gig 2

I'm about to head off to perform my second gig.
I hope I'm this relaxed, but I'm so anxious my heart is humming loud enough to accompany a vocal solo. Update later

'

teaching domestic studies in the 21st century: a must-have list

curtains so heavy
they black it all out
           (I will cut my own stars in them
            but it was all dark, so 
            I made myself bleed)

a spine
or an ancient tree
            (I will climb it above the too-loud world
            and make-believe I'll never grow up)

flower petal teacups
that are infinite, evergreen
               (you will bring them out
              for Christmas and the first days
              of spring, leave lip marks on them)

a quiet lion living in a world
that has far too much pride
              (predatory protection, this city
               is a roaring desert)

 a jar filled with riddles, mysteries,
other words for secrets
           (later you will smash it against 
            the rock that conquers fear-
                Love)

an updated map of our solar system
and a model of Pluto and its moons, in detail
              (sometimes I'm small and seem
               far away but I still have my own gravity
                if even a handful, so don't let go)

Shortened version of Psychosis article

Voice 1: Why? How do I get rid of you?
Voice 2: To get rid of us you have to get rid of yourself.
Voice 3: If anyone knew what was going on in your head…
Voice 4: Look who’s really crazy now?
Voice 5: Help me.

My mother said in an email, ‘You’re right. Most people don’t know what happened to you with Ella’s death.’ I haven’t cried such tears of relief, ever. After the worst of it was over, I did not know enough to cry tears of relief because I was so busy gathering scraps of my sanity back. That sounds like a cliche or a silly metaphor but I will begin my explanation of what really did happen that left me gathering sanity scraps. This silly image is annoyingly as accurate as language gets to depict how I felt after the initial destructive event- the scattering agent. It was my mind, once intact, now unrecognisable and in pieces and it wouldn't work cohesively unless I found new ways to assemble the pieces and assemble myself all over again. In doing so, I reassembled an entire person out of the wreckage of someone who, though supposedly sane before, is also unrecognisable when I look back on her.

For a while, I experienced what my doctors explained was a ‘transient episode of psychosis as response to extreme emotional stress’. I had no sense of self as soon as it began, because prior to the episode I had put so much emphasis on the importance of my mind. ‘It’s my most treasured possession’ I would say, and in the most horrific hours I would be taunted by my own cackles at just how funny it was, how I’d practically asked for it because that treasured mind of mine was now gone.

Voice 1: I don’t want my body.
Voice 2: I want my mind.
Voice 3: Your mind is a long way-away-away-away-away…..

Doctors had recently diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder and I had been reluctant to fully accept this diagnostic label until they explained that transient psychosis is actually symptomatic of BPD. I will never be able to credit my therapists and doctors enough for their endless reassurance that I had not lost my mind, that it would come back, and that there was an end to what was happening.

The psychosis was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced, and it’s also probably the thing (no, definitely) I’m most proud of going through. No one will ever give me a cheer or a pat on the back or congratulate me for battling a war with my own shadow and winning. I have to be proud of what I’ve done totally on my own, and I thank my fucked up little patched-together brain for teaching me through utterly going to pieces and only being reassembled to function with endless painstaking almost excruciating (no, excruciating) effort and time and working against horrible forces that only existed inside of me- invisible enemies only I could see because they were a part of me and still are- that sometimes the greatest things you’ll do aren’t about being evaluated by other people. I’ve learnt there are some victories you can enjoy even if nobody will cheer for you and there are some accomplishments that only you will be able to appreciate, and that is not a bad thing.

Now I can weirdly, proudly, semi-cryptically, and strangely say without the least bit of genuine profundity that I fought the demons and voices my own split evil brain created for me after throwing me into a Kafkaesque horror carnival parody movie-like hell, and I beat them by outwitting them
(You can only beat your own mind with your own mind) and it’s the best thing I’ve ever accomplished. The least enjoyable.

I heard mostly my own voice, but fragmented into many different Daisys. It began with family’s voices (mocking, mostly, by my sister and her boyfriend, my cousin, my grandma, aunt, other cousins, and mother).and graduated into my brain going off on wild loops, thoughts as if heard from outside that I never put there and rhapsodising poems without my consent, speaking in dialects, letting me in on the voices of social realisms I didn’t even know I was aware of. This content of the voices shows that my unconsious mind, beneath the level of awareness, was aware of and considering things I'd never consciously thought about. My unconscious mind was split from me, it was angry, it got powerful the more scared I became, and it hated me. It had it in for me and wanted me to die. It told me I had to end my life if I wanted the voices to go away. They told me I could save my cousin through suicide. When you’re sad, you can get very superstitious.

