Ryan Havers

I’m tired of writing in abstract concepts. I’m tired of reading clichéd notions of rich men - who have no idea they caused this ideological war: austerity breeding fascism breeding liars.  And I feel like we’re running out of ideas on this septic island. Somebody has poisoned our politics. All I now have to look forward to are things that I am yet to do. The jokes that I haven’t laughed at. The films that I haven’t seen. The drunken purchases that I haven’t made. I grew up wanting to be on the TV Shows they don’t make any more. Or if they do, they are shadows of their former selves. I wanted to go on Takeshi’s Castle; I wanted to be a star-in-a-reasonably-priced-car; I wanted to be a millionaire. And now? You tell me that I must be positive, that I should be optimistic, have hope… Ah, that’s a good abstract concept. Meaningless words, on a meaningless page, in a meaningless country. All human thought is slowly reduced to a slogan, a meaningless soundbite. Down with the share prices.  Down with the monarchy.  Down with Westminster.  Down with the patriarchy.  Down with you. Down with me. Down with this sort of thing.

‘You’ve never been out into the real world,’ says the old man as he orders his coffee. 'Once you get a bit older, then you can vote, then you can have a say in our democracy.’ And I laugh under my breath, daring not to contradict the wise old fool. When he leaves he’ll claim his pension, travel for free on the bus, get home in time for Countdown. Maybe he believes what he reads in the papers. The migrants only want to come to this shanty town of a country because we’re carpet bombing theirs. What if his son or daughter is an expat? (Sorry, migrant!) See, lies are the first step towards warfare. After lies comes intolerance, then hatred, then war. I make him his coffee, and he buys a Danish Pastry. Wonder if he cares children harvested his coffee bean? I’m not saying I agree with it - I’m not saying we should scapegoat the elderly who are holding back this country. Intolerance can only be combated by tolerance, love, unity. United we stand and all that. All I’m saying is that we that are young need to use our voices; and drown out the misery, the fear, the intolerance of the old.

Apparently there is no God now, no creator, no divine author, no severed hand that flicked the first d   o     m        i         n           o              and kicked this universe into life. Hell, I don’t pretend to be smart enough to understand the scientifics. I don’t pretend to know how the economy doesn’t work. Or how wealth accumulates into the hands of the few at the expense of the many                       (apparently).                                               Maybe I just read too much, and at the same time not enough. See, all the feminists say… OK, I don’t know. But what I do know is this: life gets shorter every day. Yours and mine. So instead of fighting and bombing                                                                  maybe we can              try something else?                                                          …

This year has been a good year for death, for darkness. And it seems it is only in these dark times that we discover who we really are - as people, as a nation - and what is truly important to us. After all, The politics of hate, of fear, of mistrust, are an incoming tide, an overflowing river, which needs to stop. A dam must be put up with a sign that simply reads: ‘Hate. No More.’ No more homophobia, no more extremism - domestic, or religious, or international, no more intolerance, no more bigotry, no more racism; no more hatred of any sort or kind. What we need instead is love in its broadest sense: understanding, unity, solidarity, hope and tolerance. And these are more than just empty shells of words; they are the foundations, the bedrock, of civilisation. So if you will take my hand in your hand, I will gladly take your hand in mine and together we will stand united: and this year will be a good year for love, and for humanity.

There is a part of me that is forever twelve years’ old, and only dreams about you; about kissing your cheeks, and holding your hands in the cold. Then there is another part that is slightly older but has seen countless hours of pornography; and so desperately wants to fuck you up against a wall, until you scream. Sometimes, there is a smaller part that wonders what parents we’d make; if we’d be strict or easygoing, how we’d react to tattoos or overhearing them say ‘oh for fuck’s sake’. But sitting above all of those parts lies an inner voice, which is concerned about how I often only think of you in a physical way. And how love is one thing that cannot be learned. Still, I hope you can forgive me for thinking that love is a murmuring river. Only now do I realise that it is more  than bedrock. A desire. A night or two. It is wanting the best for each other. And I will always want the best for you.

Pornography, I reckon that’s the cause of it. ‘Cause once you stop seeing a woman as a person and just something to be penetrated, etcetera, you know, it becomes difficult to lose that image. But like video games and violence I could be wrong and I don’t want to make any statements ex cathedra. She smiles. Don’t you know the difference between a correlation and causation? Pornography has always existed. Christ, the first things we scratched on walls as so-called troglodytes were women with their tits out; legs spread open next to sabre-toothed tigers. God, Freud would’ve had a field day with the size of the men’s balls. I laugh. Before thinking to myself that she has a point. The funny thing about intelligence is that it’s a poker hand: you can use a little to bluff having a lot; and when you  have a lot you can bluff having too little. Like how wise men often play the fool. Why are you telling me this? She asks. I’m not sure. I guess I’d never before considered that point of view.

When I am drunk and eating crisps, late at night, with the moon eclipsed by clouds that roll across the silent blue I begin to think of you. And I wonder what you’re doing now, if you’re happy, or settled down, or worse, working behind reception still; anything to pay the bills. If you show me a black-and-white photograph I would probably just laugh at how somebody so fucking beautiful could’ve wasted so much time with this fool. Yes, only then is it that I remember, that beer is just fermented water: its taste changes over time, or something, depending of course on how you’re feeling.

What’s the easiest way to kill yourself? Funny how smoke twenty a day, fake a smile for the customers and drink heavily at night is never the right answer. But if I were you, I’d listen when I say I’ve been there: working out if bleach would do it, or how many pills might send me straight to heaven. Or hell, more likely. I’ve been there, and had nights where the rain has hit me, the wind has cut me and the cold has shaken me to my very core; yes, I’ve suffered. And I know that you’re stubborn, and that you don’t care if your family or friends have to clear up the mess. You’re nothing, and we’re better off without you; you’re doing us all a favour... Please, cut the crap. Deep down you know that the opposite is true. Deep down, although it feels like rock bottom, you’re nowhere near. And I am only going to say this once, after that it’s up to you. But holding on for one more day, one more night, is the greatest thing I have ever done. So hold on. Hold on until tomorrow. Hold on until the morning. Do not worry, do not cry, do not fear, do not hurt, think of all the good times, and repeat: I will not kill myself tonight. And if you cannot do it for yourself, do it for me.

This is just how I feel. Like the floor’s covered in broken glass: no, we’re not jumping over lava anymore. No, we’re not sat in class playing ‘would you rather?’. This isn’t child’s play, this is real: That was the heart-shaped box I got you when you turned sixteen. Look at the shards, I threw it but you broke it, if you know what I mean. Friends, you say? Somehow I knew it: the smell, the hair, the odd socks. I drove up forty miles to see you in the freezing cold with no heat, got there but you weren’t ready so I shivered in the car seat; forty minutes later you told me I could come up to your room, which stank of some perfume and was missing the Teddy I won you in Year Ten- he’s on the bed, usually- so I ask you 'where’s Teddy then?’ You say 'In the wash.’ Which isn’t true, 'cause he's Surface Wash Only. And to think that I thought you loved me.