party at Michèle’s (July 28th, 2004)
party at Michèle’s (July 28th, 2004)
Got me wandering, wondering where to turn. There are dark clouds gathering […]
Got me wandering
Where to turn
There are dark clouds
Won’t you take me home?
Oh please, won’t you take me home?
(Aqualung: Take me home)
The world is insane. God is an old pervert. The devil is his best friend. Family is the greatest evil. Life is a bale. Fate is a curse.
The audio player is playing this depressing song by Aqualung. I’m completely in low spirits.
Endorphine, adrenaline, dopamine, testosterone rushing through the body. And serotonine down to zero. Being in love is a terrible disease.
“I don’t think she’s beautiful”. How could anyone dare saying that about a girl to the one who’s in love with her?
Ignorance is a medication against pain that has the slight side effect of causing even more agony to others.
My thoughts are running round in circles. My hatred for someone I should care about is growing.
How did you dare? Not even the people I like the least have ever said such a thing.
It’s easier to drop off to silence.
What a day. Sometimes I ask myself why I’m doing this to myself.
I’m counting down the days till I finally get out here.
(note: people not having read this blog from the very beginning might want to read this entry first)
The world is frozen. Everything is trapped under this blue ice hard as stone. The glazed frost forces me to move faster than I want to. In my headphones I hear Peter Gabriel singing that life carries on and on and on. I’ve been trying to find someone to talk to, but they all have other fishes to fry.
That music depresses me even more than I already am. The winter has done its work, nature is dead. I grieve for you, you grieve for me. I should skip the track and listen to 24 by Jem. Same saddening text, but at least the melody’s more cheering up.
The wind is branding the falling star into my deadened skin. The snow is a knife chopping me up. The view of a bluish brown dead world cauterizes me. I’m sliding more than I’m walking. I’ve shut my mobile off and I’m desperately trying to hold those tears back. They have been picking my eyes for several minutes now. A few hundred meters and I’ll reach the lake. The place where I confessed you my love. I will be alone there. Far away from this selfish society. I will scream, cry, clamour, squall. And nobody will hear me. I will break down, collapse, come apart at the seams. And nobody will see me.
Peter Gabriel’s still grieving. The song has lasted five minutes now. Maybe I should fast forward.
I forgot my shawl at home. I have no force left to close my jacket. Minus five degrees and my body’s too nerveless to shiver.
The fragrance of chrysanthemum is nothing but a distant memory of a time when at least I could still imagine what hope might feel like. Quarter life crisis I called it when I tried to describe my mental state to some friend. He was right, it’s more of a midlife crisis. My life has shortened by half within a second. The second you left.
When does he finally stop grieving? Seven minutes now. My arm feels too feeble to take the player out of my pocket. My muscles are stunned.
The world didn’t stop turning. I don’t care this time. Why don’t I slip and fall? My body is giving up. My hope has been sucked out. My eyes see nothing more than a blurred vision of you. It all is nothing but a beautiful delusion. I can’t feel any relief. All those days we walked home together. Where have they gone? A span immeasurable to a human being separates us.
Where are you? You’ve been missing for months. The little girl went home and is growing up. I once wished for this. I hadn’t taken all the variables into consideration.
Finally. I have reached the lake. But you aren’t there. Peter Gabriel has found relief. Jem sings about flowers layed on the grave.
My thoughts are vacuousness. My body becomes complete inanition. My heart tries to escape into deadness.
Over thirty hours without zeds. Welcome to an insomniac’s life.
2 am. I’m trying every single method to get some sleep, none is crowned with success. Not even the strange proposition by one of my profs to “replace all vowels in the mother tongue when faling asleep”. I could create a whole new language if I would be able to concentrate on something for more than five minutes and still I would not fall asleep.
5 am. I last check time for the night. Texts to write, poems to compose, things to do, people to see, stuff to learn, texts to write, poems to compose, things to do, people I miss, stuff to learn. Confusing thoughts floating through my mind. I’m in a vicious circle and have no idea how I got into it. But I have to get out.
