I sit in the dark pub playing house music, on my phone getting laugh reacts in group chats. Drinking kingfishers and eating prawns. I walk home drunk, poetically sexting beautiful women from home. Listening to Watermelon on easter hay by frank Zappa, knowing my emotions are passing cars and I think God is everywhere, and he doesn’t much care for worshipping, maybe he is Australian.
"I was trying to work out his motive. Did he want to fuck me? Did he want to kill me? Everything he said was leading towards something, but I didn’t know enough to work out what."
Yes, I was here looking for GOD, and I wasn’t going to find him at the bottom of a Kingfisher. I had a troublesome thought. This trip will change me, sure. But what if for the worse? What if I get home and the life I used to play in was now completely unbearable. Expensive and entitled people. Restaurants not having 11 people waiting for your eye contact. You see, what if I get home and I don’t have that privilege. Here I am rich, in money and sometimes spirit. At home I am broke, in money and sometimes spirit.
I had been played, played a fool by a K9 whore, like those silly cucks at the strip clubs. I was smart enough to have my guard up against them but never have I seen a dog of the night; so suave and charismatic, to fool me into giving him my soul.
As I sang the crowds surged towards me. My fingers had their own existence. My wrist was a passage from above and my voice made the Arabic Sea feel small.
I sat on the couch alone; in the house I bought with my supposed soul mate and watched the panic of presence reach me until I had to move, walk anywhere, take your clothes off and sit beneath the cold water and scream, smash the photo frame against the bedhead. Every item in the house told a sad story.