There are no words just because I no longer have the time frame for in depth literature and I know what you are going to say, but there is nothing that I am not aware of. Same as you, what makes my world turn is the array of words that stimulates my former string of sticky emotions to actually act to something. And right now they are slipping, I am.
The only current interesting pursuit is to find the spider hiding in my broken fireplace. Every other day I sweep the dust and break the cobwebs – the sticky silky threads with no food but dust and ashes. I don’t know what it is he wants to catch; I haven’t had any ladybugs visiting recently. And yet I envy him for his sticky webs.
Actually, I lied, there is another pursuit: I have decided to become a part-time snail saver who goes out on rainy days to save those creatures from the nightmarish human pathway. Maybe I don’t really facilitate their lives, and maybe I end up putting them back to the start, or maybe they had a death wish of which I wasn’t aware, but nevertheless, whatever you do involves some form of guilt. You question your ability and most of all, the reason why you do it.
Animals are supposed to be driven by their survival instincts only, but since Graham Greene’s story about the pig that leaped off the roof and killed a man, I think otherwise. You hear about wolves and crocodiles mauling a human being, but in that story you have a pig that has presumably committed suicide. Maybe these creatures think about tomorrow after all.
One day all pigs will discover there are places such as roofs.
I wonder whether animals understand the concept of indifference. Some look at you and then they look the other way. So I think they do. Only food will give them an impetus to rouse into action, but apart from that, they’re as deep in apathy as most living things.
Has my friend taken me too far and triggered an overkill? One dose of indifference, two doses…it was nothing but self-defense, only to avoid…you know, disappointment.
On top of that I’ve been listening to the silence for so long that I’m now too anxious to go outside and face the discordant noise. It sounds like death in my ears.
Do you ever think you’ve thrown too much away? Most people I know wouldn’t dare to throw anything away and things would accumulate and you’d be trapped in your own clutter, which will lead towards suffocation. To some people trivial things are valuable. It’s true, triviality adds up to something big, something you grow attach to.
Why is that when you have something, all you can think about are the risks of losing it?
And while feeling that way, everything in your stomach begins to swirl and you fear the moment that might determine your life.
It’s not about thinking too much as a human being; these images are just there. They come as broken fractions in dreams and precognition during the day and it’s freaking me out – big time.
My recent dreams encompass a high level of stormy weather and the only save place is the attic. It turns me on somehow, it’s very romantic, but not when you’re alone and turn into a pig. It’s quite sad, because you’re plagued with fractured thoughts that lead to no conclusion. The pig wanders back and forth. Eventually he loses interest…
Sonntag, 24. Juni 2012
Samstag, 16. Juni 2012
The hamster wheel
The head feels twice as big and you refuse to take painkillers.
Still, I ran a little around 6 miles today in 75min, same for tomorrow. Never did I care about the distance, but about time and now I care about where I could have run. If someone tells me the road is open, I picture a vast space that leads to anywhere and yet it seems like I prefer to spin my hamster wheel behind closed doors.
I like to envision myself in the midst of daylight with a clear head, but the rod cells in my eyes are more dominant than the cone cells, therefore during the day, my perception is halfway paralyzed sometimes. This is becoming more and more obvious these days.
Two days of having the mouth shut, I can’t think of anything more soothing and safe, no white lies and other filtered talks where I feel the heaviness of the mask, which is pulling me down, and its itch-inducing substances that are irritating my skin. I’ve been feeling itchy lately. It’s so hard to keep the skin all right. What they perceive is the opposite of me, no matter how hard I try to present the truth.
There are people, you tell them things you don’t want to tell and of course they throw it back at you with criticisms that you have already applied on yourself, so there is no need to hear it spoken by others. Here’s the art of keeping your mouth shut. After so many years I watched The Crow again, my favourite fictional love story encompassing a justified reason for retribution. It makes me want to work harder on getting my feelings back, but I don’t want to lose indifference as a friend. You’ll never know what might happen, you know.
I’ve been running faster and faster in the hamster wheel. The faster you run the more likely you’re going to break it. Never will it occur to me that I only have to step off and go outside. It’s not that easy. I have to break it.
Two days of having the mouth shut, I can’t think of anything more soothing and safe, no white lies and other filtered talks where I feel the heaviness of the mask, which is pulling me down, and its itch-inducing substances that are irritating my skin. I’ve been feeling itchy lately. It’s so hard to keep the skin all right. What they perceive is the opposite of me, no matter how hard I try to present the truth.
There are people, you tell them things you don’t want to tell and of course they throw it back at you with criticisms that you have already applied on yourself, so there is no need to hear it spoken by others. Here’s the art of keeping your mouth shut. After so many years I watched The Crow again, my favourite fictional love story encompassing a justified reason for retribution. It makes me want to work harder on getting my feelings back, but I don’t want to lose indifference as a friend. You’ll never know what might happen, you know.
I’ve been running faster and faster in the hamster wheel. The faster you run the more likely you’re going to break it. Never will it occur to me that I only have to step off and go outside. It’s not that easy. I have to break it.
