Modern Nightmare

'Unless one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow. Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the unemployed. The poor should be practical and prosaic. It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating.' Such austere judgments, as expressed by Oscar Wilde's Hughie Erskine - a character suffering from that sorry condition of idle charm himself - would typically make me wince at the pain of such pragmatism. Tragically now these tidings ring true in the bleakness of my circumstances. Forgive my coldly-lit cynicism but recent poverty has persuaded me to the bitter conclusion that this world does run on little else but money, in which case men and women alike are hardly much more than utterly ineffectual without it. The festive period has proved to be salt in the wound for me: being both impoverished and burdened by Anorexia in the context of a 'time of plenty', with shoppers in town splurging on luxury gifts whilst a day of business in Littlehampton has at times left me without even the train fare home or change for a coffee. The most poignant aspect is that my seasonal depression is far from a solitary case. 

Watching the news: three women in London suspected to have been living for thirty years in slavery. Families in Britain without the finances to afford anything else but tins of beans donated from the food bank over Christmas. Children in Syria lying in blood pouring from their own skulls. 

Look at the world. Christ, isn't it terrible. It's so terrible. That's like something you'd hear in fucking India. We're in a state. It's just that everyone's so fucking blind to it. It's everywhere. There is horror and debauchery and suffering lurking behind every closed doorway. No-one knows it because we turn away when we could look more closely. I can see it. I know it. It troubles me so deeply - I care so much I'm sick - and I don't even know it all. Many people advise that you shouldn't watch too much of the news for it will only keep you awake at night. The truth is that what the world is seeing on this television screen at this moment isn't even the worst of it, it's barely half the fucking story. They only publicize what they want us to see and no more than that - it's all tempered to fulfill their ulterior motives: whether those entail inspiring nationalistic passions, motivating community efforts of proactive response to challenge the injustices that higher powers are too otherwise 'occupied' to lift a hand to change, or generate the funds required to keep the world turning, the wages producing, the broadcasts blaring. Anything with a profundity that may transcend these objectives and threat to truly pervade our hearts is censored from public knowledge. We all play the game because it's all we're led to believe. Jim Morrison spoke more sense than those in power in this fucking country rife with corruption: 'You're all slaves! You just don't even fuckin' know it.' The reaction from the officer, of course, would only epitomise the nature of this 'democracy' we are hypnotically enticed into believing that we exist in: 'Sir, that is an act of disorderly conduct.' We are indoctrinated with bullshit and then indoctrinated over and over again; any gesture of non-compliance reciprocated with nothing but further social conditioning. 

Times are hard, and have been for some time. This year has been one of great change for me: finding Iain, becoming homeless, finding my own place, starting a business. All whilst suffering pervasive psychological and physical trauma. It has taught me a lot, least of all what horror goes on in this world. I suppose that 2013 has brought with it a heightened sense of disillusionment with the troubled scheme of life. Perhaps there should be a sense of pride that I have survived it, that I'm still here to tell the tale; yet the intense exhaustion over it all is the only thing I can seem to express.

There's so much pain and I can't stop noticing it.