Live Emotional Teenager

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Murphy lives as one of the many seeds in the 'Big Apple', but there is something rotten within. An adolescent mistake that haunts him through his adulthood.

Recapturing youth is never easy...

I guess I'll begin by setting the scene.

It was late. The kind of lateness that ordinarily results in tar coloured dominance of the skies. Little glints, holes and stars begin flashing at various points; with that lunar mass of cyclical white light guiding us all.

I vomit. Excess liquor spews forth onto the pavement, some of it onto the roads. Mercifully, none of it on my person. Or any person.

It should be noted that this was a Tuesday night. A work social 'night out'. I refuse to refer to its billing as  Christmas party, given that it placed itself slap bang in the midst of November's faux-wintry cruelty. Too cold to be autumn, but not frosty enough to be festive. The frozen leaves ironically remind me of the slow, burning process of ageing. Further and further away from youth, and closer toward the ever brightening light at the end of life's fluorescent tunnel.

I struggle to unlock the door; par for the course. I eventually do so, but it's 11pm. The kids are in bed, the wife is probably asleep on the sofa in front of her endless soap opera, unaware that an almost real one is unravelling before her very eyes. The only difference is that this one is really quite fucking boring.

I'm forty years of age. I tell strangers I'm thirty five obviously, given that it's seemingly the youngest age I can get away with. Thirty four would be pushing it. Thirty three would be madness. Thirty two would get me lobotomised.

Anyway, I'm halfway there, if I'm lucky. I'm probably not lucky though. I don't smoke. I drink (needless to say), I eat junk food, I rarely exercise (drunken strolls don't really count, as much as I'd like them to). I basically am the epitome of modern man. Not to make a bold, grandiose statement, but I more or less have become just that.

I walked into the apartment, trying not to wake the family. Unsuccessfully. I get a silent, cynical stare. The kids mercifully remain asleep for the time being. I pass out.

Thankfully, nights like this turn out to be a rare occurrence. This is the wildest I get, which is still pretty tame. I am forty though. Bear that in mind.

Morning thoughts turn to all the young whippersnappers and yuppies at the party, all fucking each other on photocopiers and desks, flinging staplers and files with reckless abandon in their hope of sexual conquest. Ultimately, the awkward glances, the head swivels and the abandoned sentences would unravel themselves in today's embarrassment. How many will be on the receiving end of a call today I wonder? I very nearly postpone my day off just to laugh at them all.

But instead, I lay in bed for the best part of the day. Very little to do. Nowhere to go. It should make me happy, but this purposelessness is just...well, exactly that. Where do I go from here? I'm not entirely sure.

'Murphy? Murphy?'


'Oh, I was going to say something...bear with...oh what was it...oh for fuck sake! Don't worry, it's gone. I'll remember later...'


This was life. Constant memory loss. Probably because everything was so very trivial. So very innocuous. Nothing happened. I liked it in some ways, but a bit of danger wouldn't go amiss. I get the sense that even the slightest sense of it will kill me, but I might already be dead. Nobody's informed me otherwise. I could be a zombie. A ghost. I could be anything. I certainly don't feel human anymore. I feel like a rat, endlessly searching for sustenance in every crevice, chewing on wires and getting captured in traps on every corner. What else can I do though? Forty is hardly the start. If anything it is, but only of the end.

My wife is the same age as me, give or take a month. The kids are both ten year old twins. They're uncannily similar; so much so that it kind of terrifies me. Marvin and Tyler their names. My wife's was Nancy. I guess we're as  happy as is possible in America. Not too good, not too bad.


To tell you the truth, I'm actually sick. Not literally, but figuratively, which is one in the same in essence. I'd love to escape back to the days of my youth, but I know it's simply not possible. To want to do so is selfish, vain even. I'm not Dorian Gray; in fact, I'm a forty year old accountant, which is probably the furthest thing from youth and decadence. I'm just so very boring.

I sit at work, my desk, my photo frames, my quirky desktop toys accompanying me. The wooden flamingo that keeps pecking, gently rocking back and forth. I feel just like him. I feel his struggle.

Often I'll end up sitting on the subway, hoping to end up at a station that provides a connecting train out of this city. Sometimes, you just get sick of the same place, regardless how beautiful or alive it may be. The city of New York may well be alive, but I am a mere seed within its metallic apple core. Right now, the only escape involves these clamorous subway trains. A little detour to Central Park, or the Hudson River. I just can't bring myself to go any further. To move on...

