Tripwire Internal

Excuse the depression factor. I’m sure Ron Todd, if he had met Sebastian, would have told him to just ‘snap out of it’. As simple and as true as that. Ron Todd’s guide to a broken heart, or any problem, for that matter, is to get drunk, get a prostitute, and beat her up. While we don’t share that philosophy, we kinda see where he is coming from, by taking matters into his own hands rather than moping around and letting the world wipe its feet on him. Sebastian was very inactive, reclusive, and lonely towards the end, but, despite his disturbing, scarely veiled threats in his college newsletter column, died of natural causes, in his sleep.

Of two evils choose the least – So I worship Bacchus.

I was born Sebastian Worboys, and this is my favourite song on the brink of my demise. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8DwMJggG-vs Why not play it AFTER you read this? I’d appreciate it.

Who cares to know where it all started to go wrong? I know where I could have first tried to do something, and I know where I did actually try to do something, later on. But the time for forethought and action is gone. Now I lack the youth, the support, the finance, everything.

No matter who or what is to blame, aside from my dipstick fool-to-folly attitude, the fact is that I want gone. It’s almost unimportant, how things got to this. The truth is that they have. Regrettably. And I am haunted by my failures and mistakes.

I’ve not lost the ability to cope, it’s more like having lost the will to keep on coping. I could still plough on and appropriate something leaning towards relevant personal success, of course I could, but that wouldn’t be realised for a long time, if at all, and during the day-to-day meantime, all I see is barriers, obstacles, hindrances. And I’d fall, just as I have, again and again, lower and lower. I even see slight habitual annoyances potentially becoming mild episodes of psychosis. Once your thoughts are twisted, the knots tend to tighten your perceptions out of control.

All the good things I do best are only coping mechanisms in themselves. Art, writing, etc ... pointless. Born of conflict. It could be beautiful, viewed and respected, carried out there, profitable, but it won’t be, so it won’t.

Instead I’ve constructed an enemy inside my head, with my own hands, and I’ve realised, of late, that he’s here to stay. He’s me. My very own Tripwire Internal.

Chasing my tail for another how many years? No thanks. The formative years have been settled. I’d rather be tragic than sad. S.Worboys

~

P.S Just to make clear: I don't do cries for help. I genuinely just want gone.