The Culture of Anaesthesia

Forget my beloved childhood. 

Forget those years fighting pirates and savings damsels up the tree, those evenings trawling bouncy castles and the twilights racing through the streets. 

Forget that first sip of alcohol, that sting that tore across your tongue. 

Forget that first kiss out beneath the stars, those soft, beautiful lips pressed gently against your own. 

Forget that feeling of being loved, of being held and being wanted, of being heard and yearned for as if you were the only light across the sky.

Forget the warm hug of my fathers embrace twelve years after coming home. Forget my mothers home-cooked pies, those rainy nights spent lying by her side with her warmth cushioning me against all the hatred in the world.

Forget that deep-seated anger curdling at the back of my tongue. Forget my intense agony, my hatred, my woefulness as I watched my peers climb the ladder rungs above me.

Forget my screaming, my shouting, my scarring and my pleading. Forget my howls and my welps, my shallowed body shivering against the bedroom wall.

Forget the concern raised inside those voices, that care and compassion. 

Forget all that. 

Hand me my cigarette and my beer. My television, my food, my music, my laptop. I do not want to suffer. I do not want to feel. I do not want to breathe. I do not want to live.