My youngest, well, the second born twin looks into my eyes as he draws a picture. I ask what it is. He says it's me. I look, bewildered, and he seems to take some form of offence. I quickly flash a smile; a reassurance that it's all okay.

'That's real good champ. He looks...unhap...misera...'

I couldn't bring myself to say how it looked. It looked unhappy. It looked miserable. I looked unhappy and miserable. It couldn't have been me. I subdued.

'You're a real artist, you know?'

'You think so, Daddy?'

'I know so.'

I stretched the truth somewhat, but the truth was that it was actually a pretty accurate drawing, and the thing is, kids don't lie.

I looked into his little eyes, as they twinkled, seemingly reflecting into mine. I almost shed a tear at his depiction of a melancholy soul; no hope, no future- essentially already dead. There's no way I could already be dead.

I walked past the eldest twin, and he smiled at me. I just about mustered a smile back. He goes on to ask me what's wrong, and I tell him

"I'm fine."

 I also tell myself that.

"I'm just a zombie."


So if I want to begin again, how do I go about doing that?

I guess the harsh truth of the matter is that I don't.

I decide to catch the train to work in my laziness, and it's a journey that would happen to change my perspective on almost everything.

I hop on board whatever train it is that arrives next at the station; naturally. As static as I may be, I'm hardly likely to stay at the station forever waiting for a train that doesn't arrive.  

It arrives anyhow.

I sit down in an empty seat, as you do. Stale urine violates my nasal capacity, and I almost vomit. I manage to save face and social convention and turn it into a hearty cough.

"You okay friend?"

"Yeah. Fine."

I didn't necessarily mean to sound rude to this stranger, but I guess I'm the paranoid sort. You have to earn my trust, regardless of how long I may have known you or who you may be or whatever.

"It's don't sound too good."

"What? I'm fine."

His accent had some kind of twang to it. You could tell he'd been in America long enough to sound like one of us, but...there was something else...

"Sorry. Just asking. As I said..."

"Look, whatever. I'm busy. Sorry..."

I think he muttered something under his breath. I didn't really consider what it was, but I looked back and walked off at my stop. We looked at each other; flabbergasted, still.

To this day, I'm not entirely sure what came over me...

I got the train back home that day as well, through sheer laziness, and there I see that face again. Stiff, bemused, breathless, wordless.


It still baffled me what had happened. He sat dead, sandwiched between two people; a man with headphones larger than his head, and a woman sleeping. All I could do was stare in horror at the corpse that was not yet a corpse. Only I seemed to know it was a corpse. The same chair. Probably the same train. How long had he been like this?

Instead of getting off at my stop, I awaited for all to vacate the carriage at the final stop, before rummaging through the pockets for some remnant of a name or occupation. Some identity. A moniker to a motionless face.

Szilard Nord, DOB- 01/05/1987, Slovakian National.

Was it me that killed him? A physical reaction to me? There's definite potential that I may have done. I break down in shock. Unimaginable. Why could I have not been a better man to the good guy that was only trying to help? How can nobody notice this corpse sitting beside them? How can a city so grand turn a blind eye to a lifelessness so decadent and abhorrent? It baffles me.

I call a number on his phone. It's the only American number on there. An unnamed contact. It rings. Familiarity.

"Hello...? Hi, I'm afraid  have some...some bad... errm... news..."



"Salut? Qui êtes-vous?"


I tried speaking the vaguest of French. I didn't know any of it.


In my ignorance, I assumed it was her husband. Naturally.


I hang up the phone. Fear subsided. Dominated in fact. I just couldn't face it. How can I tell someone their...well, that someone in their life...has died? And probably because of something I've done? It's frankly baffling.

I wish I could talk about it with someone, but I can't. Primarily because I can't even comprehend it myself. If I can't talk to myself about it, who else can I talk to, and who would even want to listen? There are just too many dilemmas to comprehend with myself, let alone anyone else.

I stay silent for days, if not weeks. It must have been at least thirteen days since I last spoke properly with my wife.

"You seem distant."


"What's...I mean...somethi..."

Even she is speechless. Nobody says anything anymore, and nobody even knows why. We're all in static confusion, and there's no escape. Sleep doesn't arrive, and insomnia keeps rearing its ugly head. I want to talk, but I can't. I just can't.

