Reading cam be dangerous.Mature

American Psycho.

I sat there in that chair and read and read and read, I passed out and I was woken again by star who had gone on missions for healthy food and had a tray laden with fruit and juices and newspapers, we ate and fucked and as she slept I read on lying on my side and bundled up in summer cool sheets.

    I have to say, that the protagonist in that book, made me realize my own narcissism, and although I lacked his psychotic glee I could see what money could do to you what he fear of not fitting in  could cause, I feared losing my mind, and was and am, probably halfway there and I was frightened by the idea that people walked the earth who were like that.

   How I felt is pretty hard to describe, my whole head was screaming and juddering and I could hear a low bass sounding hum and a high pitched sighing and the content of the book scrambled around in my head aiming for a logic that was sadly lacking, the words screamed at me, but I couldn’t put it down, and I wet the pages with nervous sweating.

For two days, I camped in that bed and read, and when I was done, I slept for two days taking only pisses and soup and tea when I woke.

And on the fifth day. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.

Now I had as a whole and as understanding, was something I saw as a sorry sort of semblance, I felt heavy and adrift I felt sickened by my own behaviour.

I wanted to go home, and home was a lie.

I snapped at Star and was rude to those around her; I threw tantrums that I couldn’t express.

I was asked to leave and I went like a wounded puppy, unable to un-stick my tongue and speak of the internal crisis I felt. Probably would have been passed off as a ‘bad come down’ anyhow.

I went home to the house that had more of me in it.



Okay. Your probably wondering where the sick bit comes in?

It’s harder to look back than you think it is, for someone with too many memories at least. So if you remember me telling you of my routine, here was the fifth day of that.

 I was at home and one of my cats was clawing at the curtains and the others one licking his arse and I sat on the sofa staring at my notes on scams and I drew a blank.

I didn’t want to do this anymore or did I just think I didn’t? I had never ever, felt remorse or doubt or discontent before, ever! What the fuck was going on? I couldn’t get the picture of Patrick (the books protagonist) out of my mind… I pictured my face on his, and his glittering maniacal eyes.

 I had read books before that one book, and they had never had as much, impact as this one had had of me.

So I was wondering if it wasn’t simply a fugue state brought on by the visuals I had had, and then the reading binge of a book best left for sober reading.

I had just flipped! But my heart wasn’t into this excuse.

I lay down on the sofa and the cats came and curled up and I lay and I thought about me, my getting older, all that shit that confuses all the young and scares the old.  And that is an imp called change; he is death’s cousin, a polite and quiet invader.

  Finally, I nodded off to sleep. I dreamt a dream that I still remember vividly now.

The End

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