my inner troll

Where does one find the time anymore?
It seems like lazy days have given way to hard graft.
Like painting and cleaning and tiling the floor.
In some ways I wish I could jump back a decade and just teleport.
Because, damn.
My mid-20s were easy as hell.
And moving up to London, after travels.
It didn’t take much to squeeze me out of my shell.
No real life troubles to speak of.
At least, that’s how it felt.
And yeah, I didn’t have much back then so I just tightened my belt.
But a decade down the line it feels like city life has taken its toll.
Yet I like to think new me has taken over old me by simply breaking the mould.
Yet old me stands on the bridge of progress.
And with stamina, I’ve loads left.
So I gotta start facing this troll.
Cos, let’s be honest.
Monsters grow larger if you let them just take control.
And mine seem to be where I fit in the world.
What’s my higher purpose?
Cos when I find it, I’ll need to give it strong foundations.
Reinforce it with iron girders.
And dip my mind in some fired furnace.
So it’s raw and hot like liquid steel.
But well worn.
Like an old coat with a vintage feel.
But to make my purpose reality I need to be unrelenting and dedicated.
I can’t lose my edge.
Like a fat cat no longer a hunter cos I’m now number and domesticated.
Which is leaving me at best, frustrated.
Am I ducking from destiny?
Can I not just face it?
Cos in my mind, I’ve got weapons to deploy like Castor Troy.
But first I gotta swap bodies and give myself a facelift.
Not hop from idea to idea.
Pretending like each one’s my favourite.
How do I best explain it?
You know how, each month, you would expect a wage slip?
Well imagine one day, you stopped being paid.
Cos it’s passion and purpose that now puts food on your plate.
So with my life path I should decide fast how I’m gonna go about choosing my fate.
I mean, I can’t just go around assuming I’m great.
Cos these flaws I have are not genetic.
I’m more apathetic.
And my lack of ambition is such a human mistake.
So if I don’t break this cycle I’ll just spin like vinyl.
And then I’ll end up losing this race.
Like an old cowboy past his prime.
Gun-toting and self-loathing.
At the bottom of a bottle and boozing for days.
But to be honest.
When I am actually old, what, for example, will I tell my grandson is my legacy?
Cos I’m done with these pleasantries.
Sod the rat race it lacks grace.
I’d rather be having fun with some weaponry.
Out in the woods somewhere, swinging a sword or throwing an axe.
But I know that’s just escapism.
And I refuse to play victim.
Blaming my lack of progress on the apparent failings of a lame system.
Cos my future isn’t preordained.
There’s nothing to be gained from how my name’s written.
So maybe I should just consider my old self Batman.
And to change, I need to snap back in a way that even Bane didn’t.
So yeah, what I’m saying is, I really need to acknowledge a new state to register as an apex predator.
Where I’m free from those soul-sucking sirens.
Aka WhatsApp and Facebook messenger.
Cos this nagging feeling I’ve got?
Well, it ain’t regular.
So emotionally, I’ve gotta remember to take my temperature.
Or I’ll be still be here in fifty years.
Just a sad and depressed lame type of pensioner.
Full of regret, all old and bitter.
Lamenting the fact I wasn’t colder, sicker.
And had slayed my trolls quicker like a bolder killer.
Cos all I had to do to make new me reality was to simply stand back, take stock and just hold a mirror.

Photo credit: chillier17 on deviantart.

Death

Death. What is death anyway?
If life is a journey from the cradle to the grave, where does it all end? How are we supposed to behave?
Religion has us all believing that we’re part of the plan, that if we stand up and help our fellow man we’ll be welcomed in, absolved of sin and born again.
There’s comfort in that I suppose. And for those of us that chose a different path, what then? Are we out on our arse? Straight to hell in a handcart?
Death frightens me I’ll admit it.
Whether heaven or hell await me I can’t say. For all I know my path is pre-ordained, like a stain on the carpet of life no matter the strife I endure I am constant until the end.
Do I have an arc? Am I supposed to learn something along the way?
Am I supposed to love, hate, work and pray?
Let’s say religion is for suckers but praying has a place, like meditation it takes us to a space where our minds can be free. Free to sing and dance and soar beyond ourselves, to transcend.
But this is only momentary, fleeting, short-lived. Like a damp squib our lives can be extinguished in the blink of an eye.
There’s nothing sadder than the moment after a party popper is released.
The climax has come and gone, all too sudden.
We cease.

Ps. Some of you may notice the feature image for this piece is Death, one of the endless, taken from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series. Neil worked with Terry Pratchett from time to time and they were friends. Terry died last month and this is my tribute to him. ‘Why not use Death from the Discworld series then?’, some of you may ask. Whilst he’s a great character he felt too masculine. I felt this piece needed a female Death, hence one of the endless.