Cecil I: The ineffable excuse to retain his sanity, although his desires go against the whole point of living and dying, an anti-proverbial rant
For a solitary soul, like Cecil's, the only way out is turn himself in, walk the path of conformity, grab a pint of testosterones, and chug it down his scrotal neck. This world is not designed to accommodate. But perhaps in someone's delusion of grandeur, hidden within their own view of the world is that longing for it to be dominated. To a growing man like Cecil, this was his rightful birthright, a promised complexity for a world that feeds not the weakness of man. He is aware of the processes of what's, but reluctantly admits his wisdom of the how's. This conundrum is universal. Every overachiever knows this is the case.
Cecil embarks on a journey that defies convention. He walks a path from nothingness to everythingness. The world is his stage and he is the one actor to play them all.
For now, his journey is afresh as it had been for quite some time now. Cecil's struggles to find the right timing and dedication is almost always his biggest misstep. He has what it takes, yes, alas he lacks the ability of execution.
The day prior to this day, Cecil is all but dead. Room-ridden and lost in his epiphanies, them desires to procure his Messiah complex. He lacks the fine sense of ridiculous, so he goes on to create it himself. This week was all about discovery prior to the aftermath of the apprenticeship. This week, Cecil becomes an amateur.
The first task Cecil needs to accomplish is finding the tools to remain glued to the soil down below. That is of utmost importance. Remember, there are people who desire for him to eventually fail, most of them the same ones that wanted him totally removed from public view. Well, they simply cannot, for Cecil is a man of empty ambition. Empty, yes, but ambition nonetheless. A little 'fuck off!' would do these critters some good.
Cecil prepares for his next step of the ground-staple-glue, come morrow an invitation to his health practitioner demands he be, crazy as it sounds (pun intended), unwell and of unsound mind, or else. Everything around him should be cast ashit. Now Cecil is by no means a method performer, he desires no part in shitting his entire sanity. A wise young fool once said, and I paraphrase for fucking clarity's sake, 'There are only two ways of acting: One is convincing and the other not convincing.'
For Cecil, it matters little, probably even not, in which to partake. What matters is he gets things down before shit turns to shit, given time is the biggest denominator. He certainly hopes the bag-totting bagdigger of a lawyer turns water to wine or shit be damned there will be blood. In hanar terms, hilarity: Exercise hyperbole to make a facetious point.
The effort needed must still be within reach at this point no matter how dire. Cecil here is a guy who cares so little of the next twenty-four hours, but cares enough to want to be relevant before his clock strikes thirty. This little boy of a man needs to step up his A-game if he were to compete on the iron bone. There is no room here for loitering and procrastination. There is no time for idle banter while the world awaits its feeble flaming hearts to spontaneously combust. There is no time for imbibing and flirting and fucking and babying. There is no time to fool around with masturbatory backroom casting couches and fleshy caricatures of the female art. There is only time for pen on paper. That is what a king does, to straighten and guide pen on paper and blot and spit and thrust and write! That is why they are called rulers! Puns will rule the iron kingdom! Kingdom to us all cult figures of mini-cunts. And here is the man worthy of this calling, Cecil provides all the necessary whatever-nouns-and verbs-related-to-awesome-here, for he is a king that needs no queen nor friends.
Tapping his slim-fitting trouser pockets, Cecil realises four quid is all he has to be the rightful heir to that one destiny. As he slithers his oyster card into the oyster card checker, he half-donates everything he had in order to seek a vision. He checks for his watch. It says, ten past ten, his Dr. Pepper still dripping on the other side of his shoulder fanny. This is what dreamers are made of, he thought to himself.
He arrived safely at the outskirts of a shithole of a flat wherein lies his nubile sister in tow. The late night whispers demand for the persons involved to slumber except of course Cecil. He is of the Night's Watch. Ten to ten, I need a pen, he whispers. Gathering all his bygone wits, he grabbed a pen and indulged in his habitual lurking in Quora and slept awake.
Ten to ten, the clock struck then. His eyes grew deep and spent but the intent of his visit now bears some lacking fruition. Cecil walked down the spiral polygonal staircase. A scruffy-looking man says hello. Undeterred, Cecil walks towards the clinic where the moment of truth is upon him.
Ten past ten, never again. It was all for naught. Okay, maybe not. But it was lame as it came. Cecil got to keep his sanity a little more but only for a short while. In four weeks, he shall return and report. Depression my ass, he says, who'd have thunk. Frustrated he hurries back to the shithole and out came a box full of sleep.