IF YOU A TALKING HEAD MOTHERFUCKER
Have you ever thought about what your last words will be before you die? A man’s dying words are his most important. It's what the living will remember him by. Maybe you should think about yours.
I can't quite recall when my life spiralled out of control. But I clearly remember the day that I had the grim realisation that my life was in the fucking toilet pan. Depression is a curse. I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. It robbed me of everything: My happiness, mental stability, dignity and almost my family.
On a hot day in August 2012 I found myself truly lost in the gruesome city of London, a city that had been my home all my life, a city that was slowly squeezing the life out of me, like a snake killing a rat. I had only slept for a couple of hours and after an argument with my wife, I had left my home and jumped on a bus. There was no destination in mind, I just jumped onto the first bus that swung by as I was walking.
I found shelter in The Earl of Lonsdale pub in Notting hill gate. I bought a drink and went to a secluded booth for privacy.
The heat was sweltering that day. I felt like a ghost. It wouldn't take a lot to make me cry and it didn't. I was shaking from the lack of sleep and my stomach felt sickly because I hadn’t eaten. I saw an image in the paper that I had bought that destroyed what was left of my fragile soul. It was an image of a mother crying over the murder of her son. The young man had been murdered brutally in a phone box. The mother’s pain captured in that bleak photograph was the tipping point. It was her pain. So much fucking pain! I sobbed uncontrollably in that oak booth. I sobbed for the mother. I sobbed for the child who had lost his life. I sobbed for humanity. I sobbed for myself. Nobody could see me, but I didn't care if they did. I had nothing to hide. My life was broken. People mocking me for crying would be the least of my problems that day.
As I began to compose myself, the girl from behind the bar came over to see if everything was ok. As I wiped my wet face with my polo shirt, I gestured that I was heading to the bar to order another drink. She could obviously see my pain. With one hand she took the money I had gripped in my sweaty palm and with the other hand she pushed my shoulder to sit back down. She returned with my beer and laid my change on the table. It was the milk of human kindness that I sorely needed at that precise moment. I will never forget that gesture. I drained my drink to a bubble stained glass and got up and left.
Walking into the street, the sunlight was way too strong for me to take in my shaky state. Across the road from the pub was a phone box. I darted across and hid inside it. Inside that phone box I completely unravelled. I started crying uncontrollably. I cried for myself. I cried for the grieving mother in the newspaper. I cried for the dead son. I cried for my wasted life. I cried for my damaged head that had been wrecked by ecstasy tablets and copious amounts of alcohol and marijuana. I cried thinking about my dead end job. I cried for my ruined marriage. I cried for my wasted life. I
tried to compose myself but it was no use. The more I tried to stop, the more I cried. It was horrible. I was trapped in that fucking phone box. The smell of piss inside the phone box burned my nostrils. The pictures of slags on escort cards reminded me of the ugly society that I was trapped in. I dried my eyes and zipped up my Harrington jacket. I was wearing my blue one because I had to throw my black one away a few days before. It was too hot to have a jacket on, but I needed security. I headed back out amongst the animals.
Walking around the streets in a daze I made a strange connection. I thought of the classic video game 'Pac Man'. I realised that my modern day life in London was like being trapped a Pac Man video game, everyday being a new level. I was constantly rushing around a dark environment consuming things at fast pace and avoiding ghosts. Ghosts were like my enemies. People either chasing or being chased in my work environment or outside in my private life. I could hear the sound effects in my head:
CHOMP! CHOMP! CHOMP! CHOMP!
I walked for miles deep in thought. The night started to draw in and I unzipped my Harrington, so I could feel the cool night breeze. I was taking a trip down memory lane without realising it.
I walked all over north London by foot that evening, swigging from a small bottle of Captain Morgan. I walked through Oxford Street, through Kings Cross, down into Camden, along Belsize Park and onto Swiss Cottage. I walked all the way to Shoot up Hill and headed to a house. I hadn't been there in years, many years. Time had thundered on and I had forgotten the street, the house and all the memories it held. The house looked lifeless. It was empty.
Staring up at those cold black windows, I saw the past. I remembered my childhood. My best friend had lived there and I spent countless happy hours running around the garden in summer or playing Amiga computer games in winter. The nineteen eighties seemed a million years ago now. I missed the nineteen nineties. My hazy memories of those glorious decades fell into two categories: Bitter, angry resentment or blissful happy recollections.
Looking at the house, it made me feel warm to see it still looked the same. A red front door with frosted windows, a doorbell with a faded picture of a bird on it, the chips and marks on the bricks were just as I remembered them. I started to laugh as it occurred to me that my life had changed so much, but the house hadn't changed one bit!
For that brief moment I was happy. It all disappeared in a flash when I looked back up at the cold, black windows. The emptiness was horrible to witness as the house had been so full of life many moons ago. I could see slightly through the