The Safe Place

The Prelude

The lyrics of sagacious journeymen are ardently woven into the framework of our adolescent society. The tablets of humankind are the cornerstones of falsehood, but few have recognised their illegitimacy. Example; God created man in his own image; falsehood. The adoration of one above all, the idolisation of a creator is futile. This maker is unattainable, a formless satire of itself straddling the periphery of the collective mind. Its omnipresence is but the drunken dreams of the debauched, the criminally insane. The existence of a creator is unquestionable. It is but a comatose patient, catatonic, without edges and indistinguishable. The truths of religious prophecy are scarred by relativity; by the incestuous merging of lyrical ballads; of folk, of militia, of Kings. In truth, the power of being, the evolution of the protected was conceived by the source; the amoral and dispassionate deity justly unappreciated and wholly unknown by the frequent child.

The Attic Room

It never did occur to me that a democracy might fail. Nor did it that politicians could spoil so rapidly. I do wonder what the expiration date is on a representative of the collective. I suppose it’d be soon after a successful election. I would imagine I would have looked rather small to a casual onlooker. I was huddled in the corner of the attic of my rented two-bed semi, beneath a not so typical heap of crap. My eyes stuck with soft focus upon the shifting depths of the cracks in the crudely finished oak floor. It was a dilemma of colossal magni-fuckin’-tude. In those closing moments, daylight walked over the heath, hand-in-hand with my principles on one side, and my dying ambition on the other.

The room was damp. I could feel it beneath me, slowly moistening my Phthalo green woollen trousers. Only a fanatical fool could deny that all problems obstructing men from sensible co-ordination root from the allure of a beautiful woman. The walls had disappeared beneath the clutter. The only light came from a circular pale window. Its transparency had been smeared by the settling of dust and the growth of mould. I grew weary, tired of the run of the mill Sunday routine. Frustration set in at the thought of 24 hour news. The attic is a safe place of which there are only three; the group, the attic, as mentioned already and of course my Clarissa.

As I sat in almost total isolation, I felt overcome by the strength of entities interacting with my feeble senses. I’d never quite smelt or tasted air like I did in that moment. Perhaps it was the circumstances, perhaps because I hadn’t smoked in three hours. Whatever it was, the lingering scent of rot dragged me toward the floor. I moved my aching fingers over the rough wood, reached underneath the tired and bloated cabinets. I was stretched out on the attic floor; playing starfish. I recoiled from my pose and sat upright staring at the variety of wasted possessions that saturated the attic room. I was sure that they acted as tomb stones for many a dead creature. I was comforted by their new use.