15 49.0138 8.38624 none none 5000 1 fade http://www.smithsmagazine.co.uk 250 10

Goldsmiths' Official Student Magazine

Memoir by Sebastian Hardy

November 28, 2015
A memoir by Sebastian Hardy I woke at nine thirty today and decided to go swimming. I rolled over in bed and wanked. With cum on my stomach I decided I was going to buy a one way ticket to Whitstable, leave my phone behind, spend the night on the beach and – if I…

A memoir by Sebastian Hardy

I woke at nine thirty today and decided to go swimming. I rolled over in bed and wanked. With cum on my stomach I decided I was going to buy a one way ticket to Whitstable, leave my phone behind, spend the night on the beach and – if I was right about how I was feeling walk out into the sea the following morning. From the beach in Whitstable you can see an offshore wind-farm, I’ve always thought wind-farms elegant, something to swim towards before inevitably and finally dropping below the surface. I might leave my shoes behind with a note in each, one for my mother and one for whoever finds the shoes, giving directions on how to forward the other letter to my mother.

My bed creaked, the base of it made of two hollow wooden cuboids covered in semi-decorative fabric. The mattress sometimes lets out a pop, a threatening spring that might, if it decided to, impale me. I lay a little longer and decided that no, that it was all stupid. I get out of bed, wash my face, and look in the mirror that distorts it everyday with zealous imagination. I take a pill, the same ones I’ve been taking for nine months. I make coffee. All these thoughts, for what? Pettiness.

I’m waiting for an email, for a text, for a message, not just any one though- one from someone I want one from. I’m bored of myself, I have been for a while, and slowly you can’t help but transfer that boredom onto others. So they’re suffering too now- maybe. All the messages I haven’t replied to because I don’t want to. No- I’m wrong. I’m not bored of any of those people, I just don’t want to commit myself to anything, and with nothing to do I’ve sat here all day thinking. Thinking about what? Well- thinking about everything as far back as I can remember, which isn’t very far. Side-effect No. 1 of the pills: memory loss. I give up. Not on life, but on quitting the pills. Take two pills, then half an hour later, take another. Another half hour rolls by and so does another pill. Tolerance is a bitch. Oh, and I’m still checking emails in increments of time similar to the pill schedule.

At last my phone vibrates. I owe someone money. I can’t pay him back instead I just bulk ordered some more pills. Outside is terrifying. One more pill, a blissful chemical sleep. I have a very simple understanding of very complex rhythms. The rhythms of the everyday, the beats of reoccurring chance encounters, the snare drum fill when your heart seems weightless, the cymbal’s ring: a car crash. All counted out in 1-and-2-and-3-and-4… Then the rhythm stops. I see something shimmer beneath the chest of draws next to me, there always was that golden chain hung around your neck and you seemed to take its weight effortlessly. I dig it out and wonder if you stand up straighter now … and-1-and-2-and-3-and-4.

Today, as in the next today, I went swimming and thought about breathing. I thought about how to breath when swimming front crawl, timing is everything, and ask anyone I’ve slept with I’ve got none of it. Cardio, eat-well, feel better. I must be too lazy for endorphins. I don’t want a burial at sea. Tomorrow though, tomorrow is written out on the back of your hand and thank fuck you don’t have the hot water to wash it off with. But NO NO NO, I’m really MAD because I just swiped left on someone I thought I might have liked. But NO NO NO I’m really MAD because I know who left the kitchen filthy. But NO NO NO I’m really MAD because I’m really mad. But NO NO NO I’m really MAD because I’m mad. But no no no… If you don’t see it you shouldn’t clean it. ‘Let’s clear the air.’ And of course I agreed, but shouldn’t we have let the dust settle first? Oh, what’s the point, we met, drank and fucked. Now the air is clear but there are blood stains on my sheets- my blood don’t worry. Another drop, another cut, another graze, but I’m yet to pass beneath the paving slabs. I’ve been falling off something everyday, how hard do you have to hit the ground before you finally go under?

Wake again, fuck sake, it’s as if sleep has a purpose beyond unconsciousness. How many pills would it take to never wake again? I could be a tragedy. But I hate that shit.