As it worsened and my life was terrorised by the voices, I would see things and hear things and the world became inescapably violent and unpredictable until it was impossible to maintain a façade of sanity. I remember covering my ears on a train platform and crouching down yelling because I heard all the trains cackling at me,

My evil unconscious mind, somewhat ingenious despite being Machiavellian- would jump into speakers and amplifiers on tube and in supermarkets and broadcast across whole shop/train carriage with my own voice saying, “Look what I can do.”

Of course, the doctors were right. It did end, when I began to listen. The least dreadful voice(s) were the last to go, and the ones that stayed latest at night, and the quietest. They were small voices asking ‘why?’ and saying ‘help me’. I heard ‘listen to me’. It wasn't until I started listening to them that I began getting over them. I see them now as being the angry fragmented voices of the angry fragmented person I had stamped all over and dressed up in different identities and denied, denied, denied. The person I really was got so sick of being mistreated- I wasn't even drinking water or sleeping, that’s the extent to which I was denying and neglecting myself basic care without even thinking- that she got a voice, then she got more voices, then she got louder, then she went on a power trip to punish me for what a mess I’d made of whatever it was I organically was meant to be, by pretending to be a whole load of other things and never letting myself be happy and making people around me sad too.

But I’m so lucky I never quite believed the voices totally. If I had I wouldn’t be here to talk about it. I knew from the start, perhaps because the nature of the voices and my unconscious mind with all the tricks it played on me was purely and exclusively Machiavellian, that they weren’t words I could believe or trust, if I wanted to get out of it alive (no hyperbole), and if I wanted a future. It’s very hard to tell yourself not to trust the things you find inside your own head. Usually you assume your thoughts are your own and therefore true to you. I had to continuously believe that my mind was not to my own- the things I heard were not my thoughts. Often they were the things, I discovered, that I was afraid of thinking or feeling, or afraid that other people thought I felt or thought, or the things that I absolutely did not believe or think or feel.

The voices made me conscious of what I was doing, what I was afraid of really, what I was becoming, what I was losing, what I was missing out on that I could have but was so busy being wasteful and harmful and in denial that I couldn’t even see it was being wasted. There is nothing I've experienced more terrifying than hearing a voice in your head you know did not come from the outside world but sounds like it did, but actually shocks you because it’s not your own thought.Not an inner voice or imagined. A shocking, surprising, horrible thought in spoken word- a voice probably recognised- that you did not put there yourself and you do not want to be there.

I won’t write anymore about this now but listen to this recording
and it will give you a short insight into how some of it sounds. It’s like this and it doesn’t stop.

Altogether, it has now. I'm better for it.

The voices were there for a reason, and even though my unconscious mind went above and beyond to show me how much it hated me, I hope I’ve gained some of its respect back, at least enough to start talking in entirely the first person and continue on in my life as a whole person rather than the scraps of someone I don’t know and don’t care about enough to look after in the most basic way. Since the psychosis, I’ve been reluctantly able to accept that I am deserving (of water etc.) and sometimes need to be listened to, because there’s nothing to be that is ever going to work if its fiction and not fact. The scraps I’ve collected are structured day-to-day, moment-to-moment, and it can be ugly. They are demanding little bitches, those voices. Still, whether they meant it all along or I somehow managed to salvage the tiny speck of good leftover from the hellish experience, those voices gave me insights and taught me lessons that have been invaluable, and though they destroyed me for a while what they destroyed was not a real self, just a costume, or many costumes, and in retrospect I see that they saved me, the real one, the invisible self disappearing under so many costumes I lost any recognition of who I really was. I guess I have to thank the worst parts of my mind for helping me rescue what can now become the best parts.

