ah don’t really trust walls with things. despite the fact ah find this a treacherous and sorrowfully isolated existence, there’s something wi eyes. mibbe it’s a falsified paranoia ah decided ah wis gonnae paint aroond me in all aspects ay life fir the hell ay it; pasted it oan ma living just tae frame it wi something, but ma heid is as good a diary as any. good keeper ay secrets (till ah start boasting, anyways). everythin else is eyes, always has been, but at least ma eyes are facing ootwards, ken? they nevir get introspective or curious aboot whit’s behind them, so unlike the real livin world thit has mobs ay the peeping toms gawking at you at aw fuckin times, ma thoughts thoughts thoughts get a protective seal built in at birth. see: the knocking aboot skull ah’ve been lugging aroond wi me this whole time.
ah sure get stage fright though. ah dinnae have a flyin fuckin clue whit ma secrets are, or at least ones worth sharing thit dinnae paint me as monstrous / running oot the door (away from) inducing / uncomfortable and may have tae make me reconsider ma entire person if ah let them oot in present company (even if ah ken perfectly well thit boris kens the score, sees how ah look at him. this present company wis present company when ah wis kissin him, but, likesay, it’s different putting a name tae it, ken?) / pointless as aw fuck. ah dinnae really like doin pointless as aw fuck aroond boris, unless it’s fir laughs, so this would certainly no fit the bill.
ah’m almost tae caught in ma heid tae catch ontae the fact boris is oot here confiding in me, in the walls ah’m so convinced have eyes. ah nearly miss how quick he is tae talk; how he didnae mind sharing, or at least has a strong enough poker face thit it looks like he didnae need me tae go first before he spoke up like ma yellow bellied self. cowardice lies in the deep seedy underbelly ay mark renton n he calls it strategy.
— thit’s a big yin. the love yin. ma eyes go big wi the love mention. ah bulge them oot at nothin in particular like they truly will pop oot n roll the fuck off, just tae be odd n fix the ambience ah feel got away from me. got tae serious when ah’m no sure whit the next thing ootay ma mouth will be. if ah fall intae a mood tae heavy, ma brain will play a game ay association, and by thit point ah have nae good hold ay withever will come ootay ma mooth. nae chance, nae handle at aw. thit is a dangerous game. despite any an aw the shit in ma system, ah ken thit well now wi his hand so dangerously close wi mine.
— the death yin adds up, though, ah say n dorkily step back intae the easier pass. death ah can talk oan, as conceptual as it is. shit like thit makes me less seasick as ah ken fair well thit ah will barely be present fir ma ain death, so ah dinnae mind it. — ah read a thing oan the fact people usually have a much larger fear ay being dead or the act ay dying. usually they dinnae have the debilitating fear ay both ay them dragging them doon at the same time, which is barry. ah think ah’m more death leaning cuz ah get pissed when ah’m left oot n dying early is the biggest leavin oot party ay them aw. kind ay like even when you know a party’s shit because you went fir the beginning then left, but yir mates are still hangin aroond? ah mean- naw, disnae even have tae be yir mates tae be honest … ah think ah just dinnae like missing oot, even if it’s missin oot oan somethin ah ken is fuckin crap. can thit count as a secret? — can thit count as a secret? ah think ah might’ve written thit verbatim in an essay before. mibbe ah didnae say crap though.
fir someone who claims they cannae think oan the spot, ah can talk n talk. give a keynote oan any given topic if ah’m gifted the right crowd. boris reads as thit. he turns intae the optimum crowd quick. ah feel ma way tae the top ay his hand n drum ma fingertips oan it. — how’d you figure the love one oot fir yersel? thit’s bold.
if these walls could talk, i wonder what they’d say about us. i wonder if they’d paint us out how society often would - two misfits, two junkies that weren’t likely to amount to much. i wonder if the walls would recall each hushed whisper, the drunken kiss and the way our hands kept brushing against each other as if we were going to close the gap once more but never quite got around to it. i’m sure some sad sopping hollywood screenwriter would get a kick out of it, write some coming of age drama about two boys from the wrong side of life who were two cowardly to comment on what was going on in this room under dim lights and mass of cigarette smoke. i couldn’t bring myself to care about it. couldn’t bring myself to think about anything other than the fact that vodka still burned my throat and that the room felt smaller than it had before. my mixed playlist of music was still playing in the background, radiohead, molchat doma, the beatles -- flipping through them like changing seasons.
i’m listening to him speak as if his voice were smooth velvet, a layered vocal track on the already playing music. telling me his thoughts on the death fear --- the yin , as he had referred to it. something about the way he spoke held me, it roped me in and practically choked me senseless. a rougher accent like mine, words hitting with their own velocity. “ it count as secret if you wish it to count. ” i shrug slightly, eyes glazed and yet i’m still studying his face, fingers twitching again. i don’t think i ever really thought about what would happen after my death, i don’t know if i really care.
“ love? i believe situational or what psychologist want to say nurture vs nature argument, no? my father, bastard of a man he was. i suppose it teaches me what i deserve. ” and what i received was abuse. it’s at this moment that i reach for my flask, moving my hand from near his and twisting it open to gulp down another mouthful of russian’s best vodka and soon closing it off and setting it back at my side. hand collapsed down again, this time, landing in his; twisting over so that we were palm on palm. i didn’t wish to dwell on this anymore, the concept of love and who was deserving of it and even if i was deserving of it. all it did was make my head ache.
“ tell me something else. tell me about the worst thing you’ve done. shall we compare wounds? ”
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