In this monologue, IRA talks to his dog about coming to terms with the fog like existence he’s been living.
IRA: I’m an irrational man, spending my time trying to be rational. That’s not Dostoevsky talking, that’s just a fact of my own shit life.
There’s a warm strobe like massage inside the inner workings of my skull, slithering round, trying to lick its way out.
Most days I never smile, almost as if I can’t…this one time I tried to have a genuine smile and I tried and tried and tried for about an hour in front of a mirror and all I could muster was a seesaw frown; completely vacant inside. It was difficult to smile on that particular day. It was a shit still day, that day.
I’m trapped in a concrete mold of my own mind. I can think but physical action does not happen. Like I lost the remote control of my existence.
I’m too dirty, too polluted…nothing can clean me now. I think, I think that’s all there is…