kagablog

It was with a sense of total hostility and rejection that I got divorced from the womb. My birth was, to paraphrase Saddam, the mother of all forced removals. With a sharp slap of a doctor’s gloved hand on my bum and a piercing squeal in reply began the long lonely period of exile called my life.

I never had a 21st birthday. I went straight from 14 to 35. The best years of my life were spent inside a shabby little place called my head. Contemplating my prospects that always and only seemed grim. If I’d known then what it took me all these years to find out: absolutely nothing.

Somewhere between the frantic oblivion of adolescence and the self-absolving dissolution of the drugs I got stuck in a corner of myself. Wasting away on yesterday’s ethics. By the time I looked over my shoulder everyone else had left the room. Moved on to the next level. My generation had left me minding the gap. The ha ha’s on me.

If you understand the streets you understand life. If you understand life you know far more than me. Did you ever notice that me is the first part of meaning? I’ve been searching for the elusive meaning in me and my life since before I was born. That’s not an exaggeration. 43 years outside of my mommy and I still don’t know the reason she evicted me from her womb. So I could pay taxes? Get a job? Make something of my life? It doesn’t make sense.

Those were 9 good months. Floating in the warm amnion of rent-free somnambulation. Oh boy, since I got out it’s all dissonance and percentages. What’s my angle? I’m still trying to figure that one out. I’m in such shit. It’s not funny anymore. I’ve got to find a way to earn money real quick. There’s a baby on the way. One that will need regular feeding of the every day at least three times kind. Not to mention clothes, and then schooling and about a zillion of those hi-tech gadgets without which a young human is doomed to feel very much left out of the loop.

I’m just a big baby myself. Ok so I don’t need nappies and I can drive my car (it’s automatic) - but for the rest it’s all helpless. These silly little writings that in the viewpoint of a much more serious individual would not even qualify as writing are not getting me paid. They’re written for free and you read them for free. If anybody is even reading this?

Everybody looks like a child to me. Except me. I look like I don’t know what time it is. But actually I do know that. It’s time to go. Good night.