9.30 am. I finally get up. The headache makes me frenzied. My eyes close themselves without any conscious decision, but as soon as I’m on the journey to a world of wonderful nightmares reality brutally pulls me back. Adrenaline rushes every five minutes foreclose any attempt to get some REM sleep. I wouldn’t want to see my polysomnogram.
12 am. I get an abdominal pain. I’m not hungry. It feels like nausea. Only umpteen times worse. Maybe I should write some of the texts and poems down that keep recurring in my mind. They’re shoddy. But at least I’ll have something to do.
2.30 pm. I still didn’t get a single minute of sleep. How long can a human survive in such a condition? I feel like Christian Bale in El Maquinista. Is my wakefulness psychosomatic, too?
(No, I won’t explain this one. :-p)
Between birth and death lies desire, […]
Between birth and death lies desire,
Desire for life, for love, for everything good.
And this is the source of all suffering.
Outcast Consensus 17 (C.Y. 10942)
She was enslaved.
Watch her, manunkind, as her heart is burning.
See her, slashing her wrists, as her faith is leaving.
Remember her, cyring for help all her life, as she was slowly dying.
She was raped.
Not because of what He has done, not because of what she did,
But because of what we are doing, she suffered and died.
Now is years too late to save her,
Here was always the right place to help.
Now is the last chance of honoring her legacy,
Here is the right place to help others.
She was slayed.
Now will be tomorrow, always.
Here is everywhere for all eternities to come.
Now must not be tomorrow, always.
Here should be a singular place in the past of a future where we stood up.
She was an innocent child.
And no words, no images, no sounds,
Nothing in this universe
Could describe the pain inflicted on her.
She was innocent. So are thousands of others.
Let us not forget. Ever.
Sometimes it feels as if my life was so unimportant it doesn’t even deserve a description of a whole sentence. At other times it is as if thousands of words could not even describe a single moment.
For the last five and a half years I have been on a journey that was difficult more often than it was easy or enjoyable. I have been trying to figure out who I am, what I want to do, and who I want to be a part of my life. To be honest, I still haven’t found a satisfying answer yet, but I’m becoming aware that I might never find the answer. I’m not the person I was when I started this journey, and I won’t be the same person when this journey ends and another begins.
I’m happy though with the person I currently am, I feel quite at ease. I see part of the journey that lies in front of me, and I have come to terms with the past – well, more or less. But I have realised I wouldn’t be the person I am if I had made different choices. Yes, there are decisions I will perhaps regret my whole life, but I have no influence on them anymore. The universe has a strange kind of humor, because it are these decisions of all that made me the one I am today. I would certainly not be writing poems and prose all day long if I had made different choices – not that this would have been a great loss for the literary heritage. Yet, writing has become an essential part of my nature, which certainly was reinforced by this blog. I might be a little crazy, but for the last month or so, I’ve often carried a pen and a piece of paper with me.
My journey will certainly lead me into a whole different direction than I’m expecting, just as it did during the last years, but I will carry a small bit of hope and the knowledge that there are friends I can count on with me wherever it takes me.
Have you ever remembered something of which you’re not sure if it ever happened? I have this one memory that has been floating through my mind for the past few days. I don’t even know why I remember it, maybe a smell, a sound or a touch is responsible.
What drives me crazy is the fact of not knowing if the whole scene is only a dream that for some strange reason has made it into my consciousness, or if it has really happened and I just can’t remember the exact circumstances. If it were something totally irrealistic, e.g. flying like Superman, it would be easy to decide on whether it is real or not, but it’s a most banal situation of me walking through town with some friends. It could be a perfect example for a Freudian analysis: dark street, we are standing in front of a hotel not really knowing in which part of the city we are, some guys walking past us that look like they’re thinking whether they should use their knifes or their guns to steal our money. Or it could simply an evening that I have forgotten about because it wasn’t important. But then, why is the memory coming back to me?
There’s none of those people of this memory here to ask if it has happened or if I’m simply on the edge of reason again. I thought writing it down might help, but unfortunately it seems not.
I’ll be back with a less confusing post. :)