I know someone who hates people that start their sentences with um so much they often claim they want to kill them… I wonder if they’ve ever fantasised about killing me?
In my previous post – Breaking Bad Habits – I mentioned that I could have been a serial killer. In fantasy. In reality…
I accidentally killed a toad about a month ago. I still feel mortified about it. I know, it’s just a toad, but it is a living being! So it’s not just a toad, it is life!
The only living being I can kill with very little remorse is flies. It’s their fault. I try guiding them out the window, but what they seem to prefer is orbiting my head, then landing on me. I do not prefer this. I would rather not kill them, but my tolerance threshold can only tolerate so much.
One of my favourite films is Kind Hearts and Coronets. About someone who decides to bump off their entire family. That’s not the reason why I like it, although my family has often inspired me to bump them off. I love it because it has Alec Guinness in it and he was a genius and very funny.
I related a dream in my previous post which I had the other night:
I dreamed that I was trying to dispose of three bin bags full of body parts. The disturbing part was trying to figure out when the bin collection day was, as I didn’t want the body parts sitting in the bins outside of my house. As I was trying to figure out the day, the bin collectors came and went and I got very angry with myself for being so muddle-headed.
My interpretation – I think those body parts belonged to me. They were from the versions of myself I create for other people to please them. I missed the bin collection because it is time for me to catch myself red-handed and face my crimes against myself. Time for me to be myself.
I think I got the interpretation of it right… however I did watch Whitechapel the night before the dream, so it may just have been prompted by that.
Anyway, the dream reminded my mind of this song… and played it on repeat for most of the day:
The Police – Murder By Numbers
They were one of my favourite bands when I was a teenager, and the only band which I went to see in concert. I have many memories connected to The Police, none of them involving murder, most of them happy… as happy as a teenager with existential angst can be.
We’re all serial killers, not in reality but within. We kill our dreams, kill parts of ourselves, and we make a stone out of our hearts because feeling can lead to hurting and pain makes us want to run away from it anyway we can. We lash out at others in pain and kill relationships which might have been good for us. We kill who we are sometimes to be who we are not, then that leads us to kill who others are because we feel pain every time they are themselves and we are not ourselves.
It becomes a habit, and we get used to it, and since there is no bloodshed, at least not visible blood which is so hard to clean… we just keep going. Killing without killing. Hurting without hurting. Murder by numbers… without keeping track of those numbers. If we did, we might stop and… um.