jumbled

Jumbled jam jars lined up on the windowsill,
which seeds are your own? You planted them yourself
in a bed of cotton wool and watch the days go by
while roots grow further and stretch until they stop,
when they have found their place.
I never set my roots down in school or at home,
grew them to the toe-ends of black patent
pumps, propelled from then into a well-made madness.
They let me go stale and I have no roots to go back to.
The root of all whatever-
Gold star blisters, stickers, bird names
assigned to school houses in yellow-blue-green-red.
Between the houses the walls went up- 1, 2, 3....
go- without direction, without waiting,
the soles of both my feet will not wait for me
to find joy in the older years to come.
Clean out of the nesting place, I go cuckoo,
other thoughts audible to me, and I want to go back.
Run at the speed of light then faster
so you can make me a time machine. I'll go back
and pick up all the scattered sticks, brush away
weeds, budding with hooks, clinging on
to follow you from nettle gardens.
Dead bees litter the lawn. I see them when
the ascent becomes illuminated.
The belief that only that which can be observed
and measured can be known- positivists agree.
I would be one of them if I didn't feel excited
about the other things that do exist and we can't see
so just don't know about yet. Things yet to conceive of:
I am cutting clean through whatever roots I managed
and I'm another uprooted Daisy.

There are no signposts, just dreams
and those I can follow. I can almost remember
the song that I can almost hear them singing.
Imaginary trumpets, blues bars,
up the sleeve trump cards for safekeeping.
Summer has come and I'm old now,
and in retrospect, I pay myself more respect.
.
Normality is something that is transient

and arbitrary.
Melancholy and happiness too,
but I'm happy, and it's arbitrariness doesn't make a difference.

fingerpainting and to-the-future poems

Here be dragons

When I was a small dragon, winters ago,
it was always winter. I spat fire and ash,
my skin sagged like a coat on a cold blue hanger.
It was summer's ending when the voices came,
and clinic bathrooms, 
a coyote hungry stare,
the silence of September.
For thousands of days I ha not felt my body.
I did not even photosynthesise, and in my mouth
grew ulcers, and teeth died.

When I looked at the sun reflected
in the mirror, stared at the skull-head there,
it looked less and less like a dragon's everyday.
Slowly becoming human,
a mouth still charred. I began to drink water again.

There are the bones of a dragon
gravely buried inside me.
There are phantom limbs attached too, but not mine.
They belong to soldiers who shared beers
in Vietnamese hideouts. They belong to the widows
who lose their wedding rings
down the garbage disposal. 

Dreams/Nightmares

We don’t dream of cities
but name our children after them. I had a dream
about a family, not my own. A girl called Virginia
who could tie cherry stems with her tongue
even though they were sour and had dark hair
gathered with the long grasses in the field when I saw her
standing out there under a demonic-tasting night sky.

I think she was looking for her sisters.

We give our children elegant names
then cut them down. Alex. Ella. I had a dream
about a family and in the dream I took hope-
it was shaped like a wire weathervane-
and turned it into a thing of misdiagnosis.
Deer from the field died in still water, lungs emptied,
secrets drew blood and I drew life
from the skin of the sisters in the family, with elegant names

In another dream I went to visit my father's grave-
he was just another soldier on the list of those remembered
after the first world war. In uniform,
in a picture on the stone memorial someone put there,
decorated in medals, gleaming sepia ribbons and coins.
There were poppies all over my feet, for Armistice,and the tall grass
in that field where he lay had grown gold, glowing, shimmering,
so it could not have been November. Maybe May,
My cousin was dressed as a princess when she arrived
to beckon me back into the shuttle bus home.
My sister stood by the window, squinting blindly out.
Then suddenly my cousin had jumped off the bus into the grass/
I lost sight of her glowing hair amid all that glow harvest.
Gold horizon, medals on war heroes,
the plastic crown part of her princess costume.

moments and weeks in motion

Looking tired again, and that's not always loneliness or sad.
It's like student's eyelids before that stampede of letter-writing,
expectations and predictions and the old aching of not knowing
where your letters will send you. Holding onto a past,
a present you aren't sure you want, a pair of spectacles,
a lucky pencil, the blueprints to those important smiles.
It all comes down to the architecture of your face and
a dream you have that you know you can’t say aloud.

