation. Their hell was a mild panacea for the ranting of a paradise found and lost; John Milton dying, living and reaping the benefits and rewards of his blindness. He shot a paper clip through the heart of us all – a paper clip coloured a pastel orange shade of body odour. It was the odour of a body fed by its own stench, an odour that emanated from the swamp of the physical evidence of being. The spiritual evidence of being was the merest misstep in the skies of dismal wretchedness, a spiralling downward of hopes and dreams that were the remnants of a stage show that had long since closed to a forgetful public. A public that did not itself need to be a part of the myriad miracle and rich pageantry that was life enjoyed to the full. Audience members that wanted to die dull, and would never dream of showing their underwear at community meetings. These were meetings where the dress code for entry was the merest problem; a mere problem is but a challenge and a challenge is but heartache writ simple. My thoughts and ideals of Walter Cronkite died upon the field of glory and death; they fought for our independence and won us this. We did not know what they died for; we hoped they did. They died for us, they said, though weâ€™d never asked. The media were our friends and our lives were more important to them than their own. Death was to become but a slight companion of inconvenience. The Baron was kept from a life that lead him to the valleys of death that do not die of their own accord, but instead require an edict from long forgotten powers that once ruled the world such as the Titans of Greek mythology. The Titans of our lives today are the monies, the mosaics of banking corporations that are not to be discouraged at any point in time from their main object of making money. A charge to these Titans was like a debit; a credit a complete pain in the arse, whereas an arse was a mere thing for which God provide them to sit upon and add kinky calculations. A thousand bank tellers accumulating on their butts their financial savings and tallying the half cent interest in favour of the bank. The bank makes the rules, you are played by them. I lived a life of freedom, I lived a life of happiness. Soon after I was born. I lived a life of misery that jumped upon the camel of my death train. A fighting death that needed no explanation by the President or the Prime Minister of any country. I died a Hindu. I died a Pakistani. I fell a thousand feet into a pit of tar and lived. My story is that of many. The few who live beyond the tales of imagination that cannot be told for fear of retribution and lies and pokings by sticks. Extraterrestrials we are not, we are pawns in a life of dedication to prawns. Leaders in a world of followers we are not; nor are we the followers. We lead but also follow. We are the silent majority that speaks with mind clamped and eyes shut. Our point of view was never a necessity in the roaring blue skies filled with grey clouds. I flew high in the sky like a kite needing no word to command it. I was a bird. I was a 747. I was blown out of the sky by a terrorist bomb attack. I fell like a stone into an ocean of pity with little white things floating in it that were not of me. They were Men, they that built me and their own. I am immortal, they are not. They show their capacity to die with a mask of absolute silliness on their faces. They look funny, but no sound of laughter lives in their bodies. I sink beyond the waveless sympathy into a world of green seas and pink roads. A daffodil without its petals greets me with a laughing stare and a jumping dance that looks like a highland fling. A nymph of dew alights on my shoulder and I talk to her with a lunaticâ€™s raving and ranting. Only there is no moon, and I am sane. Deep down I am sane but I live the life of a dreamer, ever hoping to live and never wanting to die. I know that they who live are they that wish to die, and those that die wish to live. They have lives that do not want it; they have deaths that do not want it. The powers of the heavens are mere iron gauntlets encasing hands as cruel as the icy winter; they smack us with brands reeking of incense and burning flesh, spearing our foreheads with the pugnacity of tamed shrews. Film star smiles upon our faces as we realise that our life and fate and destiny is determined by he with the brand. The brand is metal but we are flesh. The brand is red, but we are white – then we are black and do not know how or why, but we have chosen our positions in this world and on it. We are where we have chosen to be, and what we have chosen to be, only we do not know it since the meaning of life escapes us as we enter it. Death is but a mere release from this restricted knowledge. A curse upon your toilet mouths, you foul excreta of dogs. You are a dingo. You are a life wrecker. I want you to pay for your sins, he with the brand, but I do not know who you are, and neither can I find you still. I want to die, and I want to live. If I die, I want to be able to find you, but I donâ€™t know if I will still be me. So I will wreak the havoc I can upon your soul, if yours is what man calls soul, from my glorified position in a world of madness, insanity, and dead flowers. I choose to be sane, oh wondrous wizard of fate. I am against those that live the mild and dull death. I live the life.