God! Some people are morons! I wonder if my “loyal” readers realize that! I wrote something last week, and when most of them looked up the title, they saw absolutely nothing! I guess I had the last laugh then. Excpect something contriversial, and the only thing you see, is just the title! With some deep dark secret hidden behind it!
In case someone wants to keep a record of my drinking or drug use when I write this, I’m drinking Vodka with Sprite and Old English cider. Getting good drugs here in the Shire is as easy to find as a virgin in a whore house. I’m listening to The Doors while taking my journey into the Heart of Darkness.
I met myself once. An older version of me was wandering around in the dark streets south of Sliema. Just waiting for me to show me the way down town again. I was lost. He seemed to know exactly where I needed to go. Back to the bars. Some shitty assholes from my regular bar have driven me the wrong way. And they let me off somewhere I could not see shit!
And this old giser stood by a corner of the cross road.
“Gotta help me oldie”, I asked him.
“I know where you’re going son! You’re l0st, and want to get back on the right track, right?!”
“Something like that! And I’m sick and tired, and dying of thirst!”
“Like I was when I was your age son”…
The old bastard kept calling me “son” with the recognicable accent of an educated, yet drunken Englishman.
“So, who are you”, oldtimer! I asked him.
“You remind me of me in 35 years! And I don’t want to end up like you!”
“I might be you in 35 years. But I’m not a writer! There still might be some hope for you son!”
“I am what you are and used to be. Just 35 years ahead.”
He kept calling me “son” gave me the kreeps.
We walked down the avenue down to the bar scene in Sliema. There was still a few joints open. We went there.
This old git had moved to Malta in his old age. Taking his autumn years in the sun. Giving a rats ass about books, intellectual BS, Politics or the world at large. He seemed quite content in his daily drunkeness.
I ordered drinks for us. And soon we were throwing insults at punk kids, loudmouths and macho weenies outside the bar while chainsmoking. Laughing our asses off.
“You remind me of me when I was young” he said again.
Shivers went down my spines. This old git never wrote a book in his life. I’ve written poetry that has almost killed me. The story I was working on was still killing me. Just the previous year, I let some young immigrant punks push me down the stairs on a metro station. I was drunk, and I didn’t care. As I was lying on the winter frozen ground, halv unconsious, trying to rize and give back a fight, someone was over me. Kicking my head. And contiued to kick me all over.
“So this is where Kim, my ex. fiancee have send me”, thought. “I hope she’s happy with her choice” was my last thought before I was knocked oblivious. The next thing I knew, was some light above me. People standing around me, and a policeman asking me some questions. I passed out again. Half unconsious I was varried on a stretcher into a waiting ambulance. My hat was gone. Everything I ever knew and loved was gone. It was only me, the grips of death, and a breath left.
And I didn’t care.
15 months later, an old git, who says he is me is waiting for me in a dark avenue in Sliema, Malta, showing me the way back to familiar sights. At leasy familiar enough so that I won’t get lost on my way home. Just a small hill to walk… And a few more lines to write…