Creative writing 2
Yesterday with a nicotine addled brain, I sat on an amusement park horse ride. The merry-go round motion and my doped up brain, made me sick and want to throw up. Having been ejected from the ride, by the politely angered mothers, I wandered on the park grounds, still not able to walk straight. Nicotine was truly a strong master. I vowed then and there never to touch another cigarette, after I complete the one I held in my hand. Night had fallen and the many coloured lights and the whirling dervishes’ of swirling colour and sound of an amusement park, created a psychedelic show for me. Knowing that no one knew me here, I cared not what I knew. I staggered, I smiled, I laughed and I cursed. Then when flanked by the wheel of time with screaming children on one side and the stream of pain which bore lovers ensconced in each others arms I looked up at the sky and saw a blue moon. A blue moon, how many days had I spent searching for it; how many eons had I spent in its quest, how many untold lives have I lived to get one glimpse and finally it appears when I have lost my senses, a fugitive from life. I reach for it, but the nicotine laughs and pushes me down; the only thing I have left, my body is now no longer mine. What use a body that rebels against you, what use a mind that enslaves you, what use a will that has no discipline; caged in this gilded prison with the blue moon achingly out of reach, and life tauntingly within, I do the only thing which comes easy, I run. My empire might be in ruins and my enemy my master, but I will no longer dance for them. After all I am my nemesis, so how can my villain exist without me. I call out to my rag-tag army, which comes but reluctantly and walk to the river nearby. Standing on the dark river-bank, with the sounds of life behind me and the silent darkness before, I marshal my puny army and walk into the unknown. My enemy, realising its imminent doom, recoils with horror from my steps. My voice, no longer my own shrieks and sputters, but the dark river accepts me. It knows me, as the child, who sailed paper boats, as the teenager who flipped stones on it, as the adult who won his battles only to lose the war and it welcomes me into her cold embrace.


