Been working today on part of a new book. It's been pretty intense to write. First of all I'm out of practice but more than that I'm used to writing light fiction and this is a lot more personal.
My big worry so far is that it's too angst
sy. It's not going to be like that the whole book. But I'm worried it will be put people off. Any thoughts?( NB: grammar and spelling are still going to be a mess, so just ignore those for now. It's early days)
Chapter 1
It seems to
happen for different people, at different times, for different
reasons. A death in the family; an ageing face in the mirror one
morning; a close call in a traffic accident. But for me it was simple
boredom. At least that's where it started.
I don't know
when, but at some point in my life I just started getting tired of it
all. When you're young everything seems so bright an so new and then
one Monday morning you're old and you wake up knowing that the day is
going to be exactly the same as the past ten years. Then its every
Monday, then everyday. The days of the week becoming the bars of your
prison.
But by then it's no
longer just boredom. It's become something else, something beyond the
simple words. Something insatiable. The punishment of Tantalus.
Frustration. Frustration becoming anger. Anger at life. Anger at the
world for offering no chance of change. Anger at ourselves for not
finding a way.
Your
mind is invaded by a question:
“Can
this really be all there is?”
And
that devil has a thousand guises:
“Am
I nothing more that work, sex and caffeine?”
“Where
did my life go wrong?”
“What's
the purpose in it all?”
But
it's all the same lingering unanswerable question. And facing the
void of unknowing we do what hundreds of generations of humans have
done before us: we start to pray.
On our knees we ask for
revelation, we beg that something more will be revealed to us. But we
abandoned god long ago and now his church sits empty. We bit into the
apple too many times and knowledge and the sciences have become our
gods and so our prayers fall on deaf ears. And we know, however much
we fight it, we know that we are alone.
We're just solitary
chemicals, blips of insignificant energy strewn around in the
randomness of the cosmos. We are pitiable machines that deserve no
salvation – because there is no salvation for the likes of us. We,
the cursed, that have evolved so far that we can see what we really
are. We that can see the pointlessness of our own existence with no
way to act upon it.
But I did act. I don't
know what series of events conspired on my behalf. Which supernova
erupted billions of miles away? Which comet pass through our solar
system? Which storm battered the shores? Which blade of grass grew? I
did act.
Life for me had been
simple. Simple and meaningless. I'd been raised by loving parents yet
never learned to love. I'd gone to school, studied and gained all
manner of papers and accreditations, yet learnt nothing. At the end
of more than two decades in the education system, I found myself
behind a desk watching as another two passed me by.
I could write pages about
that job. I could expound on the products we bought and sold.
Chemical supplies for the most part. I could rhyme of our client
lists and suppliers. I could lecture on out company philosophy. But
it would be like the job itself: pointless.
It was a simple position
and one that I cared nothing about, but for the monthly pay checks
debited to my account. Silver handcuff. I lived for weekends.
Grinding though Monday to Friday so that I could earn enough, to get
drunk enough, to forget that I had another five waiting for me on the
other side. Like so many others, I was funnelled like cattle to be
milked for my profit to the company. No life but for that which would
benefit our market share.
But don't misunderstand,
my owners were nice. My boss Lisa was a benign little woman who came
up to my chest and I am not the tallest of people. She was always
cheerful and pleasant as she piled up the work for the coming week.
Lisa had come from the
Philippines and married to a local businessman who probably worked in
an identical but slightly better paying company at the far end of the
industrial estate. She lived only for her family. Whether that was
her two children that she went home to every night or the network of
family that she posted cash to every month. Either way she was far
from tyrannical. I would better describe her as motherly, even with
those below her at work. She was the sort of person you would feel
strange swearing in front of.
Despite all this I
despised the woman. As the mouth piece of the company I looked on her
as a captive looks on his jailer. But more than that, I hated her
contentment with her normal little life. Why did she not feel the way
so many others did? Why was she content when we were not? I have
since wondered if it was the children. I never had children of my
own. Would I have cared more if I had? Would I have been more willing
to pretend to care for their sake?
It matters not. For as it
stood I shovelled the shit she put on my desk will all due care and
diligence, while watching the clock with one eye. Before returning
home to my two bedroom house in the suburbs where I would spend my
evenings in a comma of internet and film induced numbness. That was
except for Fridays. Friday was the night for Eliza.
Eliza was not my girl
friend, but far more than a friend. She looked after me. We looked
after each other. On Friday nights we would bar the door to her five
year old son and bar her mind to her ex that had had ran off and left
her with him. Then we would sit drinking together while watching a
film. We would chat and laugh about the stupidity of our respective
offices or complaining about the cards that life had dealt us.
Eliza's life was much
like mine, but with the added insult of her wayward ex. She was
condemned to her days in the call centre most weeks. Cold calling
people who had no interest in upgrading their gas supplies. She's
been a pretty girl at school, with a touch of something foreign in
her blood that made her dark and more seductive than most others. She
had attracted many and chose the wrong one.
I never found out his
name, she never used it, but I heard that he was in the army. A good
looking fellow I guess. The kind that would be popular in school and
then not amount to much after. I'm not sure if he waited until the
kid was born until he disappeared, or not. But he was good enough to
leave the house and some cash before vanishing into the sunset.
I don't think Eliza hated
the guy. I think she missed him. Always hoping that some day he would
come home. She never chased after him, nor tried to get him for child
support. She wanted him willingly or not at all. She had her pride
and she had his son.
We'd talk about him and
work until we were both drunk enough to find ourselves wrapped around
each other. Her most passionate times were always after she'd spoke
about him. Sometimes she would cry as we had sex, but most of the
time it was fun and playful. I don't think we ever seen the end of a
single film.
It was an escape for both
of us and although not without it's affection, it was not love. It
was something between lust and love. A in-between shade where they
both existed and did not. An agreement of two lonely people, to be a
little less lonley for at time.
In the end I would leave
her as well.