We're back at school and I hate it. The last three days have been pure hell. The way the place feels; it's like a nightmare. I don't know anyone. To be more specific; all the people I knew have left. And the people that remain are strange and yellow and green and purple. I'm on a slow, lurching, nauseating coachload of teeny-tiny wankers and Horizon FM is pounding its way into my skull. I shouldn't be here. It's like I've died but my body doesn't know it. Maybe that's a bit melodramatic. But that same feeling, toned down a bit. I should be elsewhere.

I have recently taken to punching myself in the head. It feels good. If I start to think about things I don't want to think about or if I'm feeling low or if I'm bored. Clench my right hand into a tight palm-cutting stone and pound my brain. I punch and punch for several minutes and it's extremely refreshing. Like brainchill from ice.

I just read a play called The Homecoming by Harold Pinter. And a book called Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. In both these books the characters draw you inside their head so that I'm screaming to get out but making no sound. They do nothing. A whole play or book happens and the characters do NOTHING. Events may happen; people die or live or whatever. But, in both, the world is frozen and nothing happens. Which is how things feel now.
    Revelation is not an end; merely a beginning. Something I thought I had realised. Something which has recently been savagely hammered home. I thought I was making progress; changing how I was and what I was and how I lived my life. But I haven't. Everything's going back to the way it was. People are dissipating. Things are spreading out. Everything's going back to exactly the way it was.

I sat upstairs in Rotherfield a few hours ago and people were talking about things I had absolutely no knowledge of or interest in. I shouldn't be here.

People are drifting away. The people I can talk to are leaving.
    NYPD Blue is a very good drama series on television at the moment. Channel 4, Thursdays. Usually 10pm, though 10:30 next week I think because of the dire Big Brother. The drama is good. The camerawork; highly stylised but very enjoyable. The acting; first rate. But the characters? You never connect. I've only been watching for one series now. But in all that time I haven't once felt like these were people I could feel comfortable with. They're too real. Whenever you think you've got someone sussed out in your head, they do something to change your opinion. It's too real. Which is both the draw and shortcoming of the show.
    I may keep watching because the stories are interesting. But the people suck.

I had a dream in which I could think music as it was performed. And then I woke up in the dream and couldn't anymore.

I had a dream in which a three-legged black-red spiky-shape danced beautifully in the far distance. It moved like music.

I had a dream in which I danced and felt amazing and then was stopped and lost it and woke up (for real) with a sinking feeling in my stomach and tears in my eyes.

There was more to that last one. So much more. Typing about it now my eyes are watering and the sense of loss is greater than ever.

It's pathetic; getting upset about a world that never existed anywhere but in my head. Crying for people that were nothing more than figments of my imagination. Feeling despair over never being able to return there.

It's nearly a year (323 days) since I found out I was going blind. And to everyone else it's forgotten. Or at least pushed to the background. Something that won't happen for years and even when it does I probably won't know him so it doesn't matter. But it still matters to me. It's in my head nearly all the time. The only way I can get it out is when I'm asleep. Or when the music's loud. Or when I'm building a website. Work (school) doesn't do it. Counselling hasn't helped. It's in my head all the time and the only way I can drive it out is by ignoring it. And I don't want to ignore it because it's eating me up and I'm losing control. I've become more and more silent over the summer. I can't talk about it. I can't let myself think about it. And I want everyone to think it's sorted because then they won't worry.
    The other day my dad asked me how my day at school had been. So for a change I decided to tell him. Every day since I've gone to school he's asked me. And every day I've said "fine". So I told him it was horrible. And when I told him why he simply dismissed my reasons and told me to sort it out. So it's back to saying all's fine. Someone else asked me how I was when I was waiting for my bus. Someone who didn't care. So I said "fine".
    Why write this? I've lost (if I ever even had) contact with all but a few of you. And that's going. Fading fast. I get alliterative when I'm upset.

Knowing what we know is not nice. To illustrate; I feel terrible. Were I of normal intelligence I would think that I was the first to feel this way; that what I feel and think are new and unique experiences; that my political beliefs are revolutionary and that were people to do what I say all could be well. But I know better. I know that me feeling terrible is no doubt the result of nothing more than hormones messing with my head. That I should simply get on with my life because the only one who cares, when I think in on myself, is me. So if I was simply that intelligent all would be well also. I'd know that what I thought was not unique; that millions of others felt the same. But no, I'm smarter yet. I also know that lots of other people have realised what I have realised. That we all know that what we feel is nothing more than the result of hormones fucking with us. That all we think is real doesn't matter to anyone but us. That this has all been thought of, agonised over, dealt with and buried, millions of times before we were even born. A whole planet of people feeling the same things over and over again. Going through the same motions, one after the other, like puppets on strings. Or, far more potent imagery, with puppeteers' hands up our arses. Nothing we do matters beyond ourself.
    Different people have dealt with this in different ways. Some have killed themselves. Some have simply got on with their lives; if all that matters is their own feelings then they may as well continue the charade. Others have tried to fight it; lead noble or 'different' or completely fucked-up lives. All face the same problem; millions have already done exactly the same thing already. Nothing is new. Nothing can be changed. Everything that's going to happen has already happened, long ago.
    These are immature ramblings. No doubt you have all realised these things long ago and have decided to deal with it in your own varied ways. Indulge me. Whilst I know that millions before and after me have realised and will realise this, I haven't read of it anywhere else. But then, I'm not that widely read. If you have read of this elsewhere, or if you've found any other solutions to the ones listed above, please let me know. At the moment I'm coasting. I turn the music up, punch myself in the head some more, and try to forget.

