Journal entry #1: Gin and tonic

"Hello there, stranger" she smiled at me and talked...

That was today. I met a prostitute whilst on my cigarette break. She told me she had no place to go, that life had handed her the wrong cards and that she was battling a heroine addiction. This is life, unadulterated, and in your face. Blow your smoke elsewhere, I don't paint the pretty picture.

Yes, I'm destined to a life of undying decay. An immoral and self-destructive life. Self-destruction is the path to Arcadia. Whereas in heaven, the streets are filled with gold, in Arcadia, the streets are piled with endless bottles of 'skey or vodka, needles and the expendables i.e. Mary Jane, 'shrooms and LSD. It's not your story book ending, but that is it, life.

I'm drunk - again - so pardon everything else, if you even give shit, that is. I'm drunk because it fuels my writing. Because in order to reach perfection, I have to destroy myself, my physical self. Because in me, there is nothing, I am just a piece of wood molded into phrases, a piece of cloth carved into a trench coat, a pair of jeans or a g-string. I am but a mere puppet to the world. To laugh at, weep with and give your money to.

Forget morals. Forget tradition. Forget pride and love and lust, forget yourself. Forget your dreams. Forget your regrets. Forget putting a happy face on 'cause no one will notice. Forget caring, forget her in your arms, forget doing anything that will put your heart at jeopardy, forget romance. Forget your clothes, your face, your hair, your long nails. Forget your appearance. Forget the girls that keep you up late, forget the girls you stare at in the bus, forget the ones that never gave you the time of day, forget the ones that broke your heart. Forget your past, forget your future, forget this second, that has already passed. Forget your hopes, your envy, your hate. Forget your feelings. Forget 70's style diners, cute terraces and abandoned cottages. Forget who you were, who you are, who you will be. Forget music, pictures and entertainment. Forget life...

That is a pool of Arcadia, knee-high. That is happiness like you've never felt before. It's like when you're drunk and you know you're drunk but it's just right. Like Christmas day, when you wake up, and a bunch of wrapped bullshit lays under a tree. It's like when you've got her panties off, and you're done with the foreplay. It's taking a good swing at a guy and seeing him good down. It's arriving at a train station knowing she's been waiting for you. It's hearing a song you've got in your head, just to hear the chords. It's crying when you feel like you've lost everything. It's writing thirty pages in a book and feeling like you've achieved something. It's staring at you're father's eyes without shame. It's going to bed after a night of binge drinking and chain smoking. That's Arcadia, times a thousand, a million, a fucking billion... Arcadia is what all the writers write about. It's bottom in Fight Club, it's what Rimbaud spent his life dreaming about, it's what Hendrix did his guitar solos for: it's there, right in front of you, and to have it, you have to let EVERYTHING go.

So here I am, naked. In my intimacy. Letting everything go. From the Saturday night Jack Daniels, to the lavish and expensive clothes. From the childhood heartbreaks, to the teenage feelings of pride. From the shit I engraved with a pen, carved in a book no one read, to the movies I watched that gave me the chills... All of that, is GONE! Forever. No use dwelling in the past. I'm on my path to where I need to be. And this, may be the rantings of a poor and deranged soul, but, hopefully, it isn't. Maybe it's better out there. Maybe I belong.

This was in vain, I know. Most of you never understood me, and to those who did, you thought I was crazy. You're not too far off. But now, now, I am happy. It takes the weight off. So wish me luck for my script, and resume your materialistic passionless train wreck of lives, with a future consisting of two kids and car, a cat or a dog, a cute little terrace, leather sofas and plain, old and redundant emptiness.

Good night, or morning.