August 12, 2014

Location: PG 1/SK Plantation.

Exact shoot location: Category 8 Armored Safe house deep in the jungle.

Duration of sickness: 9 days 22 hours and 3 min.

Physical Condition: loss 5.6 Kg / swollen eyes and face / Nominal gum bleeding stopped / muscle soreness, lack of focus and blurred vision still persistent / appetite fair. Will try to take a light walk today in the afternoon.

Life support in safe house: 100% / air filtration and scrubber needs a new change of filters / starting to sound noisy. Electrical supply stable at 50 MHz. Water filtration good.

Mental Health: Paranoia and hallucinations subsided. Dreams of walking in the Sahara stopped yesterday. Acute sensation of mouth dryness and thirst still persistent despite consuming recommended quantities of water.


He has always been there. Not just there in the way a man sits some distance away. But there….burrowed deep within the me, like some rash that if one succumbs to the temptation to scratch in the hope of relief would certainly get itchier – there…. like some invisible vapor that emanates from me, lingering somewhere amid the terminal childishness that I’ve always hidden from the world. The child who regularly loses battles with a box of chocolates, who binges on TV, steal stares at cleavages and bums. And behaves as if he’s going to live forever.

He is always there….

I’ve known all my life he’s a part of me. As I am a part of him, residing deep within the darkened folds of who I claim to be. I use the word ‘claim’ only because it’s an illusion that I require like a prosthetic to fashion the necessary lie that he’s no longer part of me. For most of the time, it works well enough to supply the raw material to fashion, belief – that he’s well and truly dead and never a part of me….but he’s there…..that other side of me that is me and yet apart from who I claim to be me.

I wish I could say with some measure of conviction that I truly own enough of myself. But I have always know deep down – this belief is at best a necessary lie.

For what you might ask. To get by.

For the dearly unfortunate who subscribe wholeheartedly to the idea of ‘getting by.’ It’s almost nearly mandatory for them to believe in the idea of redemption. Hence the adjunct – ‘to get by….the best we can.’

I don’t doubt those who claim self deception is akin to some character flaw like perpetual masturbation see the world clearer than everyone else. But just like folk who have only known off shelf suits and don’t ever know how a tailored one can make one feel like a million dollars. These erudite lot are the same people who probably don’t know how necessary a crutch is to those who suffer from my affliction – as it enables a incomplete man to gainfully lead a whole life or one that at least fulfills the illusion the affliction of incompleteness he suffers from approximates completeness to some degree of fidelity.

As to suffer from a affliction of incompleteness – is akin to a sick man who can feel the oppressing weight of his suit bearing down on his shoulders. Only the privileged who belong to the ranks of the incomplete can be privy to such sensations. It’s a vampire thing. Hardly a sensation that the whole or those who believe they might be whole can ever feel or even be aware of.

Only the man who knows only too well there will always be a duality that resides within him can aspire to the ideal of the necessary lie. As the prospects of doing otherwise would probably require this man who can only be described as damaged goods to confront the completeness of the terrible truth…and the though, the truth for what it’s worth is often touted as the whole as the prescriptive cure of our times that holds out the promise to set one free can only be the anti thesis of what this man who truly aspires to be – free of that other man who resides in this man….who is me.

I don’t doubt for one moment it would be far easier to deny this one other man who resides within me – if only I could entertain the idea I could do without him or somehow manage the refrain of forever catching the breath of my own surprising emotions that I had accomplished so much by myself…without him.

Just around the period when I first ventured into commercial farming and all seemed to be going quite well. I felt it was time to assassinate him – assassination as the term implies: betrayal. But in his case, his demise was longed for, wanted…desired in his usual mocking way.

It was though, he could read every aspect of my intent and was even willing to be complicit – this had the curious effect of transforming me from an adversary, to his accomplice. You could even say he fueled my resolve supplying not only the motivation, but in his way, cajoled and invited it. As if he knew through his demise. He would be resurrected to claim a larger part of me.

He knew….he would be reincarnated.

How could he not know – as ever since I could recall. He always knew I secretly hero worshipped him. He even encourage it – the relationship was somewhere between fandom and embarrassing teenage infatuation. One where I fetishistically mimicked his gestures, touched the things he touched and stole his lines to call my own.

He knew…he would be reincarnated.

He was reborn four years ago on a moonless night. The night, they came for me. Ten gangsters possibly more. It’s hard to say, it was dark. I was scared. So scared that I buried my face in the mud and hid as I watched them set fire to my camp and dogs. So scared that I wanted to just run back home and that had brought him out from the abyss of darkness.

He did not fear them. He had seen worst in Africa and South America – and as he looked on mockingly at them. I could smell death in his breath; I could see the flecks of red hot amber in his flickering eyes and above all…the relish of being alive…being in his element, it was as though he was willfully prolonging the inevitable….relishing every moment like a sex starved man banging away at a whore holding back the moment – only because he knew, he could.

And when holding back was no longer possible. He was loosed like an arrow that hissed to its mark. That night he hunted all of them…right down to the very last man. I could hear the prey’s heart beating in my head like some hypnotic drum beat, watching helplessly as he gave all of himself to the primeval like some mad man, shredding the flesh, drinking his victim’s fear – for as long as that fateful night lasted, there was no past, no future, no sympathy, no soul, no civilization….nothing except maybe the blur of the wilding night that seemed to stretch on for eternity.

All I could do was cover my eyes in horror….the horror…the horror.’

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