It fails, it slips, it rolls away. Memories and thoughts peeling away like layers from an onion. Pickled too, it seems, more numb. Names and faces were the first to go, falling away along with my teeth and jowls. All I seem to have now are metaphors as I enter the haze of old age. It's like my brain is daily turning to sand that exits through my nose and ears, slowly turning my home and garden, into a lifeless desert.
The world is becoming more and more blank, whole chunks of chapters of my life erased from the book I've been compiling since birth. Nothing quite fits together anymore. I'm not sure why I was in Blackpool in 1964, for instance, or what the hospital was like in '76, or where it was even. I just know tidbits, islands that were once a complete country.
I used to get angry when something escaped me. Little facts, normally, like who wrote Gormenghast or painted that odd looking Odalisque woman. But sometimes those names and faces. I would have a little fit and get mad at myself for not being able to recall something that was there somewhere. Now I just smile and accept it. What else can I do? I can't fix the grey mush in my skull. The only choice available is to smile patiently and carry on because I'm already doomed to follow this gloomy path that I can see will only get gloomier.
Something about attendance, maybe?
The world is becoming more and more blank, whole chunks of chapters of my life erased from the book I've been compiling since birth. Nothing quite fits together anymore. I'm not sure why I was in Blackpool in 1964, for instance, or what the hospital was like in '76, or where it was even. I just know tidbits, islands that were once a complete country.
I used to get angry when something escaped me. Little facts, normally, like who wrote Gormenghast or painted that odd looking Odalisque woman. But sometimes those names and faces. I would have a little fit and get mad at myself for not being able to recall something that was there somewhere. Now I just smile and accept it. What else can I do? I can't fix the grey mush in my skull. The only choice available is to smile patiently and carry on because I'm already doomed to follow this gloomy path that I can see will only get gloomier.
Something about attendance, maybe?
Note: The title quote appears at the end of the Manic Street Preachers track, PCP and was taken from the film, The Dresser. There is also a reference to the Manic Street Preacher's track, Pretension/Repulsion.
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