It is through death that one reaches true freedom, the polar icecap of our modern conception of liberty; through death we are unbridled. The pitiful reality of this true release is that we do not in fact have the freedom to choose this release from restrain, as of course we have no true unrestrained choice in life. To choose death is to self-indulge and to ignore ones responsibilities to others, responsibilities which were forced upon us through birth and existence. An existence which we were offered no choice for, only the consolation that we were one of the fortunate ones to have existed. Our fortune is further pressed upon us, by war, famine and everything which one typically sighs at in the morning papers or the late night news.

However, it seems that were we given a choice to live we would be given a choice to die. Whilst the option clearly exists, it seems unpreferable due emotional ties and societal responsibilities; further examples of joys pressed upon us. Clearly suicide seems intuitively wrong, it is a messy job left to others to clean; and whilst those incapable clearly need their mess cleaned, it seems irresponsible and reckless to impress sorrow and blame on those unworthy of it, when one is quite capable of restraint. Life’s pains must be carried as a burden should they exist, not that they can’t be shared with others; but sharing and subjugating are far different s’s. To commit suicide is to force others into sorrow, not only of ones passing, but also of a much worse distress; the agony of self-blame.

To kill one-self is to create a distress in others that they did not do their best to try, to help, to resolve. It is for this reason that it is road devoid of meaning, full only of selfish desires and disrespect to all of humanity. Whilst one may sadly be deficient in close friends or relatives, one is never vacant from the love of humanity, the care of individuals, or the potential discovery of your lifeless, soiled remains.

Although perhaps with our apparent deterministic nature, ever excelled through psychology and self-reflection, suicide is the only free choice one can truly make. The constant discovery of genetic information responsible for our action combined with the obvious impact of the external environment on our “choices”, seems only to show that we have little if any choice at all. The example of the serial killer gene, or the surprising similarities in beliefs between identical twins separated at birth, clearly point to the power of our hereditary genetics and therefore to the partial suppression of our freedom. Further, analysis of different environmental settings clearly point to its impact upon personality. The fact that neither of these are disregarded by mainstream psychology evidently arises from the insurmountable evidence that both play a crucial role in the development and structure of the psyche. In fact the only disputes concern the ratio in which these two co-exist, and perhaps the philosophical conundrum of whether personal inner liberty can truly be.

How can I be so happy and then be so sad, simply due to the loss of one person. This is ridiculous…

Argh I’m so frustrated. I’m going to leave I can’t take this anymore. Why!

I just wish I’d finished uni so I could leave this country.

I just wish I had someone to talk to. Someone to express my hatred and sorrow, without causing harm. I can’t run away, I can’t turn to drugs, I can’t even die. I’m tired of life and its pleasures. I’m lost and alone. Confused I don’t know where to go or what to do.

I just want to say goodbye.

I want to self-destruct, I want to tear the void wide open and dive right in and fall, face looking back watching the world disappear before my eyes. A black hole to engulf my sorrows and me with them, leaving a startled image behind, stuck in the twilight zone for passer-by’s to see and never understand.

Sitting here smoking I know that I’m stuck. For the past few days I’ve been delaying sleep, pushing it back into those early hours. Waiting for enough light to quell my fears. Tonight I can’t wait, tomorrow I have to get up. One more night of Hell, before another day, why does it have to get dark?

Why do I have to sleep?

Thank fuck for Seroquel.

Soon I’ll have to close my eyes, they’ll be heavy, but the fear will keep them open. I’ll try not to shut them, then when I do, more fear; more goddam fear right in front of my eyes. The best thing about horrible images is that you can close your eyes just at the worst point; closed eye hallucinations are a bit trickier. I can open them, but then it’s something else. I suppose I should be grateful, at least I can choose between Hells.

It’s not the fear of being alone that scares me, it’s the fear of being left with myself.

Fuck this, fuck this life. Rapidly descaling, only to be boosted by ephemeral highs and fake laughter. What’s wrong isn’t my sense of disparity, it’s the familiarity of re-meeting my indifferent, loathing self; too caught up in fiction to seek out fact.

What do I need? Hell if I know. Pounding music, vibrations, vocals and tones to tear apart my drums; leaking out the ever present haemorrhage that overshadows my pitiful existence. What’s sadder is that my life isn’t pitiful, I’m not even sure if I think that it is. Deep down perhaps I know that it isn’t, life’s full of riches and beauty; overabundant with pleasure yet lacking all meaning. I’m back at a cross roads, to the left I see an all too familiar chasm complete with closeted skeletons and ever present darkness; to my right a beacon of hope, unknown yet undoubtedly fulfilling. The choice seems all too obvious, but the familiar darkness is strangely alluring. Depressions comforting, I don’t understand why, maybe it’s easier to blame yourself than others, maybe I like knowing what to expect, even if my expectations consist only of pain and isolation. It’s like that one last line constantly re-appearing day in day out, I know I should quit for all the right reasons; yet I stay for all the wrong ones.

