Stability of Existence

A desire to write. I think it’s good for the mind and I hope to be a bit more ordered this time around. It is night. They say only at night can you be your true self as the day requires acting.

I am still confused. After I’d discovered that my neighbours don’t hate me enough to stand outside all night screaming “pervert!” I cried because I felt I had discovered something huge about my mind. My perception. Who I am. And that’s that I can’t trust it. So I’m told. I still wonder if they are lying.

I like to be honest. I think I am lucky in some respects if this experience was some kind of psychosis because I’ve heard of people being hospitalised with it. For me, I felt fear. Going back to my flat was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. I was ready with my phone to record people who were talking about things. I kept my head down during the walk to the station. I honestly though a young lady said she thought I was a paedophile to one of her friends. I’m not a fucking nonce sweetheart. Except I think my brain is fucking with me to a huge degree.

Part of me is hoping that it’s purely anxiety that causes something like this. Or maybe that I’ve just damaged my brain with alcohol. I mean damaged it beyond withdrawals to the point where I have these audio hallucinations. But I’ve also been reading about schizophrenia. It’s a big and scary thing but I definitely relate to a lot of the symptoms. If I could be given a pill and lose the muscle tension I’d be very pleased.

Something that’s bothering me is my mind. Of course. Brighton was so traumatic for me that I heard the neighbour on the train home. My friend said this is an alarm bell. To me, I’d been listening to my neighbour all night so it felt like part of the whole trauma. Nothing to be particularly worried about. He, however, noted that the voices might not have been real in the flat either.

I have to admit two things about the first experience. The first life changing trauma and if you think I’m being over dramatic you can lick my scrotum. Firstly when I pulled myself together as much as I could, pulled in a lot of courage as I’d been hiding in huge amounts of fear, hearing the neighbour outside of my flat I opened my door. He wasn’t there. The second piece is that they sent me a note right after I’d packed my things to leave which said they really didn’t know what I was talking about. Written by a half-wit his English was appalling. After two experiences like this I am at a loss.

Don’t get me wrong, the second experience was easier as the first had made me colder. Less present. I even recall just wanting to sleep and enjoying the experience as the mayhem carried on around me.

For weeks previous to this, I has heard the voice of a loud Londoner from behind my bed and he didn’t seem to like me very much. He felt that I spent all day in my bed for solo sexual activities. Thinking about it, it made no sense since he doesn’t know if I’m in bed, surely, unless he had a glass to the wall. Any sexual activity wouldn’t have made it to his ears so how could he possibly have any knowledge on me?

The man sometimes had a voice from behind and sometimes above my head. Is this logical? I assumed he was friends with Mr Riverin, my bedridden neighbour. Thinking about it that’s unlikely isn’t it? People move in and out of that block all the time, the chances of making friends with someone on the first floor, someone who doesn’t leave their room, seems unlikely.

Of course I worry about my mind. I’ve treated it badly. I have notions about humanity during the day which feel a million miles away from that of anyone else’s. Of course I could be wrong. I just feel compelled to voice my dislike for capitalism, humans' despicable vanity and emulation of each other and it doesn’t always do me favours, but in some ways I like my mind. I’d like to keep it.

If I assume, yes I know I’ve done this before, that I am being lied to, then I am at risk in Bournemouth. The note was very convincing though. Not written by the man who I heard, but maybe a man doesn’t even live in the flat behind me. Where the fuck does he live if not behind me? It’s a flat at a right angle to mine. Does he actually even exist? This bothers me. I dont worry too much for my mind. Using your mind to worry about your mind is too illogical even for me at this stage. Were I seeing things as well then I’d need some serious worry time but at the moment I’m in a similar place I was in in Brighton. Except this time I’m questioning reality and will hopefully go back to my job and end up living on the edge of the New Forest.

I always wanted to live in a city. I felt that there was a great deal missing in my life becoming an adult and then some in the country. It felt so isolated, particularly as a homo. I tried Brighton, I felt I was lucky to live by the sea, see the sun reflecting off of it and a healthy proportion of gays there too, not to mention the bohemian attitudes, live music and hopefully interesting people. But it ended up feeling like a sweet that had been spat out onto the street. People living in flats, too I feel, miss out on creative freedoms. I’m all for going out and having a good time but for me, I think I need to be alone and in the quiet in order to start writing or learning to paint in the artificial light I seem to prefer for thinking.

What does bother me is what I perceive as cognitive decline. My memory is getting worse I think. I’ll pick something up for a specific purpose and ten seconds later forget why. It’s not just one time, it’s quite frequent. I have found myself, more than once where I cant remember what my shoes look like and I’ve only got one pair, and found myself feeling like I’m on an island of time with no memory of anything in my past which too makes it hard to think about the future too. What am I becoming? I’ve had these feelings for many years. I feel a disconnect from people and a disconnect from myself as if I am a long way out at sea.

Maybe I’ll never know what happened in Bournemouth or Brighton. Maybe I’ll never feel safe in either place.

Since I refuse to live in that flat out of fear, and now I’ve humiliated myself with notes that scream a denial of the things the London man appeared to be accusing me of, I’ve planned a move. I feel a bit uncomfortable about it since I am borrowing yet more money to perform this operation and I’m feeling pretty out of it after all of this but I’d be lying if i said it had no appeal.

On the edge of the new forest, plenty of wild horses to be seen outside of its front gate, it’s a semi-detached house next to a quiet pub. It has a living room with wood burner, and a large hall with space for a lot more than a coat rack. The garden a path down the middle with logs to the side of the gate. I think I just need the quiet. It’s a three mile walk to work which will probably take about an hour. The garage is dry and with the power of electricity. My head is trying to turn it into an art studio, gym and music room simultaneously.

In the living room I am imagining the last embers of thin logs warming the air and a music stand. My television is on and a guitar on its stand to the left. A sofa. A used sofa that looks far more comfortable than anything you can get from modern DFS ones. It’s a comfortable room with no sound except my own. There’s a hifi stand with my separates to the right of the log burner and candles on the hearth. A coffee table. In this fantasy an ash tray as well. I like a smokey room and maybe a Monopoly board spoiling this image but indicative of slight company. A roast can be smelt from the small kitchen out of sight.

An art room made from the space in the extra bedroom. Bookcases in the entrance hall downstairs. Treated Oak and dark wood. A table for eating at, a skull in the centre with a candle half cremated, the wax covering the top, down the back and like an icicle some wax hanging down the left eye.