Due to unpopular demand....
"So here I am once more...." goes the song. (Script for a Jesters Tear, Marillion)
Some days you can stagger along, minding your own business, talking to street signs and shouting at people who are'nt there.
Other days you can be really weird....
It all started when I got on a train before getting out of bed. I knew I was in for a bad time (it was a Wednesday....Wednesday means "Weird Happenings Day" in higher Gibberese)
You know how trains are. Everyone sits in their own personal space. They get really annoyed if you lay on their laps and start panting like a dog. I sit on my own and begin my world famous imitation of a Sony Walkman.
"Tisha Tisha Tisha Tisha, Tack Tack Tack, Yea Yea Yea"
People avoid eye contact.
I get off at the next station. I've never been here before. I know I've never been here because people smile at me. One old lady even says "Good Morning Sonny" to me.
I seize control of myself, the images of the exploding Furry Hat fade rapidly. I'm 3 hours into an Alcohol free existence and feeling no pain.
The dreams have started again though.
The one about the scaly marsupial and the bucket of after-birth worries me the most. My analyst used to tell me that dreams are the subconscious' way of giving your conscious directions. (This was before she threw herself in front of a Juggernaut in the mistaken belief that it was her mother)
I wipe my mind clear of any unwanted images and stroll down the high street of life. I could get to like it here. I stop to listen to a conversation..
"Oh Jim, You know I love you but your career must come first"
"But my darling, I'd rather be an outcast if it means I can spend the rest of my life with you !"
A nervous twitch begins in my left cheek.
"We should go where this un-caring society cannot touch us. Where we can live together in peace and harmony"
"But where....? You don't mean ?"
"Yes, fly south for the winter !"
Then I remember. Birds don't really talk. Little old ladies are never civil to anyone under the age of seventy. And marsupials should never have a romantic involment with buckets.
I gasp aloud with fear. My right leg begins to jiggle in counter point to my cheek. I start to run, but my right leg is still jiggling uncontrollably. I slam into the pavement, my nose breaking my fall.
I see stars, then birds, then traffic wardens dancing around my cranium.
I stagger to my feet and rip of my shoe. I drag my "Emergency, Last Resort, Oh s--- I Hate Reality" Brew flask from its hiding place in the heel.
One gulp drains the small, but potent brew and my perception explodes into a neon glare of garish sound and colour. (A bit like a Jean Micheal Jarre concert, but with talent)
The pleasant street scene evaporates before my twitching eyes and leaves me with a vision of deep beauty.
Then the drink wears off.
I'm siting at my kitchen table (I know its my kitchen because its covered in empty bottles, blood stained knives and half eaten Pot Noodles)
I don't know whether to laugh or cry or shout or whisper or throw a large steak sandwich through the bathroom window whilst playing "Abide with me" on the Harmonica.
Life can be like that sometimes.
Check out the rest of ". . . And Still The Moon"
Submitted By: Anonymous