Welcome my blog. The intention is to publish every piece of writing that I have churned out for the past 10 years. Some pieces have a story behind the story, some lyrical poems have become songs. We have hundreds of poems, stories, songs, lyrics, and life musings. Subscribe and every Monday receive a story to start off your week. Art is created by Amina & AI.
It was a mystery.
How he died.
Nurses clustered around his body,
A neurosurgeon in a white lab coat
hovered over him, like a dove.
After some discussion and a number of tests,
it was determined the cause of death
was solitude.
The self imposed type of solitude
A solitude for which there is no cure.
Derek Earl Houghton
Somewhere on the Spectrum
Occasionally he would feel a surge of panic rise up in his chest.
Something would catch hold of his thoughts momentarily.
He could feel his chest seethe .
At night he would sit up in the pitch dark
looking at screen saver until it blinked out
And he would be in perfect darkness.
Darkness seemed to make more sense than other things.
It was as though he was experiencing a centrifugal force
hurling him away from the centre of things,
A force to which he held on tenaciously
for reason he could not explain.
Inside his head he could not tell if he cared or just pretended to.
He performed tasks meticulously for no particular reason.
He stood outside himself, observing , detached .
As though he was a store front window
Filled with things he had no interest in buying.
He could be the life or death of the party.
He had no investment in how he was perceived
He was possessed of a yawning hollowness
From which he chose not to escape.
He could not remember the faces of
the people he had murdered
Or whether it was just a dream
His had put existence on mute
He existed as a parasite within his own incarnation.
It was thought that he was somewhere on the autistic spectrum.
He viewed the world as a chocolate croissant. Some days
He could smell it , but not taste it. Other days he could taste
But not smell.
The phrase is used high functioning often because he worked
, had a family, and mingled reasonably well .
Within his own head however , he could never tell if he actually
Cared, or just pretended he did. There was within him a yawning hollowness
For some reason he did quite well on job application tests.
He knew what they wanted. He just didn’t connect with why it was important.
He performed tasks meticulously, but not for any particular reason , but it seemed he was always standing
Outside himself, detached, observing , indifferent to outcome.
He was, periodically, obsessive compulsive mostly around matters
Of little consequence.
Occasionally this behaviour bled into matters of consequence however
This was always incidental. As mentioned he felt no particular connection with outcomes.
He was meticulous in his business affairs,
Hatred action movies and loathed idle chat.
He felt alone regardless of how many people he found himself amongst.a
He could be the life or death of the party.
He had no investment in how he was perceived .
Occasionally he would feel a surge of panic rise up in his chest.
Something would catch hold of his thoughts momentarily and
He could feel his chest seethe .
At night he would sit up in the pitch dark looking at screen saver
On his computer until it blinked out and he would attempt to discover himself in perfect darkness.
Darkness seemed to make more sense than other things.
It was as though he was experiencing a centrifugal force that
Was hurling him away from the centre of things. A centrifugal
Force to which he held on tenaciously , even for reasons not entirely obvious.
Are these in some instances at least, the raw materials that go into creating
A contract killer, a serial murderer, or a soldier or apex predator.
Or , maybe erotic, or filial love can not co-exist with agape love.
Perhaps much of what we call love is mere sentimentality. A soap opera
Of emotions established in trivia like sex appeal, money and good looks.
Perhaps one dissolves the other . Perhaps it confuses the heart. Ed
It has been suggested there exists individuals who have no soul.
They are neither good nor bad. They simply become what they are around.
Emotional parasites or maybe it is symbiotic,…. They are us.
Derek Earl Houghton
I have yet to find the rule book of exactly
how broken hearted a man is allowed to be.
I know I had a copy.
I have looked all about my flat for it.
I know it is around here somewhere
buried beneath so many years of
estrangement and debris.
Derek Earl Houghton