I turned the light off with a click, with one last look at the tall, thin box sitting next to my lonesome glass. Inside that box was an expensive bottle of Scotch. It was a birthday present, and I’d been excited, even though I couldn’t drink real liqor very well. I’m more of a beer or wine person. Only times I really drank liqor were times when I got really sick. For some stupid reason I’d put that song on loop. I’ll have to put it on a list of songs for another Kill Me compilation. Songs that make my heart ache. Songs that I might want to breathe through my soul to some barflys, unprepared for what I’m about to bring to the table. Yeah, in my head, that’s what I do. In reality? I’m just sitting here, mildly sweating ‘cause I’m wearing too much to keep warm. When you sit at a computer screen all night long, it gets cold. No muscle action means little blood flow. I’ve had my legs and ass fall asleep from staying up all night. I think my innate insomnia and the computer screen make me mildly immortal. I am King. And I fade into myself.

I can’t write anymore. I’ve tried, but the words just won’t flow from my fingertips the way that they were so eager to when I was younger. I’m still young. Yeah. And I didn’t die. I KNEW that I’d die at 27 when I was younger. I was just waiting around to see how it happened, and who I was at the time. Now that time is past. It’s all gone, and I’m still here. I’m not even waiting anymore. Sometimes I tease Death. There was a short time when I thought that I couldn’t die. That I had before, and woke up fine. Maybe even better, slightly. Maybe I was just too high. That’s what I did. Got as high as possible, so that I couldn’t tell what was real anymore. I tried so hard to run away from everything, aside from moving myself physically. And why? It wasn’t that bad. Spoiled little prince just couldn’t have everything his way. So I had to make myself into a god, or a devil. Well, maybe I did both, really. Just hid them inside of myself. Then they became real. One took my hand and led me around in an amusement park of decadent life. The other tried to rip me from safety and tear apart everything that I wanted to be. That other one is locked away, and I dread mentioning it at all. The kind one? I killed him. Well, I buried him alive, anyway. I can still hear him whispering, down there. He’s patient and forgiving. Of course he is; he thinks he’s a Jesus. Not the one from the Bible, but something like that. His own idea of what he could be. And me? I don’t know anymore. I just keep pumping along. Never sure of what’s around the next bend. I live my life, I go in shadow.

Sometimes I want it all back. The nightmare of my past. There were some really good times. I always looked back. With furtive glances ahead, of course, ‘cause I want to be prepared, but I’m not sure what to prepare for. Right now I want something that I can’t have. Maybe never have. Whenever I’m close, I throw it away, and then I look for it again, but it’s gone. Lost. And I’m alone. Again. So I look around, and try to find things that might not even be there. And everything else goes on around me, like normal. Even if it’s not normal. It’s going on without me. Just like that episode of “Growing Pains” where Ben (or was it Mike? I keep thinking of it as Ben) stayed home from school, and the whole world went on without him. Just like it was normal. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t there. Just like when somebody dies. We might mourn them for a while, and then what? We get on with life. That’s what we have to do, right? Well, what if they’re still watching? And we go on, forgetting them? They aren’t here, maybe they never were. Maybe you aren’t. I know I’m not.

This isn’t even now I write. I tried a few times, like this, to just throw down some thoughts, to get back into the groove of writing. I LOVE writing. It’s creating a whole world, from my mind. To share with people who might care. The saddest part about all this, is that I write fiction, and the only fiction here is where that bottle of Scotch is. But I won’t tell you. That part’s all mine.

Maybe I’ll write something real (fictional) sometime.