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This is it

Friday, 3rd February

- Knock, knock...,
- Who's there?
- Guess who?

(Ok, this is it. This is the one, this isn't like any of the others. How many of these have there been? Oh, six or seven, maybe more. I've still got them all, incidentally, both hard and soft, in a special file, a special folder. Maybe I'll show them to you one day, (but probably not, not at least the way things seem to be sorting out and shaping up). But this, this is the one if any one is. Oh yes, this is quite definitely it - watch out for surprises.)

- Hey, just a minute, hang on, don't run off, don't turn and rush away again, decelerate a moment. I won't hurt you, I don't want that. Just a few minutes, a few seconds - just a fragment of your fragmented life, that's all I ask. Please give it to me, give that to me, at least, if nothing else. Let me in for a moment. I won't stay, and later you needn't know I've been here. Let me in and I'll stay at the door, with my back turned and my sore scarlet eyes gently averted. I won't look, I won't gaze at you, I'll stare ardently at the blank, empty, hollow wall.

Let's go. I'm being truthful now: serious, sincere. I mean this one, (I meant all the others too, the ones you've never seen, you'll never see). I just wanted to let you in on, to tell you, a deep, dark secret. Something terrible, (something wonderful too, for me - it's full of stars), something too dreadful for our ears to hear, for our eyes to see, for our minds to contemplate. (Don't tell anyone else, will you, this appalling thing - don't let on that you know, not even to me. Just pretend that nothing's happened, that nothing ever has happened or will happen, that too much has happened in all our lives for anything else to happen ever again: we're just too tired for this, too exhausted. Just let us sleep, let us rest in silence, listening to the sounds of our cold, fearful souls.)

(Incidentally, what's happened to women, recently? What's going on in their lives, what's happened to them? It must have been something ghastly, something frightful, to have changed them as they have been changed. Ten years ago they were so strong. We could rely on them to be sound, strong, logical, reliable, frighteningly efficient, intelligent as well as, by turn, salaciously erotic, riotously romantic, lasciviously gorgeous, voluptuously vain and impeccably perfect. We could be as foolish as we liked, but we knew they were OK, they'd still be there. They could dump us, but we didn't mind because we knew they were right, we knew they knew when we weren't right, we knew when we'd done wrong, we knew when we'd lost - they told us so - that's that - and we had no choice but to believe them. We were all terrified of them because we knew they were so much better than us, better at everything, better at life. But look now, quickly. What's happened, what's gone wrong? Why are they all so fucked up, so sad-soaked, anxiety-attenuated and guilt-garrotted, who's done it to them? Where has that confident, calm, air gone - that resigned, quiescent yet sanguine demeanour, has it moved out for good? Why, now they all seem so afraid, so constantly startled, headlight-blind. Where has the magic gone, the hunger for the exquisite, the gorgeous gluttony for excess emotion, the trembling desire for the radiant, the whorish hunger for the extraordinary, the unforgettable? Is it our fault - have we done this to them - have they finally given up because of us? If it is, then, take it from me, we apologise, all of us. We will grovel before them, kissing the earth beneath their toes, washing their feet with hot lushly tropical, bitter tears. We want them back. We want them to be the confident, content, proud, joyful creatures we once knew. We want their mystery, their opacity, their unapproachable, unfathomable darkness. We want to be afraid of them again, we need that fear, it's what kept us going, kept us sane. Don't they understand, we want them to be in control again. Here - take it back, we don't want it, this control. We've tried it, and we can't live with it, we can't cope. We're destroying ourselves with domination, crippling ourselves with authority, paralysing ourselves with power. We need them to tell us what to do, how to behave, when to stop - if we can just make them tell us we'll do it because we're as frightened as they are.)

That's not the secret, although it is, surely, a terrible and seemingly unstoppable thing. This is it now, here it comes. Are you ready, are you sitting comfortably, or standing, leaning gently against a solid support that you can safely rely on, that you can trust? Hold on to your hat, lock and bolt your doors, secure your windows, buckle your impact-breaking seatbelt and pump up the cartoonish air-bag. Extinguish all cigarettes and assume the crash position (this is no test). Protect yourself - believe me, the winds will blow and crack their cheeks.

(Actually, it's nothing really, just a cry, a whimper from a sad, mad, lonely dog barking, yelping, whining; lunging helplessly against the moon:)

I meant everything I said, you know, you know when. I meant every word and I still mean it now. I meant every word I didn't say, too, every silence, every intimate, wordless suggestion, every noiseless cry. I mean it more now, more than ever. I mean it more because I understand better, I think - about these creatures we call people and the things they do to themselves and others - about the fear that some people have to live with, about all this.

(How do they live with this fear, these people - how can they be so frightened of fear? Can't they just throw it out? Can't they evict it - send it a solicitor's letter asking it to go, to be gone the next morning - they can't have asked it in? Do they just wake up one morning and it's there squatting in the next room, with it's cold and sad bathroom tackle (alpine deodorant; double-skinned, auto-lubricating razor; non-drip, anti-fall-out mascara; scent-free, animal-avoidance soap) placed in immaculately ordered chaos beneath their mirror? When they manoeuvre too suddenly and find themselves staring into its blank, inorganic mask - have they the courage then (or does this retreat when fear invades) to tell it quickly, without thought and conscience - 'Get out, go, I don't want you here, I never asked you in. Get out of my life now and never come back. Get out of my brain, my adrenal glands, my heart before something happens to us both, before I lose control, before I break, before I go mad'?)

I meant every look and every touch and I mean it now, again, only more so. I meant every flashed, cracking parallel of fizzing, soundless static that passed between us, all the tenderly puissant glances and screamed sibilant whispers. I miss you now, at this moment. I am missing you, thinking of you now as you read this and I will be missing you and thinking of you later when you fold and put this aside, out of sight, and frowning, walk away.

This much is irreparable, irredeemable now. Why and how this happens, has happened is unutterable, unthinkable. All that can be said on my part is that this is what has happened, what is happening, what will happen.

So that's it. That's the worst, the best of it: sincere, if rather heavy - those secondary fonts and dynamic new stylings are somewhat over-dramatic, wouldn't you say? This particular narrator takes things a little too seriously, maybe - there's too much weight in the italicised monologue, not enough laughter in the main body of the text, too few smiles in the headers and footers, the drop caps. Our story-teller should learn to relax more, take things more easily, or he'll get himself into serious trouble with his head - he'll have a fight, a rabid rumble with his blasted psyche if he doesn't calm down and cool off. I'd better ask him to leave now, don't you think? Let him mouth his farewells and walk away in almost imperceptible tranquillity, hovering with a mind held high, a mind scintillating lazily, hazily, a mind saturated in a spicy and affluent marinade of adrenaline and endomorphines, treading gently, carefully, minding his step, leaving no trace, no memory as the door closes, just a faint stirring of dust in the startled air.

So guess who, now?