I remember the number. I try dialling it again, but something...someone doesn't want me to press that green button. She was nameless on the phone, and therefore nameless. She was nobody, but I needed to know who she was. What her purpose was. I'd become entangled in a web of my own making, and I didn't really know how to get out. The corpse sandwiched in between two American slices of ignorance on the subway keeps coming back to plague my mind and wrack me with an intolerable guilt.

"I don't know."

I drift into the first sleep in days, and it lasts for the best part of a day. Thirteen hours later, I awaken to an empty apartment. Confusion shrouds me in its familiarity, as I drift into eternal consciousness...

I make myself a coffee; its sweetness nauseating and repulsive. Its temperature a tongue burning tale of caution rendering me in a state of lisp for the remainder of the day. I pour it down the sink and drink some water instead. Bland, harmless, glorious.  Just what was needed.

As the day goes on, nightfall grows, and darkness permeates daylight to the point of full, tar-like dilution. I decide to delve into the cupboard under the stairs, having almost forgotten the unusual events of the last week, yet something astonishing triggers its return. An album of photos amid the army of clutter and hopeless memories of youth. I look through one album, indifferent with each passing photo. But as in the majority of life's mannerisms, it always throws up that one exception to the rule...

There she was. An ex...not girlfriend, but erotic adventure. I never loved her. I barely even liked her. I was just shallow enough to choose exterior beauty above anything else, but I remembered something about her. She was from Slovakia, and her name...signed onto the back...Nord... M.

The name immediately connects and makes me vomit and collapse. I recall a drunken contraceptive free night in Bratislava twenty years ago. It couldn't be. I refused to believe it could be. No way. Out of the question. A sheer impossibility.

When you think the tale is over, it twists in more complex and devastating ways than you could possibly imagine...

This twist was only the start. I wanted to cry. Not just a river, but an ocean. Tears would flood the room, flood the apartment, flood the streets, flood the city, flood the country, flood the continent, and eventually flood the world. Good. I wanted it to. As long as I can drown before anyone else. I want to be first.

He was my son, and I'd already let him drown amidst a sea of buzzing cell phones, terminal cancer and advertisements.


"So...we're this, right?"

Bratislava. 1986 Summertime. Either June or July. I can't remember. In fact, I can't comprehensively remember anything, but I'll try my best to paint the picture.

We walk towards the hostel. I was with my two friends, Mark and Paul, both of whom I'd lost that night.  I hadn't seen them again until the airport, but their presence is wholly irrelevant with all respect. I'd been in the pub for the best part of five hours, and I'd consumed an array of beverages bought for me by one of the generous locals. A barmaid by the name of Maria. Beautiful. Devastatingly so in fact. I had to have her. I didn't just want her, I needed her. I needed to grow old with her. She had...something. Something special, and I had to pinpoint just what that something was.

Anyway, the grotty bed at the hostel was calling my name, and I had company to bless the dirty sheets. To wipe away the sin, and replace it with more. We make love. All night. Not just for a few hours, but from midnight until 7am. I don't seem to tire, and I feel happy. Content. I almost feel as if I could go for a few hours yet, but I have a plane to catch. I fall asleep. She quickly follows suit and drifts away into my arms. I set no alarm for my flight at 12, and instantly sleep through take-off, leaving me completely stranded. Alone in Slovakia's arms.

The arms had disappeared though...

I run to the bathroom. The door is locked.

"Hello? Maria?"

No reply.

I kick the door open. It shatters. Weak, frail, empty. An open window. A disappearing act. Now I truly was alone. Alone in a foreign country and stranded with no money. I had absolutely nothing. I bolted to the airport in the vain hope I'd be transferred onto another flight. They tell me it would take a week. I go back to the hostel in the vain hope they'll show some sympathy. To my surprise, they do, and for that I remain eternally thankful.

Stuck in Slovakia for a week. No friends, no money. Just the remnants of some food from friendly fellow tourists. From Germany to Spain, they're all here. Just being tourists. Friendly tourists, I should add. Very friendly.

But friendly is nothing. I need something else...