Dienstag, 5. Juni 2012
Composure
Tomorrow is a long way and apparently it never comes. Have I ever thought about that? I don’t think I have. And you become most aware of tomorrow once it has turned into today. That’s when the man with the scythe will poke my spine and say, “I told you.” I will then smash him in the skeletal face with no further word. He is not my father, neither am I his daughter or disciple. I’m just obsessed with him and he exploits it – love and hate, you know.
There seem to always be someone to point his finger when you have messed something up. In the moment of a fiasco, don’t you tend to ostracize the helpers and other kind-hearted creatures whose hands are always cleaner than yours? It doesn’t matter…
When unaware that you’re in need of restraint, you’re most naïve and forgetful, and sometimes for a good reason; a good reason that unfolds to be an array of sentimentalities, but not always appropriate in regards of exposure.
What about the fact that writing is all about exposure? I remember now, F. said that once. I bumped into him the other week and I hated how I showered him with unpleasantness, like a patient who hasn’t seen his psychologist in a year. Some things should better remain untold, even in moments of desperation.
It’s only just now that I have found composure. There is a soothing sound in the word that relaxes me and I now realize that there are words, which are not worth being said out loudly, especially when they are in dispute and uncertain. There is a novelty in silence, silence is gold – it is deeply running water that will never show on the surface, as it has no reason to taint the world.
Exposure and composure have an affair and composure will impregnate exposure with metaphors that I will type down now while looking composure in the eye. My lips remain sealed.
And maybe my obsession with the man carrying the hourglass will diminish, and all these could-have-beens will disappear for good and today is all that matters. If only I could think more like that. It shouldn’t be that hard.
There seem to always be someone to point his finger when you have messed something up. In the moment of a fiasco, don’t you tend to ostracize the helpers and other kind-hearted creatures whose hands are always cleaner than yours? It doesn’t matter…
When unaware that you’re in need of restraint, you’re most naïve and forgetful, and sometimes for a good reason; a good reason that unfolds to be an array of sentimentalities, but not always appropriate in regards of exposure.
What about the fact that writing is all about exposure? I remember now, F. said that once. I bumped into him the other week and I hated how I showered him with unpleasantness, like a patient who hasn’t seen his psychologist in a year. Some things should better remain untold, even in moments of desperation.
It’s only just now that I have found composure. There is a soothing sound in the word that relaxes me and I now realize that there are words, which are not worth being said out loudly, especially when they are in dispute and uncertain. There is a novelty in silence, silence is gold – it is deeply running water that will never show on the surface, as it has no reason to taint the world.
Exposure and composure have an affair and composure will impregnate exposure with metaphors that I will type down now while looking composure in the eye. My lips remain sealed.
And maybe my obsession with the man carrying the hourglass will diminish, and all these could-have-beens will disappear for good and today is all that matters. If only I could think more like that. It shouldn’t be that hard.
Samstag, 2. Juni 2012
Thoughts from under the bridge
Vertical carrions, dancing carrions, all crammed into one place. I am not sure what is exactly happening at Southbank – it’s so full of people. The breeze feels tender, but strange, I am unable to distinguish the cold from the hot in this air, as several areas of my perception are affected. I see dirt being washed ashore, an opaque face or ambiguity that reflects the city’s blind eye; probably the eye through which we all gaze during day time…
A carousel is a repetition of movement as though there was no exit for the mind; therefore your footsteps follow those of others. Out of the roundabout – right now. There are too many kids.
Here are so many words and pictures of manipulation, the only aim to coax you into adopting an attitude that suits only them. But the colours and fonts are nice.
And under the bridge I find comfort. The noise of the train drains off the sound of people’s cheering and hand clapping in this vast space. Like an emulation of thunder. A low sky so rusty, but close enough to worship with confidence.
There is the deep water that’s keeps looking up. It’s keeping the secrets below. And if the rusty sky falls, its overwhelming weight will push you down and crush you along with your secrets. It was a fake sky after all.
What’s real is behind the rusty sky. But what on earth is behind that thing that you worship? What’s behind that face you wonder? Doesn’t it kill you every time you realize that you won’t ever know?
Vertical carrions, dancing carrions, we’re a walking paradox, living by choice, smiling through the void as we create something to fill it and the fill is all that counts. But the void is always hungry, as it digests fast. In a case of danger you should always keep a creative invention in your pocket, but nothing will ever be good enough.
A carousel is a repetition of movement as though there was no exit for the mind; therefore your footsteps follow those of others. Out of the roundabout – right now. There are too many kids.
Here are so many words and pictures of manipulation, the only aim to coax you into adopting an attitude that suits only them. But the colours and fonts are nice.
And under the bridge I find comfort. The noise of the train drains off the sound of people’s cheering and hand clapping in this vast space. Like an emulation of thunder. A low sky so rusty, but close enough to worship with confidence.
There is the deep water that’s keeps looking up. It’s keeping the secrets below. And if the rusty sky falls, its overwhelming weight will push you down and crush you along with your secrets. It was a fake sky after all.
What’s real is behind the rusty sky. But what on earth is behind that thing that you worship? What’s behind that face you wonder? Doesn’t it kill you every time you realize that you won’t ever know?
Vertical carrions, dancing carrions, we’re a walking paradox, living by choice, smiling through the void as we create something to fill it and the fill is all that counts. But the void is always hungry, as it digests fast. In a case of danger you should always keep a creative invention in your pocket, but nothing will ever be good enough.
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