For fear of leaving you thinking, "this Caleb, he's really deep, man!" I'll spread a bit more of myself thin like marmite ('cos thick is foul). I was talking to a girl (I can't even remember her name [show's how fucking deep I am. I think it began with a K but I could be wrong]) and all I was thinking was what it would be like to kiss her. So natch. I'm nought more than a male chauvinist pig. Will I die my hair blonde and take to smoking cigars? Probably not. But I sure as hell won't be inflicting myself (for real) on most of you in the near future.

It's depressing to know that everything you think has already been thought by someone else. Or will be. You're not unique. You may be different from most everyone else out there. But you're not unique.

That last paragraph would have been a good place to end. But first I'm going to go in for some hypothetical situations:

1) Gareth is a wanker. A complete and utter bastard. A self-serving promiscuous reprobate.

2) A whole bunch of you have been making me extremely angry at you by rabbiting on about skateboards and music and shit I couldn't care less about for far too much of the time.

3) I'm typing all this to get rid of you all. I don't / can't simply walk away. So I'll drive you all (at least those of you with Internet access) away instead. That way I can feel all sorry for myself; you all left me.

4) All of this is complete bollocks. I'm just an egotistical, nihilistic, self-serving bastard who writes this shite because he thinks it will make you all think of him as deep. Someone who doesn't believe a word of what he has written over the last 33 weeklies. Who has manipulated you all and lied about everything. Who's perfectly adjusted to what's happening to him. Who has dealt with going blind by deciding to make you all feel sorry for him with his "oh, I'm so lovely, please love me" ramblings in pathetic "rants" about subjects no-one gives a rat's arse about because they've all felt them already and me writing them only brings up unpleasant memories. A lying, scheming, pathetic waste of space. A man completely obsessed with films and books and comics and music and making websites because they drive out conscious thought. A man who knows what he's saying when he describes his mind as broken. A man who walks around his house at 2 in the morning muttering under his breath that he's "got to kill them all, yes, kill them all". Not to gain attention; no-one's around. Simply because he does. Maybe he believes it. he can't remember anymore. "kill them all" has lost its meaning. He simply says it like a parrot repeats what it hears. Except he hasn't heard it anywhere. He just wants to. A man who's taken to punching walls for minutes on end because he wants to mush his hand up good but always stops before it gets too bad because he's too fucking scared to go through with it. A man who stood in his kitchen, unloading the dishwasher, holding a sharp sharp knife in his hands about to cut his eyes out and only stopped because the door opened.

But don't worry. They were all just hypothetical ^_^.

To return to what I'm good at. That song in Dogma; the one which Salma Hayek's character (Serendipity) dances to. I thought it was the Jackson Five. It wasn't. It was a band called New Edition with a song called Candy Girl. Whether New Edition had anything to do with the Jackson Five I have no idea. Just thought I'd clear that up for all those of you have absolutely no recollection of me saying I liked the song and saying I thought it was by the Jackson Five.

I scrolled up and read that bit about the dream that made me feel so bad. The one where I danced. It fucking destroys me. Dreams MUST be real. I can't believe that such a beautiful person could be destroyed and I can't go back and make it better. That I made a world and then destroyed it. I don't want to believe that.

When I was about ten years old I was sitting in the extension. The sky was grey and I was watching a white towel on the washing line. I imagined a wasp or bee flying into the towel. Then I was inside the atoms of the towel. I didn't know the word then, but that's what they were. Then I was inside of what was inside of them. And there were worlds in there. In every atom there were universes and in those, worlds. We were in an atom. And in those worlds in the atoms were other worlds with atoms in towels with more worlds in them.

That's what I want dreams to be; worlds within worlds. Maybe worlds we can only enter when we sleep. But worlds that exist for real. Not just figments of my imagination. Not places I shouldn't live. Places I could live.

If I could only work out how.

I have been told I talk too much in these weeklies.

I concur.