Mr. Brizell, we’re glad to see you again

I have a recurring dream which plagues me. At this point in its existence you could consider it a waking dream. Whenever shit goes bad, I find myself in a hotel lobby, bedraggled and hopeless, on what I presume is an unholy cocktail of substances, that keeps me barely lucid and leaves me periodically blacking out, and this is just in the lobby. The concierge looks at me, disappointed, disdainful and disgusted, but repeats the same happy mantra;

‘Mr. Brizell, we’re glad to see you again, we would like to advise you on your most recent fuck-ups’

The concierge never gives any constructive criticism but rather torments me of the failings whilst my mind plays tricks on me the kind that are like Alice in Wonderland on acid. The fuck-ups are just pushed further into perspective for me. And the day becomes ruined before its ever even started. The concierge’s advice for me becomes even more disturbing as time goes on, and apparently serves only to remind me of the unsettling futility that lingers inside me. I mean come on man I haven’t fucked up that, badly have I? on second thought don’t answer that, don’t even think about it.

Most recently I awoke remembering one line, one long, nightmarish line ‘Mr. Brizell, we’re sorry to inform you but you have messed up your life and subsequently there will be no messages at the desk for you.’ Ironically the meaning of the ‘no messages’ is bewilderingly cryptic to me, and we’re talking about my mind here. Which is never a good thing to be talking about. Maybe it hints at a semi-successful future holed up in a hotel room, for whatever reason befits me, but for now it’s just a low-hanging metaphor.

I should be happy, you know?

Like this is it, I am living the (as is commonly defined) ‘life’ I have what I want, and I know that, but it’s still not alright.

I can ramble on about everything being ‘cool, fine and great’ but I don’t think it is, in fact I know it’s not, but no one else does and of course that is of my own doing, because talking about it simply implies abandonment. And even believing I have any reason for all this ‘unhappiness’ just makes me loathe myself, most people have a right to these problems and feelings, but me, well it’s just a disservice to the real problems of the world.

Someone told me I should write more, admittedly I have hardly written anything in close to two months now, and now here I am Writing, and these words echo back in my mind like some kind of literary breakdown, the self-awareness that plagues the past, has decayed into this; an okey cokey-tightrope-dance of the self, masquerading as experimentally written diatribe, that entertains no one, not even me. But you have to express yourself, somehow right?

I don’t know why i hope these rhetorical questions will be answered.

I self-destructed not too long ago, the memory is hazy, and it doesn’t even seem romantic anymore.

I wonder what the person reading this thinks of it?

I wonder if they’ll say.

Regardless of the hotel lobby and the hopelessness there is now romance. True, definable romance, and that is beautiful.

But

i just want to text someone’s phone, and tell them I’m in over my head,

Yet I don’t know what I’m actually ‘in’, not anymore at least.

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