Train Song

Burnt-out

Days are landlocked, minds divided and expanding
burning the edges in
photographs of nebulae, of burn-out humans
starred and scarred faces in the sky.
It doesn't matter that I don't know the answer to the question that is being asked:
there will be answers to come, but we haven't even conceived
of something anywhere like close to
whatever those will be. What answers do you need from me?
In Old English, a second ago was a second minute ago
and in Latin there is not a word for yes or no
and did you know that the hippocampus is a Latin word for seahorse?
The seahorse in your brain where memories make you,
photograph by photograph, it keeps your mind together.
Still, you're asking. What happened to that face?
He has stars in his eyes, I thought, while Will held a flame
to a discarded photograph and the paper seared gold
and the people pictured there became galaxies
and stars of jewel-bed colors in night and cities and in trees. 

 

 I don't understand myself right now. My poems are not good. My writing is not happening

but my mind somehow overtook all else and my synapses might burn-out too

like some William voodoo  

The 150 Friends Club

Oh my golly what a great song

Oh my golly listen to this band

Oh my golly I couldn't be more jolly

That they use my helping hand.

I lost him long before the fog rolled in,

the sound that sound cracks make

the glass would break

when I would be framed-

if I had known, I would have not missed handwritten notes,

the small signs amongst the hollering

and the erosion- the brick walls and the attrition

of something I counted up

brick by brick, counting myself safe

and if I knew he wasn't waving anymore

maybe I would have left the lighthouse and gone somewhere alone

but I am lonely

I miss him, I miss the swing of the lighthouse beam

calling out for him

i will find a way back to you

I had only one light  shining and it was for him.

I lost him long before the rocks came apart

and the lighthouse fell into the sea.

come back to me

I would say, but who am I talking to?
Myself, I guess.

Waterstones

So some people posit that people aren't afraid of dying, just dying before they have the chance to leave some imprint or mark upon the existing world that will remain in their absence as a reminder, or as evidence to show, that they ever existed themselves. I got to write some book reviews for Waterstones so I guess if that theory holds true I can die happy now.


An Anthropologist On Mars- Oliver Sacks
A surgeon with Tourettes' that gives him uncontrollable tics that magically cease during surgery; the amnesiac who can't recall anything since the 60's; a painter whose colour-blindness doesn't stop him from painting (pictures included); a blind man who regains his sight after 51 years, with frightening consequences; among other abnormalities of the human condition, Sacks writes the stories of his patients and their amazing idiosyncratic experiences.

Virgin Suicides- Jeffrey Eugenides
A breathtakingly beautiful confusing and one-of-a-kind novel, absolutely incredibly unmissable
While the story keeps you riveted, the language will inspire.

Proust Was A Neuroscientist- Jonah Lerner
Long before the 20 and 21st century advances in neuroscience and neuroimaging technology the pathways to what we now take as scientific truths about how the brain experiences the world were already being paved y Proust, George Eliot, Cezanne, and Woolf, among others. 

Mad, Bad and Sad- Lisa Appignanesi
Brimming with knowledge tracing concepts of female mental illness back through melancholy, hysteria, mania, nerves, desire, contrariness and 'Freudian problems'- contains case studies detailing the afflictions of women from 1800 to today and the rapidly changing understanding that accompanied elapsing time.

Inspired by No.5 of Charles Bernstein's experiments

You are still too young for how old you're getting,
You're so young in your head that you speak to yourself
in poems
in second persons,
in your own voice
sounds
in your head
sound
like voices in my head.
                                         You, I think I lost your mind.

You are not yourself.
I am mistaken, so are you.
I am mistaken, for who?
You.

You got me.
You get me.
I've got you.
I (for)get you.


Love is never enough. You know that
I know you.
I love you, you know.
You know I love you.

another fictional diary entry of sorts/fictional mind and its fictional thoughts

I've got a few characters in my mind that have developed over time, some of which are extensions of myself, others characteristically standing in dramatic opposition with every fairly well-established characteristic or trait that I have learnt from others that I possess (it's no secret that all my self-knowledge comes from other people, specifically the reflections of how or what or who I am informing me of how or what or whom that is). I did a thought experiment and tried to adapt to fit the mindset of one of these characters, and began to write.


