Are you happy?

Crush, Mix, Burn, Repeat.

This post is entirely subjective.

So, life has been pretty shit recently. Being sacked from possibly, the best job I’ve ever had, was only the beginning. I went to someone I consider to be my closest friend, only to learn that I am a crazed stalker that should have known when that bridge burnt to fucking ash years ago, instead of clinging to the charred remains and riding them out to sea. Following that blow to my mental state, I thought that possibly another job could save me from my insanity. I was offered a job in Scunthorpe, a shit tip that is only a stones throw away from my poor, undeserving victim.
Sorry, “friend”. 

Obviously, I took the job, because I am now an unemployed maniac. How could I possibly fund this life of unhealthy obsessions otherwise? 
Now, I arrived on the job with high hopes. It was not long before these hopes were crushed into oblivion.
My expectations of working twelve hour days were far from realised when I plummeted head first into eighteen hours of flames, filth, dust and darkness. Imagine hell, but realised on earth.
Now, I am all for a little crawling around in shit and swallowing mouth fulls of hydraulic oil, but this is fairly unrelenting and consistently depressing, even for someone with as low expectations as myself. 

But wait! there is more. 
Another close partner, got so utterly sick of my whining and moaning that she decided the only humane thing to do was to stab me in the heart with a perfectly forged blade of irony and emotion.
Now, I must admit, that I placed a good number of words in her mouth and may be exaggerating a great deal. But I am a melodramatic cunt and this post is supposed to make you, dear reader, feel overwhelming sympathy for me.

Strangely, during this troubled time, I have quickly and inexplicably formed a close bond with a young woman that seems to exist only in my mind.
She would no doubt like argue that she is very much real and I am not hallucinating, but I know differently. I’ve conjured ghosts and relationships from nothing but loneliness and desperation on an impressively regular basis. Nothing quite so convincing before, I confess, but I have an intensely vivid imagination when it comes to beautiful, emotionally scarred females. 
My new lady of “high status” can read me like a badly written comedy and exposes the horrific tragedy that lurks beneath the surface with ease. She too, knows madness; Telling me what my brain already knows but in such a gentle, calming manner that I can’t help but feel a weight lifted from my heavy soul. 
I swallow my medication and chase it down with an ill advised shot or two of Poland’s finest vodka. She exposes her naked flesh and makes love to me with words. Together we pen passion, desire, lust and love in the purest form known to nature. 
I climax with a sensation that is almost enough to revive my long dead belief in heaven. If love exists, I will fall for its Goddess.
Venice, Venus, Veneration.

Not alone

Laid out on my bed, with my eyes fixed on the dimly lit display of my alarm clock.

Fifty six.
I try to count the seconds as they pass, waiting for the digital display to illuminate the next minute of my life.

Fifty three seconds in this minute, too slow.
There is a faint crackle and buzz over the near silent music of Alkaline Trio as they spin on my record player. The volume is low, but I know every lyric.

Forty seven this time.
Voices whisper to each other from under the bed. I keep counting.

Forty. I’m losing life faster than the planet can spin on its axis; Faster than the speed than this lonely planet drifting through space should allow. 
My mind is traveling the globe, picturing delicate flesh stretched over fragile bones.

Thirty five.
She sits on a balcony in the cool evening sun, cigarette in hand. Smoke swirls from between beautiful lips and climbs into the sky.

Thirty two. It must be broken.
I see cloudy water shimmer over naked skin. Dark eyes, gaze up at an empty ceiling.

Twenty?
She kneels beside a comfortable sofa, clutching a pillow. A cardigan is loosely draped over her low slung shoulders. Hair damp and dripping, she bites her tongue and holds in the chaos.

Sixteen. My eyes are sore from not blinking. Where does the time go?
A ghost beams a grin and lets his tongue glide along the upper teeth of his twisted smile. He tells me that you don’t exist.

Eight.
None of this does. There isn’t a single soul like me. I am broken and dreaming.

Three.
I’m sitting beside a barred window, drooling onto the knitted blanket in my lap. Specks of dust cling to my strained, dry eyeballs.

One.
Each minute is colossally short.
The time is passing, I am getting older, and yet everything stays the same.

Will this ever end?

