Baudelaire

Time for a bit of the old depression I think...potential jumpers should probably skip this.

I’ve been battling the wind from Grenada to Barbados and  I’m still not halfway.. Ocean all around me and underneath. I’ll be glad to see Speightstown. This isn’t your ordinary Caribbean cruise you know. No three meals  a day and a dip in the pool with a bunch of horny divorcees for me. I’m working.

Ever read much Baudelaire? Don’t. It’s not good for you. He knew all about Le Gouffre as it’s called in French. It’s a place that doesn’t exist. That’s the point. You wake up in the night and there it is. The pit. It isn’t even a place. More like a state of mind. Or no mind. Nothing. Once you go over the edge that’s it. You never come back. An endless drop. Having money doesn't help.

Windows show me infinity. Seeing

it, my hurt mind suffers from vertigo.

How I envy the sense of nothingness;

I’m never free of numbers or of beings.

Well let’s be honest. Baudelaire was neurotic. Very moody fellow. Rimbaud was the same way. Always going on about oblivion. We all get like that sometimes. Malcolm Lowry was more my type. Boozer. He knew about the ever-present ravine. But there was always another bottle.


In other news...and I could be wrong...but I think I've been hacked by Russians.