4.37 am

We're the oldest living crusaders
     in a war
we can't remember,
  I can't remember-

10.58 am
my dreams last night were stranger than usual. but these days dreams are no stranger than reality and that's unusual. I found my mother sitting on the front porch. Her nightdress wet from the sprinklers and she was wearing socks but no shoes, so the soggy lawn soaked right through, turning them grey. If it was still 5 or whenever I woke up and started trying to write my dreams down I would not have realised I was awake, she'd just be another part of the dream. I wish I could  This is a nightmare and I can't  It's pointless to wish you could wake up from  I feel sick with guilt about
I am aware of how seem only to myself writing this, and I'm not strong enough to see that hateful wicked part of myself that I know exists and is undeniably present, not subtle,
I just don't want to see it.
And she was drumming her fingers on the decking, picking at the paint. I wish we could whitewash ourselves, all of this, us. I need to get out of here without feeling immediately like the most terrible living creature to ever own a beating heart. She's so helpless. Her little pointed eyes turned on me, her little pointed teeth seeming to get smaller the more she refrained from speaking so she could listen to her voices. They are hers because nobody else hears them and they are also hers, she says. She says she has been split off like light refracting from a prism. Sliced into little rainbow bits and fragmented and now her soul is in ribbons, her brain slivers, her central nervous system, her senses, speech.
I need to close the conversation, she was nodding and saying when I found her, not looking at anything, I need to bring it to a close.
Your clothes, I extended my arms to pull her up, as if she was my younger sister and not my mother, I imagine what haunts her, if I'm correct and have listened as hard as I have she is hampered by the feeling the knowledge that she's been cut up and dispersed. She's not a person anymore, and not many people. Something that once was and is now fractured, spread too thin  has no central nucleus for the rest of her feral electrons to spin around. She is spinning around everywhere and without somewhere to go or to belong then you are nothing. You have nothing, and that usually means there is nothing of you because someone always has something. I fixate on the fragments themselves. Those tiny pieces of her. I think about how they are shaped. I imagine holding them in my palms, feeling their angles and even venture as far as picturing what it would be to reassemble her like a three dimensional jigsaw puzzle. Like a jenga backwards, without the falling bricks. I can never fully imagine getting close to completing it because the image itself is impoverished, which to me usually means it won't be possible. Things aren't possible if they'e not yet conceived of.
Someone will, though, somewhere.
She howls in the night because she sees faces in everything, They are beyond human, she says. They are never warm or kind. The world I'm in hates me, she cries again and again, what have I done? As if someone is going to answer. Even I know that her voices don't have one. If they did would she want it?
I need to get out of here and anesthetise my conscience. Or else give myself a lobotomy. I'll be mad like her if I don't get out. I'm going to go to confession tomorrow. I would go today but I need to iron Mass dress. I have enough guilt for a handful of Christians but I guess I leave the repentance for someone else. I wish I was  I wish she could  God, please help us.

untitled days

To go with my lullaby, a wire drum overnight
at my ear in a loop in the hope of sleep,
I wanted to try
to go to panacea, all of my life in my hands,

I witnessed grey eyes, irises
student's eyelids and eyelashes and eyebrows, nose, cheeks, freckles, freckles,
scars, broken teeth, gums,
the teeth are my own, and I want to be a person.

Palms and feet, and I direct line of my gray veins and your fingers and nails you want to drill to point out how great,
the great day is, it is possibly my dream,
I think this it is the best.

Moon picnics

There was a time we made predictions that in the year 2000 we'd be having picnics on the moon. Our technologies didn't match up to our dreams when we rang in the second millennium. The spread of paranoia about the so-called millennium bug is evidence of that in itself. Now I'm fitting together a forecast for 2020 when we'll not be able to spread our picnic blankets on the preferred ground because lunar rovers have pulled it all up, and I can't see the Great Wall from here (maybe it's a new pair of spectacles I need, I haven't had a prescription filled for five years, I remember I got these in 2015 in Specsavers, when I used to get those ocular migraines, remember?). But you can see Berlin and where it's split to east and west. On one side, the lights all glow brilliant white. The other is dimmer, yellowing, almost like an old light bulb about to break. Look very careful at the black spot in the middle and you can see the park where Christiane F was turning tricks to get her next heroin fix. Thinking of earth-bound things like that, I feel the ground again, and that's a good feeling when I've been on the moon awhile and I'm starting to miss the stillness that comes with a greater gravitational pull.

the summarised diary of a fictional slightly heartbroken bitter-sweet-mouth person

date in   J a n u a r y

Three years, one after the other, I asked myself the same question.
I asked myself who it is I want to be. Three years ago, I wrote down in my notebook that I wanted to be the one. The year after that, I wanted to be the one that got away. This year, I want to get away.

