Marechera's philosophy

When I was a child I played childishly; when I became a man I put away the ghost of literary thought that stuffed me with attitudes in my student days. What is it, this vast room we call the sky; these endless miles of reality thickly knit with grit? The waiter must stretch his lips if he wants to get tips. We stand each to each like sides of rock once quarried mercilessly by blind Victorian adventurers who only sought the few gold veins in us. They have extracted the best part of our being and left us like this. I woke up long ago this morning with aches and pains in all the things I took for granted. This desperate tinder becomes youth. Even the death certificate is not quite like me, said Lazarus when he came out of the tomb. Things always happen in the worst possible way, however hard one tries to unbend them. I can never look a rational thought straight in the eyes. Hate me if you wish, but not too offensively. And there I was yesterday hammering the typewriter keys with a worldliness not of this world. Thoughts like claws must be sheathed. Something always happens to show us how blind we really are. This is not only stranger than we imagine but stranger than we can imagine. We cannot all afford the luxury of self-disgust but someone has to do the dirty work. That means -- me. My hunger has stamina enough. My actions are always my fault though my thought would plead otherwise. Attitudes--attitudes.