To Sai

Pain is a not a funny thing really, but it’s a little self absorbed because your pain always seems more than someone else’s. And then you shut people out because you’re so angry that they don’t understand your pain. You don’t even want them to. I thought I would wait until I finished grieving. But then I realised I never would. It’s a lifetime of dancing in the rain, a lifetime of looking at little things and loving them, a lifetime of seeing and feeling things differently, finding beauty where there is apparently none, sense where there is madness and madness where there is too much sense. It’s a lifetime of conversation. Of being a better and worse person...of talking for hours and more. It’s a friend lost.

When I can't feel....

Humans are inherently sadistic and full of apathy. And rightly so. Because isolation is the only way.

I was under the (wrong) impression that empathy is something that makes people believe they can feel for what would never be their own. But respect and consideration for other people, and all attempts to understand the human condition (in general) and people’s woes (in particular) does not do anything for a person’s evolution as a human being. It adds unnecessary baggage, and a sham of a perspective where it was not meant to be, to begin with, and where it does not belong, for a reason.

The people with the most perspective are the ones that, in short, don’t give a damn. And their observations govern their perspectives. It works. Because most of the time, there is a lot of loss between the triggers and the emotions, and the emotions and their expressions. The inability to articulate, or even comprehend emotions is something that has been difficult to analyse (barring the BS about neuroscience, which I continually find unconvincing), making them highly unreliable for any further use. The only analysis that can even be considered is the one of your own, and even that holds the risk of crass delusion . And before you know it, you’ve done it with your entire life. Get through it, and you’re probably getting somewhere. Otherwise, you are where you started.

Cut my life

I drag my feet across the last kilometer - filled with anger, frustration, fatigue and thoughts of you. What can elevate, can also bury – in to inconceivable and irretrievable depths.

I have questions that have no answers, or too many of them. I can’t choose anymore. I’m dead inside. I don’t keep away from you – I keep away from the world. You stopped being me a while ago. And I stopped being you.

I’ll get on. Because I don’t understand. And starting now, I won’t even try. Maybe one day I’ll wake up dead, or know that you are. I’ll cry for a while, and smile about knowing you – through all these years, and through all these emotions.

And know that I lost you many years ago. When I lost myself...

L'enfer, c'est les autres

A system of conversion that I don’t understand. Conversations full of cant that I cannot comprehend. To think existence is any favour to the world is self deception. Live the pretension of a reality … some make-belief is essential for existence. But don’t start believing it. The only truth is slavery – to ourselves, our lives, people, things, ideas, ideals, passions, beauty, sorrow, and death. We strive really hard to find masters. And then spend the rest of out lives castigating ourselves for not matching up. We punish ourselves severely in ways that are incomprehensible – even to us.

The road never ends – you keep waiting to see and know something that you understand, but for months, years, and lifetimes, you don’t. You keep moving vertically – not knowing sometimes if you’re going up, or just falling down. You stop to wonder if this is what insanity is. And then you realize you don’t understand that either. You want to run, but you enjoy the servitude. You like to hear your voice when you scream. And deep inside, you want everyone else to hear it and scream too.

You begin to wonder if it will ever end. You begin to feel the fractures and cracks, and you feel the life seeping out of you, drop by drop, slowly and painfully. And everything you learn makes them bigger, until one day, you finally explode in to bits.

The End of the World as We Know it

The futility of it all seems to reiterate itself every season. Emotions, places, thought, people – all seem redundant. And the only reason you need to live, is because you don’t die. And then you realize there is this secret vacuum cleaner (or vacuum creator?) sucking out all the humanity from you. And the ability to feel, the reason to think.

Then one day you wake up, and realize that you don’t care to fight anymore, you don’t care to love anymore (and that you never did.) You don’t care to believe, or understand, or challenge.

Even the ability to look for a world where existence would be justified is lost forever, because of the definite knowledge that there isn’t any. And never will be. It has always been about the senses, and once they are beyond stimulation, the definitions of perception and beauty change. It takes a second in your mind – to go from a living, breathing world, to one that simply has no tangible existence.

Don't Look Back in Anger

Trembling hands run themselves across a quickly aging face – not so much a mirror of age, but like a one way mirror into the state of the spirit. Countless pointless compromises, unasked and unanswered questions, and a feeling of emptiness at what seemed like the beginning of the end – and an end that was to come much like the rest, anyway. Maybe it could have been different. No, surely it would have been different. And then what? Maybe this end would have seemed less purposeless, more deserved.

References to lives gone by is maybe a way of moving on. But then again, words don’t quite understand. They can’t comprehend the meaning we give them, and they’re perpetually sucked into that dreary cycle of rhetoric. But maybe the worst possible scenario is the one that doesn't even leave you with enough words to recollect everything. Not because it’s largely inarticulatable (nR), but maybe because seeing life as a linear narrative does not let you think of it in terms of prose or verse. Or maybe it does. I wouldn’t know…

Gestures don't speak for themselves. Maybe that’s where the mistakes are made. But the imperative to talk also bears us down. Maybe the only choice left is to not look back in anger…

When you're done listening and singing...

After the music fades out and the skies settle, there is a void that makes sure it engulfs all that it can find. Then slowly the void begins to appeal, and turns into a living death…slow and severe at the same time, with an intense tune to it. Your body starts to dance to this tune, and by the time you’re done dancing, there’s nothing but your body left…because all the music was being made of you, feeding of your existence.

Your existence becomes an excuse of itself. The tune continues to play, and becomes a part of you, and you have no other choice but to have it feed off you.

Now there’s darkness, and you realize you begin to see, and then anything that has to do with anything you've known ever crumbles into pieces. And you understand everything, and analyze and comprehend it, you also live it, not knowing how to.

There are pangs of joy and elation, and the moments that you perceive as your own, but nothing remains your own, because you owe so much to the world. But you also owe so much to yourself.

There’s no reprieve, from your demands of the world, or from the world’s demands of you. Then one day you decide it’s all futile, and there’s just one way of doing it.

To not do it at all.