Graveyard Masturbation

The sounds coming through the door are amplified by my desperation to not hear them, and my sickening desire to listen out for them. Every moan, and every gasp, echoes around my ears, as their gentle conversing rumbles like thunder through my head.

I had to get away. I was beginning to shake. My whole body was going the way of my mind. I needed to find a place that would allow me a feeling of content, a place that would free me of this torment. I fumble with my keys, as the laughter from behind that room strikes out at me. I tear open the front door and run out along the passageway, and then down the seven floors of stairs – trembling from the pain.

My right leg was shaking so much, I could barely control the clutch, as I revved my way up the drive. Turning up my car’s stereo, I try to drown out everything behind me. I want to escape this place, to a world where everything is alone, and the bombardment of ideas that things can be otherwise do not exist. I am speeding, I always speed, it’s part of the joy of driving. But tonight is different, I don’t see what is happening around me, the lights of the night all blur into a long line. I cannot let myself see pairs, and the cars and streets are littered with them, so I have to lose myself in an illusion.

Everything is suddenly dark, and I find myself looking out over the sea. Is this the place? I pull over, the dark sea swirling below. I want to run out of the car, and down to the water, but the double shadows that appear turn me off. I look to my right, and there’s another couple groping each other in a forbidden act of passion. This is not the place. This is no place for me.

Back on the road, I’m not thinking of killing myself, but still find myself driving to a suicide favourite. I walk to the gap, knowing full well that it isn’t going to happen, but still letting myself believe that it might. Everything is alone here. On the one side the dark cliffs beckon my life, and on the other, the distant lights of the city dance a picture of the fake happiness it represents. I climb over the barriers, and peer over the edge. The waves breaking below are inviting me. But I had not come with any intention, and now I was only letting my imagination visualise my desires. The fear I conjure up is enough to banish all prior feelings. I stand up, and run back to the car. I found my place of loneliness, and wanted to be far away from it.

I was afraid. There are people walking past my car. I don’t want to be near them. “Get away!” I scream, and bolt for door, and am speeding again. This time it is a graveyard. It is so typical to retreat to a place that is a clichéd depiction of the darkness, and craziness I was feeling. But I didn’t care, I just wanted to find a place to be. I wanted to exist without the desperation. I had already worked out that de-existing was not going to happen this night. Weaving my way between the graves, and somehow not allowing myself to tread on them, I slowly relax. When I get towards the centre and as the lights of the surrounding houses disappear, I find a spot. I sit down, resting against Ingrid Young’s 1946 memorial.

I am all alone, and this time fearless. I am at the centre of a crowd and yet feel accepted. Everyone else is dead. They all have seen the realty of what life comes down to, and don’t have the need to judge. In their ignoration they are acknowledging who I am. They are alone too, there is no partnership in death. Their sadness is their happiness, and their life is their death. For a few glorious moments I feel special. For a change, I do not feel like the different freak that I am. I forget everything I have been through tonight, and start to strip. I am lying on the ground, next to my newfound friend’s grave, playing with myself.

Is this what my sordid search for a form of liveable contentment has come down to? Masturbating in the middle of a fucking graveyard! Is this really where it is at?

Twenty-four hours later I find myself at a party. I am drunk enough to lose myself in the fact that I am really here. People are talking to me, their words mean nothing, it’s just what gets said. To them I am normal, I am not weird. These people are fooled. What is wrong with this place? Do they not know what I am? Can the not see what I do. Do they have to blind themselves from the truth? It’s magical, this happiness I cannot feel.

The next afternoon I walk along the beach, I feel the eyes staring at me. Sniggering to their friends and covering their children’s eyes, they make me feel the person I am once again. I am once again being seen, even if it is in itself another mask. I’m all fucked up inside, but no one can ever see that, so I have to fuck up the rest in my insatiable cry for help.