Mark and Paul were gone, and I missed them. I didn't really know them, but I missed them. I can scarcely remember how and why I ended up going on a European vacation with them, but it happened. We barely spoke after the ordeal, but I still missed them. Probably more than I missed Maria. She was just a temptress and I realised that, but Mark and Paul were fellow American tourists in this unfamiliarly beautiful world. They weren't evil. They weren't entirely good either. They were acquaintances. They were familiar beacons. I guess you could say they were friends. Not the best friends I'll have, but in the circumstances I didn't care. I wanted to see my friends. All of them. I wanted each and every friend to appear before me and tell me how things will end up for them. I wanted them to tell me what they thought of me, and how they perceived me. I wanted closure to a life that wasn't yet over. I wanted all of my friends to just emerge from their post-adolescent choices and make me happy and content.

"They'll all go eventually." I thought. "They'll all go."

They did. They went.

I tried to displace my thoughts and went back to my hostel. I stayed indoors for the following few days, and didn't really make a noise or movement. The fellow tourists cooked for me, so I managed to survive, but it was just...nothing. Futile. Nothing seemed to happen anymore. I was in a dynamic stasis in a foreign country, and to tell the truth I was terrified.

My plane finally arrived a week later. I saw her face again before getting to the airport, and she looked miserable. She was with her father, and his look of disappointment should have spelt it out for me. I was walking away from the very thing that I created. My son was about to rise, and I just walked away, into the darkness of America. No more sunshine. An eternity of fluorescent darkness and faux-content. But I was 'happy', so it's okay...

I never saw my friends again. I got a job for a financial company, and worked my way through the ranks. I met my wife, had two kids and moved on with my life. Or at least tried to. You can never truly forget everything though.

It always comes back eventually.


Well, the time is here again.

Here. Today. Right here, and right now. The time to reflect on everything that has happened thus far, and to cry tears of uninhibited regret and remorse. It's all clear and out in the open now, and it's more horrendous and disgraceful than I could have ever envisaged. My wife walks in on my tears, and immediately rushes to console and comfort me.

"Oh my God, are you okay?"

I wasn't okay. She didn't really need to ask. Surely a better question would have been 'why are you crying?'.  That was irrelevant anyhow.

"No, not really."

I didn't want to conceal the truth, but I felt an obligation to. I didn't want my disgrace to be known to my wife. The relationship and sexual encounter may have occurred a decade or so before we met, but she couldn't know I was a murderer. Not a physical murderer. A psychological murderer. Subtle, yet deranged.

"Well...why are you crying?"

The obvious starter question had finally awoken.


I had to think fast. I had to lie. Stretch the truth. Whatever worked best.

"It' friend. Mark. He has..."

I couldn't bring myself to finish the statement, so I broke down in tears. This was real anguish, but that situation wasn't real at all. Nothing seemed real anymore.

She looked at me with affection and sympathy, but I didn't want that. I wanted my son. The son that nobody else knew about but me. I couldn't tell you where the mother is. I'm assuming dead. My assumptions are usually right.

"Look...take the day off work. I'll call them up now. You're in no fit state to...well, you know."

A vague unfinished sentence that somehow renders my state a lot worse. I was in not fit state to do anything by the sounds of it, and with that my tears flowed. I'd almost drained absolutely everything. My eyes were a small leakage, but it seemed like a flood. An entity of so much more.

I ran out of the house, exclaimed I'd go to work and slammed the door. I imagine she probably stood bemused at what I'd just done, but I had to do it. I didn't want to be stuck in stasis; alone with the brooding beast within that is my mind. My joyful, irreverent mind.

The vacation period was over. I didn't want it to ever rear its ugly head every again. I wanted to work forever, and to rid my mind of these ugly thoughts. I wanted to be free.

So I set myself free. Freedom I had granted myself through the guise of a predetermined financial system. I could be free, or I could be one of them. I chose both.

"Murphy, you got those accounts?"

"Yes Jim, right here."

"Good job. Listen, there's a conference up in New Jersey if you want to represent. Tomorrow?"

"Definitely. What time?"

"I'll give you a call. Just turn up for your normal shift tomorrow, then I'll sort you out."


"What about this weather, eh?"
"Yeah. Crazy."

"Yeah. Absolutely crazy."


"Totally. Anyway, I'd best be..."

"Right, see ya."

Small talk and its banality was a welcome distraction. Incredibly welcome. I'd have opened my arms for its embrace, and hold it there forever if I could have, but it always slips away eventually. Instead, I sit at my computer, typing endless document after document, hoping, praying that somebody would come and talk to me. It never happens. I finish my work. I go back home. I sleep. I wake up. I do it all over again. It keeps going and going and going, until the weekend. It stops. It starts again on Monday.

