(01.03.2003 - 11:11 a.m.)
I held the phone away from my ear last night as the voice at the other end said, "I've been having a little think..." and "You need to do this..." and all the associated whys and wherefores. And as the voice continued, I felt myself choking; slowly being strangled. And the conversation became a chaotic whirlpool, careering round and round in violent, circular waves, rumbling on and on to it's terrible conclusion. Then the question came out of nowhere, like the semi-truck that you didn't quite see in the corner of your eye; the truck that slams into you, shatters every bone in your body and leaves your crumpled form bleeding in the middle of the road. "If you have no ambition and no goals, if you think so lowly of yourself, then what is the point of your existence, Regz?" Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz, Regz. What does that mean, anyway? It's like some Lacanian linguistic theory; the sign, signifier and signified crumbling into nothingness. My name has become so far removed from me that it might as well be a foreign language, because I no longer understand it. And I can't stand to hear it in those patronising tones. I can't stand to hear it at all. And what is the point of my existence? I'd had so many good days. I should've seen this coming. I'd felt a hint of purpose, a scrap of change. But somehow I fell. And now all I can think about is this mess and getting drunk. I wish I could feel something other than complete apathy. I almost wish that we do manage to blow the world to hell sometime soon. At least I might feel fear.
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