At The Devils Feet - Sunday 10/04/11

Henry David Thoreau's Walden is rapidly becoming my bible and creed. If I were a believer in re-incarnation, I would swear that this man was myself in a previous existence. Although he was obviously more disciplined, not having impregnated a girl at the age of 17. I envy his freedom and fear the loneliness of the life he describes. Whilst I could abandon my now second time pregnant partner and young daughter as could any truly free being, I live in terror of my conscience. I am petrified of myself even if I follow what I know to be my life's true course and calling. My battle at this moment in time is to fight that calling with every fibre of my being until the day I can act upon it without regret. I know this to be pure folly. A foolish idea that will inevitably find me prostrate at the Devil's feet begging for another chance to live my life how I want to live it. I am aware I have always felt trapped and emotionally blackmailed into servitude of my 'lover' and it is my own moral code that binds my being and soul to her and my daughter. My daughter who has become a dear friend to me compounding my heartache further still. In the past, I once attempted suicide in the belief it would grant me the release I crave. I know now that the answer lies not in the darkness, but here in the light of this life, presently just out of reach.
Thoreau's work has become to me, akin to a pornographic magazine. Naughty. Taboo. Forbidden. I can only read a small portion at a time before my lust and envy grow too strong to bear. I flirt with the dream, then reason with my poor heart and convince my disturbed mind that what is portrayed within this books covers will never be mine.
It is in moments of bitter confusion like this that I pine for a cigarette. Could it be I enter a 'Self Destruct' mode? If that which I desire can never be mine then what point is there to this miserable existence?
If I were my own counsel I would advise myself to burn the book and never dare read another page. Ugly filth such as tobacco and nicotine are easy to live without, beautiful literature is not.

M Jones