How could I even begin to express myself at a time like this. Every thought that runs through my head is paralyzing. People in colourful clothing. People in expensive clothing. People with style for whom money don’t matter. People wrapped in fierce black dufflecoats from head to foot, they’re storming the streets. People who walk hard. I veer to the left. Groups of young hoodlums, dressed in hoodlum gear, that’s how I know they’re hoodlums. I stand tall, walk hard, face fierce, forlorn inside. Attractive women assail me, I avert my eyes then dart back for a stolen glance. Women I’d sleep with. Women I’d marry. Women belonging to other men. Don’t talk too deep or you might draw them in. Always thoughts playing and preying on you as you try to adjust, to exist. Existence is bliss when the heart shines right through and everything that happens is a joy, but the laws of nature do not allow for this to be a permanent fixture. Who is measuring these moments? When can I cash in my suffering and get back to bliss again? Bliss. Bliss, bliss, bliss.

False assertions made by the minute. Judge you by your clothing by your build by your voice thereby your background by your mannerisms by your posture by your eyes by God bygones bye forever now bye bye. Of course I’m wrong, mostly. Can’t judge a book by it’s cover. Not that I’m putting you beneath me or anything, I’m simply trying to find out who you are before I get a chance to really know you. And you see there I used the word ‘simply’ rather than just ‘just’ because I’m sitting here typing and feeling all literary, and that can take you into another frame of mind altogether. Suddenly assume the identity of a man of letters. Strange things that go on in the mind. The mind. A vast expanse. And then there’s soul and the subconscious and all these other layers. Who knows what’s going on. I’m not sure if all minds work this way, perhaps they need altering somehow before reaching such a God-forsaken state.

Possible methods of mind alteration:

One: Childhood trauma, preferably a daily battering and the occasional fiddle.

Two: The ingestion of mind or mood altering substances. Clue’s in the name really. Take enough of these and you’re sure put a dent in the mainframe.

Three: Spiritual Awakening (Psychosis.) Perhaps induced by either or both of the above, the kind of thing we’re talking about here will blow you wide open hopefully, leading to all sorts of impossible adventures, implausible levels of pain endured.

So suffer we. Suffer on, sufferer. We all do, don’t we? Wee touch a depression, riddled with anxiety; it’s all part of the craic. Paranoia bustin’ your head open. Yes. Welcome, my friends. But it’s all about levels, isn’t it? And then again, it’s all relative. So ye can’t really be goin’ round flauntin’ your sufferin’ like ‘I am the fuckin’ man here,’ can ye? (And here you’ll notice my personality has sort of split quite suddenly and I’m leaning quite heavy into the vernacular, no doubt in an attempt to court the regard of ruffians.) Tis all quite impossible. Some folks bear their burden kind of half-gracefully, crushed beneath the weight of it all, but still dandering along as if everything’s quite alright and ‘it’s all good anyway, I know it’s mine and I own it and you’ll never catch me complainin’, by God, no!’ Not good for ye, that. Have to open up and whine sometimes. Problem is, if you happen to be an elite level sufferer, you can’t go breaking down your problems to some young up-and-comer, it just wouldn’t go over right. You have to tussle with people of a similar disposition, fellow super-sufferers. Sit between the two of you and have a whinin’ match, see who can complain the best. “I have borne seven tonnes over five craggy mountains!” “Pah! That is nothing. I have climbed twenty trees with no hands, yesterday and the day before.” Two moany cunts. But you see, that is all wrong. The key really is not so much to compete in our tellings (though it’s fun, and let’s face it, an unavoidable human fault,) but to commiserate with the other, to open our ears and listen to their sorry tale, empathise with the poor fucker, you might even find yourself relating to him. So this seems to have some kind of palliative effect, you come away feeling better, the other guy probably does too.

But anyway, suffering is life and life is suffering. For me anyway. Fuck me I got up this morning and didn’t know who I was. I looked myself in the mirror and my face was all red and abashed. Ran into a bunch of people, tried to have a conversation but I’d forgotten how to speak. Took me three hours to find myself and even then I still wasn’t sure. I suffered up them fuckin’ stairs and I suffered the whole way back down again. I’ve pains in me back, ma legs are hurtin’, shoes are on too tight, feel like a fuckin’ eejit walkin’ about in this florescent jacket. Jesus, I have suffered this day. But there’s more yet to come! And if I want to be the envy of all suffering bastards this time tomorrow, I’d better get ma head down and hurt. Just the way of it. Sit yourself down and suffer. Serves ye right to suffer, said John Lee. Serves ye fuckin’ right. Indeed it doth serve ye. What was it your man said? Ye empty the cup of sorrow then fill ‘er on back up with joy? Pile a shite. Suffer on!