I’m going to have to kill myself, at the very least, now the world has seen the things I do when I think then world’s not watching, when it’s politely keeping its ears and eyes closed and walking softly past the open door, beyond which we do and see and save and savour the things we only do when we think the world’s not watching. There are things I saw and wanted to remember, most of which I can’t remember even wanting to remember or why that might have seemed like an impulse worth twitching at. Maybe a meal – nothing too fancy but enough to say “Hey ma – your baby boy’s not eating out of supermarket skips anymore”. A couple of trees, tilting the light at a certain time on a certain forgotten day. Pictures of me dressed in clothes I wouldn’t wear in front of my neighbours having the kind of relations with vegetables that I’d never mention at any polite function. Pictures of the dead – now being laughed at along with pictures where I appear to be naked with some other awkward stranger who also looks dead – trapped forever in some unforgiving digital eternity. My meagre earnings – free for the world now to spend on online gambling and mephedrone. Pictures of my kids. Late night whispers of unguarded desperation and loss, pleading into a phone set to aeroplane mode under an unslept upon pillow. Too many details. Too many furtive midnight slouches into dark and shameful places now spewing their secrets on some stranger’s coffee table, among the bent needles and roaches. The sprawling map of love reduced to childish scribbles under anonymous inspection. Lovingly framed photographs of illegal substances. All my hopes and dreams, even the dead ones rotting in some long neglected back room on WhatsApp. Everyone I could reach out to blinking out beneath the spotlights. All those vital times and numbers and promises made. The people I need to speak to – the people who need to speak to me. Three Dachshunds getting bathed in a sink. A rude meme about Jeremy Corbyn that I wouldn’t want all my two friends to know I found funny. My passwords, my skeleton keys to every door in my heart and mind and bizarre, sprawling interwebmind. Gone. Worse than gone. Gone in a few hours, after some little shitbag and all his mates have picked through my entire life and laughed at it and shared some of the more unsettling images from my sometimes unnerving existence with their friends and said “Hang on – isn’t that that fucking bloke from down the road?”
Locked out of my own life with nothing but the roaring laughter of the rest of the world in my ears, which you don’t need a phone or even a WiFi connection to hear.
(Disclaimer: this is a ‘fictional’ thang – so if any of my two friends read it, don’t worry; the pictures of you with the galoshes and gas mask on are safe. And I made the Jeremy Corbyn bit up)