This may well be a mess, but it's worth a shot.

One track by the magnamous Godspeed You! Black Emperor, and a litany of continued, uncensored writing. Both happening at the same time.

20 minutes of writing, attuned to one post apocalyptic track. (Sans the Youtube commercial and edited for grammar)

Breathe in Breathe out. Repeat.

Let's go.


There’s a quiet. An unattainable quiet. It sits on the edge of nothing, permeating the air. Grasping at coloured straws. A tone. A simple tone ascending, plucking away at life like a violist at a bow.

Ripples. A murmur, a soft jolt for an impending noise that you can’t escape. 

Don’t look up, don’t look away. You can’t touch type yet. Stuck in this void, knowing that memory can’t stick in your brain, only moment by moment.

A joyful tone, one that wants more for you. An investigation. A collaboration. A simple union.

It sways in the breeze like linen on the line. Like pillow cases dancing in the air before their over laid onto the down.

Warmth, cosy. A platitude for the mess. A conversation that doesn’t occur.

It’s impending. This destruction. This creation. This evolving mess of antiquity. A want for a longer stronger force that can’t see it’s way in the dark. Looking higher and longer. Further and stronger.

Oh look, a rhyme. Shakespeare would be proud.

But he’s not. He’s dead. And would't understand that snare. Wouldn’t understand the kick of the bass of modern times. The ripple of uncertainty. The ripple of fantasy that we all seem to grab a hold of.

Its luminescence shines proudly. A gift to us all, a hell for us all. 

Keep up.

Keep up.

Join us. Join us in a fictitious paradise. One sold and bought from underneath us at an alarming rate. 

You think that you have the will to work through this world….this world works its will through you.

Those skies above.

Those plains below.

The seas that swell.

The tides that turn

The traffic that does not shift.

It forces. It forces like an unrelenting ocean forcing you from its waters. Forcing you to the shore. You do not belong here.

You never have.

You never will.

And as you rise, when you can, you see the sky. A bright orange and blue above. A transcendent moment. A life bigger than yours thrust into a cascading series of events that will won't end until you do. You think you breathe, but only your body breathes. You can't concentrate on that. Think about it. Breathe for a moment and remember your day, when was the last time you breathed. When was the last time you remembered to breathe.

It’s automatic. It’s a pattern that your body asks of you too stay alive. And you do it unwittingly. Without warning.

And crash. Here you are. Here you are. A remembererence that you are not in charge. That bit of your which thinks it holds a place in the world is nothing but an interior motive. A symbol of you that you wish you had full control over. But you don’t.

You won’t.

You can't.

We are all stuck in a momentary pleasure. A  momentary sense of enlightenment. One that we can’t control, but which controls us.

The shrill disdain of realising that free will is nothing more than a kid in a candy shop. 

A pleasure you can’t touch.

A pleasure you can’t hold onto.

A pleasure that got wrested from you from your first day.

And you settle.

You see it.

You see that the wasteland of your life until now has been a mere series of fragments and moments that have been usurped from your control. Their tiresome ways. Their increasing dilemmas.

And you sit.


In a void.


And look for a new journey. 

It shall be rough. Like an old timey film. Like a Russian novella from the 1800’s. Rife with maidens. Whores. Drug pushers. Blackness and gray. Surrounding you like the night that can’t escape.

You wander through this night, peering down skinny halls, dimly lit pathways. Beggars ask for money. Friends appear from old times. News awakens you to the coldness of the world.

You rustle your neck. Pushing invisible creaks away. You shake your hands, warding off the cold. 

And as the momentum builds, your pace goes with it. Marching like a abhorrent soldier from the second big battle. Your head up definitently. Your body weary, but persistence forces you.

And the groan of the skies.

The weight of the world.

The harshness of life.

The bills to pay. The people to keep up with.

The family to deal with. The desk that is messy. The music that shits you. The politicians you wish to do harm. The agreements that seem worthless. The socials that seems pointless. The keyboard in front of me. Traffic lights. Stop signs. Money. Encourageable idiots.

They all.




And you shake it out. Not far to go.

Realising that with every stroke is another way out. Another story to tell.




A bigger one. A flourishing one. One that won’t die until your shoulder does. Until your brain dries of blood and you can get no more.

I am here

I am here

I am here

I am here.








And breathe.


And check in. Are you there?

Are you still there? Are you tired yet? Have you stopped?

Have you walked off this world into another?

No. No I haven’t.

I am still here and this is my request.

My pendulum. My own steering committee.

Keep going. Keep battling. 

Chin rise and head up high. Because no one can beat you. No one can take this away from you. 

In all the efforts I shall make, the finest one shall be my own. And inside that effort, its grandeur shall be something that those around me will take on and be inspired to make themselves bigger. Bolder. And stronger for it.

For in return, they will turn that towards me.

And throughout all, we shall continue the circle.

We will be for each other.

And never alone.



Justin Batchelor