Heaven save me from growing wise!
And I will mumble the same to my last turn:
Heaven save me from growing wise!
—Knut Hamsun
There was a writing here.
About a man who lost his way
and realized that:
he was just happier like that.
He never returned home.
There was a writing here,
about a great man: a hero.
Such a great writing it was.
It was right here.
It was full of wisdom.
I deleted it.
[ You can thank me later ]
The most terrifying idea imaginable, for me, is meeting a person one day, who is always right about everything. Not someone who thinks s/he is always right about everything. That’s common, and with the right attitude, very manageable. What I fear the most is to one day meeting a person who is actually really always right about everything.
Where will i run to then? Where can i hide?
mood provider: Metallica — The Outlaw Torn
losing someone to death
and waiting for a replacement that never comes
losing someone to death or
to an irreparable separation or
to a reparable one you don’t want to repair or
you don’t know how to repair or
you aren’t sure if it would make a difference to repair
[ no: it always makes a difference.
it’s just that the difference is never
the difference you expect it to be
or the one you hope to see ]
I search the outside, search inside
To take back what you left me
I know I’ll always burn to be
The one who seeks : so I may find
And now I wait my whole lifetime
Time was never on my side
So on I wait my whole lifetime
losing someone to it
and waiting for a replacement that never comes
so?
i really hate this blog.
mood provider: Metallica — The More I See
if it’s true that intellect is torture
when you are aware of things, you suffer
and
the more you know, the less you believe
in yourself, in others…
in anything, really
then today’s intellectuals
must be the sinners of the past
[ because, you see,
some say that Heaven is for eternity — but Hell is not
you do go to Hell — but you do get out
for God is a compassionate chap
and he is generous when it comes to mercy
yet parsimonious when it comes to wrath ]
eternity can mean only one thing:
not playing the game anymore
not rolling the dice again
eternity is not: living for ever
eternity is: not living at all
[ Heaven is God letting you stay dead. ]
[ Hell is reincarnation. ]
if you are alive today,
it’s your fault.
so, really,
stop whining.
please.
mood provider: Muse – Undisclosed Desires
give me something to worry about,
and i’ll be in your debt for ever.
give me something to sulk over
something worth to sigh about
and so on and so on.
i really don’t wanna write this one, so maybe i’ll write another:
an epitome of rightfulness
when all we needed was to be wrong
etc.
crap.
just more crap. everytime.
more uninspired clichés, and
more constipated potentials realized, and
insects, leeches and all types of disgusting wildlings.
all the time.
every. fucking. time.
just when you feel you’re this close to an epiphany
and
just when you feel you’re this close to a holy sanity
—whatever that is—
it turns out to be:
just more crap. everytime.
more uninspired clichés, and
more constipated potentials realized.
insects, leeches’n’all kinds of disgusting wildlings.
all the time.
every.
fucking.
time.
this is about statistics. so pure: it transforms everything with a touch so slight that it moves hardly anything. sorry, but
this is about you, what was it: reaching out for something you’ve got to feel / while clutching to what you had thought that was real. and this, this!
this is about the myriad ways of falling in love with someone. but,
come on, you don’t really fall in love with someone. you just fall in love while s/he stands there:
at the right place.at the right time.
surely only momentarily: one day,anyday,you just fall out of it while s/he merely stands there:
at someplace.anyplace.at the wrong time.
this is not about love. coz i’m not in love.
this is about possibilities which we are told that are so rare, yet happens to virtually everyone.
virtually everyone, falls in love with someone.
this is about that day. and that piercing sun.
you shouldn’t have lied. you shouldn’t have told the truth either. you should’ve just kept silent. you didn’t,
and grinded us all down with your precious truth.
you should’ve known. words have no chance but to hurt: you shouldn’t have expected otherwise. you did,
and grinded us all down with your conceited confessions.
how to correct a mistake? you don’t: you can’t: you just cover it up. but you didn’t want to do this neither, couldn’t lower yourself, no.
you grinded us all down with your pride instead.
you shouldn’t have. it happened. (sh)it happens. i love(d) you despite all these things. i just can’t bring myself to forgive.
miracles do happen. that’s why we have a name for them. i have a firm, if unfounded, belief that each and every thing we have a name for, has to exist somehow. they may have qualities unlike we attribute to them; forms different from what we expect… but they exist in some way or the other. or that, merely by way of naming, we blow life into a new being without even knowing it. words have that power. that’s what i believe.
that is why i’ve always been afraid of ghosts: because they should exist, even if they are not semi-transparent aerial bed sheets; or yetis, even if they are not, unfortunately, overgrown anthropomorphic beasts covered in fur, with a bad habit of leaving without a proper goodbye. miracles do happen. so as i finally penetrate the thick wall of fog and enter this godforsaken desert town, i feel relieved, but not surprised in any way. no. not surprised. it’s a miracle, i know, get over it.
i’m walking beneath a ruthless sun. indifferent towards me, the rats, and towards the snakes and towards the spiders with pitch black velvet furs, hiding behind small rocks, waiting for their time. towards the creatures of running sand. and the creatures of decaying earth. indifferent towards all of us; still, we owe our lives to its distant existence. our petty lives: these pieces of time; filled with misery rooted in the joys of others and hatred rooted in the fortune of them. reasons rooted in stupidity, and even some benevolence, rooted in pure cruelty. pieces of time noone knows what to do with.
i’m walking towards a mirage. it looks just like a village once i’ve seen: a small group of tiny trees buried deep in a fog of sand, a few buildings, a few people, tired, sitting. i’m tired too, but still moving anyway: towards a mirage that looks just like the real thing; but when you can never reach it, does it really matter? i hope it’s real, and i hope i can reach it somehow… but hope is just the simplest form of procrastination. you hope for something better; you hope that you find a water well behind that dune or see a caravan on the horizon… just to postpone facing the truth you wouldn’t like to face: there’s no water and there’s no caravan. hell, there isn’t even a horizon. so, i just walk. towards a mirage… or a real desert town. i don’t know. it doesn’t matter. i just, walk.
therewillbeasilence
a silence thatyou’vesoanxiouslywaited,
youwon’t havetheguts to faceit.
(and
a syncopatedrhythm.maybe.
or a but a
rhythm-with-noaudible-color)
thatlinemyfriend,wassucha
cliché
whateverthough:
i’llprepare you foryourlastandlongestjourney
buicannotguarantee evena
buicannotguarantee evena mildlyinteresting view.
TheIdea.ofsilencing yourinnerself, bytheway
to
hearwhatyourstalker hastosay,
came to me while i was takingashower
and havingdreams ofGrandéur. and but
idon’tfind any supernaturalsignificance inthis
event.
norshouldyou.
