A very vague novel idea. Here are some openings, although they all work well together as one. I like verse III the most. A novel that is like a contemporary American work, painfully real but very poetic in its awfulness. Reveals the misery of the mundane, the desperation of the every day. Finds romanticism within the ordinary. Something magical will happen to this otherwise average character – but the world will never lose its grittiness. No frills, in spite of it.
Up until now, any money I’ve had, I pissed it away. I don’t fucking know where any of it went. I imagine myself chucking a lit match onto a pile of cash. Sometimes it makes me feel sick; other times, I rejoice in the cleanliness of having nothing, and wish perhaps that I had even less, less and less to lose. The shame of privilege always kicks in.
I am disenchanted with my life. My father compares me to every other person my age, and older, and younger, but always more successful. They are more hardworking than I am, I must be lacking, all of my fucking money is gone. And I am a brainless imp beneath the manager, who spends her 8-hour shift writing up the staff rota for a soulless suburban high street store.
It is good to be ragged and pained. It is worth it. You might then learn something. From disease and dust, from the grime and gore. There rises the man. Not from the sand nor ocean, not sun, nor hope nor glee. The man, the woman, the beast arises, from the grimness, gutter, blood and rot; crime and anger, deception, foulness, fear and lust. There it grows, there it blossoms, flowers in the rancid muck.
Prose and featured image by Y.L.H.