Tuesday, 28 February 2017
It has been said that a man dies twice. Once, when his heart stops beating, and the second time, when his name is mentioned for the very last time.
It was that final point which obsessed him, especially now – when he thought of what he was going to face. The plain, raw, truth of it all.
The only anti-dote he had for his problems was sleep, and that had served him well. His father used to look life-tired and then he would mumble: ‘sleep it is a blessed thing’. He didn’t know where his father had taken the quote from, but he was right – it was the panacea for all ills.
In his sleep, he could dream and be who or whatever he chose. That was where most of his writing ideas had been born – all in the middle of his sleeping imagination. Some days he would awake with a full story formed in his head, and it was those stories that he would live on – for in there was the real him. All those stories contained some sliver of his DNA. That is what he should be remembered for – not on what he had said.
Writing took time - spoken words were cheap.
But it had been his spoken word that had placed him in the situation he was now in. One didn’t criticize the State and hope to live to tell the tale.
Yet he would forget all of that when he was asleep. And when he would wake up, he’d hide in those precious first few seconds: ‘the perfect seconds’, he called them – when his brain was still in the half-light of sleep, and he could not remember how the world really was.
It was soon broken by that grinding thought – that one which reminded you of who had died, or who was ill, or who you owed money to – the thought that delivered all the problems in your life in one sickening blow. That was when the world would shake you awake – but for those few golden seconds when a human being first becomes conscious in the morning, those seconds were the very, very best. You remembered nothing of your existence. A little piece of paradise before being tainted by the shadows.
The man was now fully awake and those precious, perfect seconds were long gone. He could distinctly hear the crackling in the background as they powered up the electric chair.
There was a thump as they threw the switch to test the beast. It quietly hummed a little tune.
As he looked up at the damp roof, he knew that sleep would be his soon – for eternity.
bobby stevenson 2017
Thursday, 16 February 2017
There is no strength in being a bully,
For they all huddle together, learning
Nothing about the hardening of the skin,
You found that out about them later,
When their weaknesses were eating them from the inside out.
You came from a place where bullies were made,
It wasn’t the kids – not them,
But their mothers and fathers,
Who taught them how to hate,
Working class people who moved one step too high,
And were always scared of being found out,
The problem was you believed them,
Believed the names they called you,
Believed the venom,
And then you moved away and saw them
With wide and clearer eyes -
It was then that you realised they came from nothing,
And would soon return back there,
And in their fall, your victory.
bobby stevenson 2017