I was in the zone. A different zone to before. A working zone, whereby nothing else really held significance. Even what I was doing was insignificant, yet that was irrelevant. The relevance was in the relative significance; everything else was dead to me now, and I bathed myself in that death. The death of all and everything.

So life now breeds something cyclical and endless. And I quite like it. I forget about all the problems that went before, and just fly around in this cycle. I embrace it like my child. It is my child now. I don't know what happens from this point onwards, and I can't say I really care too much. I won't be losing sleep. No. Not anymore.

I arrive in New Jersey. I meet a guy who works for the company of the thing that we're (I say we, but really I refer to my company...sorry, the company that employs me) affiliated with in some way, shape or form. We talk. We agree some kind of deal. Things happen. I get the train back home, call the boss and tell him of the success. He congratulates me, I move on. I go back to the cycle. The endless, beautiful cycle. The eternal rut.

The days go by with rotten stasis, and the nights would run forever. Forever from me. The weeks, however, speed by with reckless abandon.


I decide to rummage through some old tapes in the basement. The scene of my sorrow. It brings me unbridled joy, however, this time to find a box of old family memories. Marvin and Tyler's first steps, me teaching them to ride bikes. The whole load. It brings a tear to my eye, and my wife shares my overwhelming pride upon entering the room and witnessing the home videos. We smile at each other. A smile that raises itself for the first time in what seems like forever.

"Are you okay now?"

"I guess so." I pause briefly. "I guess so."

She remains unconvinced, but I stick to my guns. I avert my gaze away from her toward the joy of the television. My glorious hyper reality. My glorious memory box.

I go back to the basement, and find even more. I find the old band posters of my old musical project. We weren't really a band. We only played one gig. But it brought back something. All the now meaningless pieces of paper, suddenly meaning the world to me. I have a good life, and that's what kills me. I could have had another. Other sons, and another life.

I delve deeper. I look at old photos. Mark and Paul. There again for some reason. This time, a Christmas party (a proper one, rather than a mid-November one), and beers everywhere. I looked like an ape, drunk in my role as designated 'party animal'. Those were allegedly the days, but I don't see it that way. They were days, certainly. Nothing more. Just days.

We're all apes I guess. We're just drunk, as well as primitive and instinctual. We somehow  have an underlying base instinct that we follow, yet we subsequently take it on ourselves to humanise by any means necessary. I don't get it. We're apes. Nothing more, nothing less. Just apes.

Is that a bad thing? Not necessarily. It's alright. It could be worse. We're not parasites. We're not insects. We're apes, and that means we're freer than any other creature on the planet.

I reflect on these unusual thoughts, and decide to call a few friends from work to have a few drinks at the apartment. They arrive, nameless office droids, and they leave the same way, only drunker than when they entered. Work colleague after work colleague passed out or bewildered, one or the other.


"Hey Mick...Mike... Take this blue thing. Just take it. It'll be like old times. It's magical."

The voice echoes around my head, as a stranger in a suit hands me a pill that looks a more metallic silver colour than the blue he seems so desperate to mention. I feel sick at the thought, but in a drunken haze, I take the silver bullet. It burns my throat, and gives me a euphoric buzz eventually. It takes a while, but when it gets going, it really does get going. I float above the veneer, looking down on all those peasants; those animals in suits. I wasn't really living anymore, but I'd never felt more alive. I was an abnormal entity at this moment in time, and it felt fantastic. Sheer bliss. Sheer ignorance. I go to grab some water, and it hits me like a glass shattering on the roadside tarmac. The sound comes out of nowhere, like a sonic boom. A liquid noise, pumping, pumping. It gets louder and more definitive. More rounded. It builds and it builds and it builds. It doesn't stop. It never stops. Nothing ever stops ever in this stopless metropolis. Everything merely begins, and that's all everything ever does or ever will do. Simple.

I head out onto the streets. The cracks in the sidewalk stare back at me, and they seem to move as I remain stationary. I jump inside, and I fall forever. I fall into the fluorescent abyss, and it takes me to a place I've never known before. I don't know where I am or where I've been. In fact, I barely care where I am or where I've been. I just know that I am in a moment that seems eternal. More eternal than anything that has gone before.

It stops. The noise stops talking to me, and I walk back to the apartment, a broken man. I sleep, and as I drift away, the noise returns to grace my ears with its constant buzz. Its constant, looping buzz. I can't stop it. It won't stop. It won't stop.

