Vignettes of Ruin and...

Apathia (the God of Nothing)

In Sloth on February 28, 2011 at 12:04 pm

“You nagging fucking bitch, you try to take my drink away, I will take everything away from you!” He tore up boxes of my make up and threw them across the room. The powder made rainbow blotches on the cream coloured carpet. He ripped my clothes from their hangars and let them fall in a dead heap on the floor. “Where is the photo of my poor dead mother you hid from me, where is it?!!!” He found the photo and dislodged it where it lay with other paintings and photos. But he was so drunk, his co-ordination was off and it slipped from his grasp, smashing on the floor. He screamed and in his madness, pulled everything out, destroying anything he came across. He swept his arm over my dresser, knocking everything to the ground. Intoxicatus had given him unholy power. The adrenaline, the intensity, the luminosity of colour, the resounding impact of every syllable uttered, it was unbearable to be alive.

Vincent raged and raged.  I saw my little house come tumbling down.

So I left.

Many days passed.

On the 7th day, I went back. He looked thin and hollow. His eyes were terribly sad.

“I am so happy to see you,” he said. “But I am going away for a time. I am going into rehab and am expecting the call any day now. I have to rid myself of my addiction to this god. Would you just mind our dog while I am gone? Sorry to have to ask. But I have no one else.”

I agreed and then we set about picking up the broken pieces and clearing the debris away.

I could not help but feel great compassion, in spite of everything we had been through. All those feelings I thought simply didn’t exist anymore, did. I wanted to help. I wanted him to be ok.

Now he is gone and I am left in our home, you would never know the terrible things that had taken place here. There are no scars on the walls, no cracks in the roof, no stains on the paint. The awful words that were spoken leave no imprint in the plasterwork. A blackbird visits every morning, turfing out sods of clay from my hanging baskets to get at grubs. He makes a mess, but he is beautiful. Sometimes his beady eye stares at me in that penetrating way and I think he can see into the core of me.

I thought I would do so much with Vincent away, I thought I would know the freedom the blackbird seems to know.

But I just wander from room to room. I fold some laundry, I use disinfectant spray on practically everything. There isn’t much left, I will need to go to the shops soon and buy more. But the thought of leaving makes me restless. And so does the thought of staying. Listening to music initially seems a good idea, but I cannot allow any songs to play out. I compulsively flick through each intro and the thought of listening to a whole one seems unbearable. I decide to watch a film, but I cannot sit still and concentrate. I keep sighing and shuffling around on the couch, trying to get comfortable- nothing feels right. Playing a game seems like a colossal committment. And if I don’t want to do that, then I definitely don’t want to sketch…or write this entry. I don’t want to have conversations with anyone. It’s all too much pressure. Colours are faded and drab. Sounds are distant and the world unmoving. I look in the mirror and I am a ghost.

Apathia, hear my prayer.

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  1. I believe that life should be lived well.. believe that we must try to find ways to understand what and where are the limits.. sometimes people need to spend a lot of sadness and desolation to know of them… currently poisoning does not always go hand in hand with real poison, sometimes poisoning is the result of poor living energies around us, of those whose stimuli many times we become apathetic… a terrible sentence of Sartre says, the most boring of evil is that it is usual

  2. a well considered comment, thank you.

  3. love, rehab sounds wonderful, even if it will seem lonely for the while that it lasts. Things are changing 🙂

  4. I don’t remember if you ever written about about the god of all gods. Time. Time doesn’t care for human feelings so it doesn’t rush or stops for anyone. Yet is so powerful that is the only healer that can cure everything. His medicine needs patience to show it’s results so you must wait. Sounds like you reached top botton so from now on it’s all getting better and betting used to get better…

    • i actually disagree, time does not necessarily heal unless there is a deliberate hope for it to and it could never bring about closure without deliberate action. time has the horrible potential to let bitter things things fester worse. And I don’t find time altogether big or governing – it is a measurement, a consistent one at that, but i find it more a concept for measure – not for maturity (for that is not proportionate to time), nor preferably healing – because it cares nothing for humanity. But if in the process of time, one comes to maturity and learns the bitterness was not worth holding onto, there grows an opportunity for healing.

      • time is a human idea, it does not actually exist. there is only now.

      • enisea, I don’t think time can heal wounds when one keeps twisting the knife. But maybe you’re right about the potential for healing with maturity. Send me a brochure, because I haven’t been to Maturity yet.

    • Reading this blog must make me seem like a head-case because I am only writing about vices, but this blog is about everyone as I see them, not just myself… I haven’t remotely reached the bottom…! And I find it a difficult place to imagine, that’s how ok I am! 🙂 All of this is only fleeting.

      • oh..oh ok…
        but STILL, hopelessness that populates these posts begs for the occasional verbalisation of hope – because gee, it is so easy to overdose on heartbreak! ESPECIALLY HERE!

      • I couldn’t disagree more about there being no hope on there pages. The path to suffering leads to enlightenment. Besides which this is not a diary it is a themed work about various excesses. Its a bit like me visiting a blog about science and saying yes, but for the love of god, where is the fiction!

  5. I feel like I have been punched. Your words always seem to slice through everything. The relation to the blackbird is just beautiful and so tragic at the same time. Incidentally, I have just read the comments above and want to tell you that I find your blog enthralling and mesmerising, amongst other things, and personally I have picked up threads of hope in everything read thus far. 🙂

    • Thank you! I appreciate that a lot. I don’t normally like to explain but writing this blog was a cathartic experience, a lot of positive came out of it for me- it helped me gain perspective and I found strength I barely realised I had. I haven’t updated in a while though, have had difficulty in focusing and not so satisfied with my more recent offerings. Also I had no internet connection! 🙂

      • I’m sorry to hear you’ve had difficulty in focusing (and no connection, how frustrating!), and certainly I think we go through phases when we are harder on ourselves in terms of what we produce. There are a few poems I’ve posted on my blog which I wasn’t one hundred per cent happy with and yet they gleaned great responses! I didn’t want to sound too sugary (for want of a better word) the other night but, frankly, for many reasons your blog remains my favourite and I look forward to you getting back in gear with it when the time is right. I can assure you that there is, without doubt, a vein of hope running through your entire blog. 🙂 x

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