My heart is fluttering within my chest.
My mind is silent and my soul is spinning and dancing in the morning light that streams through my window.
What is this feeling? 

Tove Lo - Stay High (Habits Remix) ft. Hippie Sabotage

Confession

Hello, my name is Philip Ince.
I recently learned that I have spent the past six or so years as a stalker.

Please stay away from me.
Don’t trust anything I say or have written over the course of this blog.
I have an illness and I am not proud of the person I’ve become.

My mind is warped and my emotions are beyond my control.
I try to justify and rationalise my extremely invasive and outright despicable actions.
There is no excuse for my behaviour.

I have troubled thoughts and twisted views of the world around me.
If you could glimpse the inner workings of my head, you would be horrified.
I have conjured fictional people and inserted them into the story of my life. I have fabricated webs of lies that I tell to both myself, and anyone who has ever known me.

I am a liar.
Chances are, if you have been unfortunate enough to meet me, then I have lied to you.

I am not a good person, not in any way, shape or form.
There are times when I have seriously considered causing horrific bodily harm to innocent individuals and even fantasised about murder.
I manipulate people and play on their emotions to suit my whims.

I take medication that honestly does very little for me, other than ease the headaches that accompany my psychosis.
If I didn’t lie to the therapists that have been attempting to work with me over the past few years, then I would most likely have been committed.
I really honestly think that I ought to be.
I believe that I am a real danger to myself and others.
Please avoid me at any cost.
You do not know me and you should not try to sympathise with me.

This is the most honest description of myself that I have ever presented, and that I am ever likely to.

You have been warned.

Lost luggage

Does anyone actually read my miserable scraps of self loathing?
Does anyone really care? 

I think I am disappearing. Becoming a ghost, like him. 

For a few days I’ve been thinking about writing a post. I’ve been working in Italy for roughly two weeks and it has been fantastic. I’m not far from Venice and the work is incredibly inspiring and interesting. Although I am still myself here, I feel much more comfortable and at ease during the day. It has been great to be working somewhere I love again.
Hell, it’s just great to be working again.

Today however, I received my notice and was sacked.
I’ve never been sacked before in my life.
I take my work seriously and I work damn hard.
My head is buzzing with voices, my chest is tight and my breathing is shallow and painful.
I can feel my stomach churning with rage, my heart is shriveled and black, tainted by anger and hatred.

My life suddenly feels inadequate, I need purpose. I need money. I need a reason to continue.
What should I do with myself now?
I had goals, dreams…
Now all I have is in ruins.
Lost causes and shattered dreams.

I will be returning home tomorrow, a failure, a broken man.

They say that the past is just a thought we tell ourselves
Well the future is pipe dream we all work towards, only to be disappointed and stepped on along the way.
The only future that is certain is the inevitable end.
My life will come to an end. So will yours.

We will be kicked and broken, laughed at and humiliated. I am sick of always losing out. Sick of building myself up time after time, just to be torn down again.

Tonight I drank. 
More than I have in a long time. 
Please forgive me. 
I only want to forget my pain and sorrow. I want to be numb, if only for tonight. This suffering is unbearable. 

Please grant me silence, grant me peace, grant me empty mind and a deep sleep. 
I am sorry for failing you. 

I hate it when you use him against me. 
My heart sinks and my guts become twisted up. I want to drown myself in alcohol at the thought of the pain that he caused. 
I was alone for far too long. Maybe he wasn’t real. 
It certainly feels real when you twist that knife in my side.

So you want to join him?
You want to abandon me as well? 

Death is not an easy way out. Death is anything but easy. 

"Family photos depict smiling faces… births, weddings, holidays, children’s birthday parties. People take pictures of the happy moments in their lives. Someone looking through our photo album would conclude that we had led a joyous, leisurely existence free of tragedy. No one ever takes a photograph of something they want to forget." -Sy Parrish
One Hour Photo- Mark Romanek

"Family photos depict smiling faces… births, weddings, holidays, children’s birthday parties. People take pictures of the happy moments in their lives. Someone looking through our photo album would conclude that we had led a joyous, leisurely existence free of tragedy. No one ever takes a photograph of something they want to forget."
-Sy Parrish

One Hour Photo- Mark Romanek

Hooverphonic

—2Wicky

2Wicky- Hooverphonic