I steadily wander back home, an aimless motion that leads me to realise the error of my ways. The error of my stupid, ignorant ways. I'd become the very thing I'd secretly wanted. I was young for an instant, but I'd vomited blood. I'd suffered the weary tolls of youth, and my body rejected it. A violent, bloody rejection that reminds me who I really am. Abstaining seems to be the real act of transgression, and to this day I have no idea why.

The blood continues to spew forth from my chest, dripping into the toilet bowl like velvet raindrops into a filthy river of sewage. I couldn't stop it from dripping. It wouldn't stop. It just wouldn't stop.

My thoughts turned to a state of abortive sleep. I could still taste the blood and the bile that kept trying to escape, so it was futile. It subdued, but it may as well have risen and fallen. The pain was endless, eternal, immortal. Pain was everywhere; every crevice and joint. Nothing was fun anymore. The party was definitely over.

In paralysis, I fall into a waking coma. I'm stuck for days, if not weeks, and my wife is constantly by my side. It takes me a while to realise I'm in a hospital rather than the comfort of my own bed. Comfort is gone now. It dissipated and vanished into thin, wispy air. All is now pain. Pure, physical, unparalleled pain. I couldn't move or breathe without hurting something. Someone wanted me to suffer, and I deserved it. In fact, I wanted me to suffer an endlessness. An immortality. An absolute immortality in the eternal struggle. I deserved this pain, and I knew exactly why I was doing it to myself.

The sun had gone down. I still hadn't got to sleep. I didn't even know what the time was, or where I was. It had been weeks, maybe even months since it all unfolded. I may as well have been dead, just to stop the blood from spilling. Every cough. A little drop of red emerges. Burning. Ablaze.


When I finally drift away into sleep, I dream of a guy. A guy called New York. He's a weird old fellow, but he seems friendly. He dips his hands into my pockets before I pull him up on it, and he flashes one of those smiles. A smile that says 'It was only a joke, buddy! Don't look so serious. Everything's a joke, man'. That kind of smile. A little chortle as well, and a tiny playful slap on the cheek. 'Stop being so serious. Stop it. Seriously!'

He follows me all around, like a shadow. Points a gun at my back, whilst concealing a knife in the pocket of his overcoat. Smiling all the time. Always smiling. Never ceasing to show his pearly kings through the thin veil of his crimson lips; almost looking like lipstick. New York doesn't wear lipstick though. New York is pretty enough already. Or so it would seem. The knife jolts in my back. The dream continues into a black abyss, where I'm coughing my lungs up through a cigarette. It looks cool. It looks fresh. So hip. 'Oh my God, you look so cool right now. So fucking cool. Stone fucking cold.' The warmth inside me renders all anything but cool. Quite the contrary in both senses of the word. What's cool about dying? Where is the transgression in abstinence? Why must we all be drinking and smoking clones that try and try just to fit in? I had choices. I made choices. Some bad, some good. But that's the key factor here. I made choices. I and I alone. Nobody else.

Every choice; a good choice.

It's all quite vague, really. Life. Just one of those ambiguous vacuums that we all float around in, chaotically bumping into things and an array of people and creatures. That's not to discredit life; merely to explain what it is. That is life. Life is essentially nothing, and this needn't be a problem.

Maybe I'm right, maybe I'm not. Maybe there's a God, maybe there isn't. I'm not even going to think about it. The dream is over now, and so is my consciousness I guess. Where I go now is entirely up to nothing and nobody. Nobody knows, so how can anything happen. Beyond what we know, there is nothing. A void akin to that of earth and the city.

I think about my mother before consciousness evaporates. I think upon the religion she tried to force upon me. The Catholic ideals (my mother being Irish and all...) and the ridiculous rules and regulations that were nigh on impossible to follow through with. I gave up. Moved out and moved on. I'd grown up quickly, partied a lot in the void and then settled down, before trying to recapture that void. Now void has led to void, and I continue to circulate endlessly, eternally. Whether she was right or wrong; irrelevant. It's whether or not I'm right or wrong, and the truth is I'll never know. Some decisions were right, some weren't. How can you ever be sure which is which though?

Am I still alive? Hard to say. I don't feel it anymore. I don't feel right. I don't feel wrong either. I'm just floating around the veneer, waiting for something to happen...

Submitted: December 04, 2014

© Copyright 2021 Liam Govey. All rights reserved.

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