How Beige Was My Kitchen

I think I accepted long ago that everything was pretty much pointless, that we’re all here for no especial reason and it doesn’t matter if I never make it as a writer as it’ll all be blown away in cosmic dust one day.

You, and me, and everything. Even this rock I’m perched on.

I dunno. I don’t care. I don’t. No point in any of it. If I sit here and fart around on the Internet for the rest of my life, it won’t matter. I’ve been able to enjoy the mammoth vision that is Seven Worlds even if no-one else cares enough to see it.

Fuck it all, do you hear me God? Fuck it all. I’m not sad tonight, I’m just defiant. And sometimes it’s good to be defiant, piss into the wind even if it spills back onto your shoes as you stand laughing hysterically on a sand dune in the dark. Maybe the moon is out as well, shining down over the sea. Can you picture that? It looks pretty sweet from where I’m sitting on this rock.

You know what else? It can all end tomorrow. I’m pretty much done. I don’t need to write anymore. I probably could write and I will write if the world doesn’t end, but I have no fucking regrets. I have nothing more to say really, nothing that I ain’t said before. Cos none of it matters when all is said and done, in fact it never fucking did. And it never will again.

I didn’t know I’d turned into a fatalist. I thought that was a man thing?

Whatever.