We’re brought up worshipping false idols, messiahs of self-destruction; respected for their contempt for society and yet also for their inability to even try to change it. Lies over truths any day, lets spoon feed society an addiction to botox and anthrax; keep the markets turning.

But no, the Kets rotting in the sewers, its rightful resting place. I won’t go back their just because she it, I’m free; it’s just sad I can never choose my freedom.

Just when I thought I was happy it all comes crashing down. The only person I had, the only one I could open up to; tells me I don’t open enough. Now I’m alone, now I’m back to my indifference, back to attempting to mask my dissatisfaction. Now I just have one more problem. The sad truth is I can’t escape, I can’t do anything to escape my feelings or my mind. I can only run away from them through death. I don’t trust myself to do it, let just hope God takes pity.

Three clubs down, more beers to.

“One last place to show you.” He says.

“Where ever you want, man.”

One beer fuelled orgy in Budapest, another to come. The Danube straddled island disappears in mind and sight. I follow him on, Herman.

“Where are we going?”

“Coxx.” He replies.

Off the bus, straight down rape alley, backstreets, dilapidated buildings. Not just run down, corners missing, skeletons exposed, iron rods rusting right out in the open air holding in their last breath for fear of the casualties. That’s when I see it, that’s when I realise. He’s gay. I mean he’s gay, but what, he’s gay. I don’t mind. But five days into the apartment share with a “Berkley professor”… The biggest surprises come late. He looks at the bouncer, they give that nod of recognition. A few coins or notes passed and we leave the burly man in the dark alley, we head down stairs.

“Herman!”

The bar men know him, we buy some beers, we buy a few more.

“Pretty tame.” I say.

He points at the screen. Suddenly I see the 40 inch tv, wait tvs, they’re everywhere. Looking back it seems a little humiliating having to crane my neck to see the midget porn they’re surreptitiously hurling out in this backstreet basement. I gaze and ponder, less pondering, my mind was blank, I guess I was in awe. I guess most are, witnessing their first midget threesome.

We dance to house music.

“I love house.”

He tries to pull me into a corner, I politely refuse. He tries again, same story. We sit back down.

“It’s pretty quiet in here.” Two old couples in the corners. Thinking back it was quite a nice bar. All good but the inevitable prolapse waiting to happen to that poor Hispanic midget.

“How can they… how can it fit in his…”

“Pretty flexible.” He replies. My heart flutters. A moment of romance. NO a sudden realisation. Herman wants me, fuck. I guess I had some waking up to do, 30 year old black professors like young cock. Herman liked young cock, I don’t know. Herman likes me! Yelp.

“Want to leave?” He asks.

“I dunno.”

“Want to see the back?” He asks revealing his pristine white teeth.

“What’s out the back?” I must have been drunk, I must have been naive. I guess I was curious.

He takes me to the side of the bar. Suddenly I’m met with this dimly lit alley way. Can an alley be inside? It was narrow and it was dim. We walk down. An exhibit of gentlemanly pleasures, on show for perspective dwellers. I guess a sort of last warning to the sheltered youth. That’s when it hits me, rushing straight to the back of my nostrils. It was like walking in and smelling the remnants of someone else’s shit, you don’t mind the smell of your own cum; but this Hungarian dungeon’s smell was grim.

Further down rape alley. He guides me to the right, the first opening down a corridor of open orifices. A small collection of black changing rooms, I thought they were changing rooms; more a collection of privy’s for the overly excited. Ok I’d had a tipple.

We storm through. We carry on, I persevere. Why? The same reason young boys look at mother’s brassieres, no sexual excitement; just curiosity. Perhaps my denial worries you? My mind’s serene. Again I glance to the right, bathroom. A nice bath it was, porcelain interior, cast footed. No shower curtain, no glass, all for the eyes to see; yet no eyes within. I questioned its use, Herman moved me on, just a few feet.

True to his word, I’m further perplexed. Straight ahead, Cast Iron Jail Door, a mid-sized bed, no room round the edges. The reality of my surroundings began to kick in. Certain things sober a man up; the depths of Hungarian sex dungeons seemed to do it for me. Thankfully there was a bar to the left. No time for a drink. I needed my buzz, a mildly perplexed head was necessary, that I knew; yet my wits I needed also.

Next room, a car! No honestly a car, I’ve never been a fan of them, but I know one when I see one. No midgets lay within, this was full sized. Room to parade round for a view. Front side passenger masturbation. Oral delights behind. I began to feel as though my wares were on view. Perhaps I should have had that last drink. Why do gays sell such overpriced beer?

One more short corridor. The last I did not expect. I had little shock left in me. But this small corner finished it all. I think this place was built for a story, just like an orgasm. It needs the final climax. The last room, dark small and crowded. I notice the shoes. I notice the trousers. I notice I’m in the centre of a circle jerk. Whether this room was on hire, or purposely built; I don’t know. It seemed so, maybe it was their arrangement. But we were in the centre. I ask to leave.

We get one more beer.

“Want to leave?”

“Can we go once more?”

The teeth shine, he wants more. He wants me. I just want one last look.