Life is a sine wave. There are dips and troughs, with varying amplitude and frequency, but the graph is essentially the same. Up and down.
No matter how happy I am, I always get a nagging feeling; the stuff of nightmares really, that little itch – the light rat-like scratching in the dead of night which invariably turns out to be a monster intent on consuming you whole, balls an’ all.
When things are going right, and all is sunshine and fucking peaches, I always worry and wonder when it’s going to come crashing down in a heap of wasted plans and broken promises.
And then it comes – a stroke of luck so bad, so malicious as to look pre-planned, like some entity has been watching and waiting for the right moment to stick a pin in my doll. And I know, right then, that it begins. The time of plenty is over.
Then I look around at what I’ve broken, or whom I’ve lost, and I brace myself, because I realise the time has come. With every great disappointment comes another, and the one thing I can count on is that the dam has, once again, broken.
And whether it’s of my own doing or not, I can’t help feeling that great pain, like great happiness, is an unavoidable bottle-store pit-stop on this great dust-swirling piece-of-shit pothole-covered suspension-breaking tyre-swallowing road called life.
So now I know I’m fucked. And the hits just keep on coming.