date in  F e b r u a r y

I have dreams about waking up. Last night I dreamt I woke up wearing his face.

date in  M a r c h

Supposedly it's too early to be philosophising, but today I still hope to see my shadow prove to me I'm a whole and real person.

date in  A p r i l 

This morning there was a damaged boy in my bed. One I remember from months ago, when I was alone and wanted to be wanted, not even wanted, just accepted, then and then and then, in those moments. I don't remember how he got here but I guess I must be feeling the same. Need to be here, here and here. Except that I don't need to be here. I just need what I can't have.

s u m m e r 

Months we don't speak of, now we don't speak.

date in  A u g u s t

Time clings like cat hair and days are arbitrary smudges of light on the darkness that drops with night's fallings. My fingernails are cracked with good intentions but I can't find meaning in anything. Today on my walk home from work I found some old maps from pre-war London someone had lfet on the side of the road, near the drain where leaves are collecting. They remind me of body bags pulled up into banks that part for the cars to gleam through. I spread the maps out on my floor at home and traced the tiny roads with my fingers, pressing stickers onto places I remembered from when we used to take our adventures on the trains I was so afraid of taking before I met him.

 date in  S e p t e m b e r

I'm the only one at work who wears a long-sleeved uniform.

date in  O c t o b e r 

A storm last night split the sky open. It looks like the back of the moon. There are no apples in the fruit bowl, no milk in the fridge. I'm lonely but for the birds that still come even though I broke the bird table he built.

date in  N o v e m b e r 


Someone today thought that I was their old friend. I was stopped on the street by a woman perhaps in her late fifties. She had the kindest eyes, and they were greener than summer leaf, and they were so warm I could have heated my hands on them. I had to let her hug me before I forced out a laugh and said to her that I didn't know what she meant, that I probably wasn't who she was looking for. When she let go of me, I heard myself crying from the inside out. I heard the voices again, those that come from somewhere between my bones and all over, but under, and when she walked away I wanted to run after her. I went home and didn't cry, just watered the plants and watched the news.

date in  D e c e m b e r 
 
Christmas television crackling, hard folded bedsheets, night quiet and heavy at the window, looking in. It doesn't see me.

date in the  N e w  Y e a r 

This year, I want nothing from anyone.

Untender nights

Tenderness is a habit.
Tenderness is just a habit and we’re unlearning everyday.
There are darker things than the nights I am always running from
angrily leering in the periphery of my eyes
and I am too scared to stop running, too scared and yet
not blissfully ignorant enough to be blind to the denial I am in.
It’s an awkward place to be inside when you know wholly where you are
and also have no desire to get out.
The periphery is a meeting place of two absences.

Books left untouched for too long start to emit a low moan.
Another busted light bulb and the circles are round, they have no end,
that’s how long I want you to be my friend, again,
and to take care of me
and fix the circuits  in here
and in here.
The dreams I don’t sleep enough to let recur
murmur to me from the vents between my cortices
and the thoughts that build up through the little hours
and block their circulation-
cut off your hands,
nobody will hold them anyway.

I pretended not to hear until I wrote this down
 and now I'm cowering.
A circle’s round, it has no end,
a circle’s round, it has no end.
Everything has end. Even infinity because,
 in actuality, the universe ends,
reports the New Scientist. I can’t run forever,
it has to all end somewhere.

Using google translate, I put the above text through several diferent languages and back to English. I got this: 

There is not a night's nights' soft soft

Sensitivity is usually only and give us every day.There are darker things that always run at nightLooking angrily near the eyeI'm afraid to stop driving, very scared afterBlissful ignorant enough not to be blind to deny that I am.An unpleasant place to be if you know exactly where you areI also want to leave.The circumference of a meeting of two absences.
Immune written since the beginning of the long version whine.The second circle around the bulb explosion, not the end,This is the time I want to be my friend againAnd take care of meAnd the appointment of a community hereAnd here.Dreams do not sleep enough to stop the repeatTell me, my cracks in the crustAnd ideas to build up the hoursAnd prevent the movementAmputation of handsNo one will be anyway.
I did, as if he had not heard before, I wroteAnd now I'm intimidated.Ring around not overVisit the hand is over.This is the end. Because even infinite,
 Actually ends of the universe,The New Scientist. I can not run forever,Everything has to stop somewhere.