14th of December 2015.
The day I gave myself to my true nature. In the same manner a dam breaks under the pressure of an immense body of water. And everything flows so disastrously natural from then on.
Monday 14 December 2015
Wednesday 2 December 2015
Fixation
At times, I wake up in the middle of the night after an ocean of gin washed me back to the shores of the waking world. No headache. No nausea. Just an indescribable feeling of emptiness, as if my insides were carved out.
In these moments, the radio is usually on and the music there only helps to resurrect the madness of a thousand people that lived and died within my head.
I laid on the floor minutes in a row falling in and out of sleep. My body, like Charon`s boat, carried in and out of all sorts of hells.
I try writting but by the time I`m done, the paper doesn`t seem to worth less than the wood it was massacred for. The source of this anxiety is my neverending discontent with the world.
This unbarred feeling that I have so much to offer yet nobody to offer it to.
I can almost feel it, like cold hands against my throat, this feeling that I am wasting away somehow, suspended in cold indifference, like a planet without a sun.
In these moments, the radio is usually on and the music there only helps to resurrect the madness of a thousand people that lived and died within my head.
I laid on the floor minutes in a row falling in and out of sleep. My body, like Charon`s boat, carried in and out of all sorts of hells.
I try writting but by the time I`m done, the paper doesn`t seem to worth less than the wood it was massacred for. The source of this anxiety is my neverending discontent with the world.
This unbarred feeling that I have so much to offer yet nobody to offer it to.
I can almost feel it, like cold hands against my throat, this feeling that I am wasting away somehow, suspended in cold indifference, like a planet without a sun.
Immersion Ritual
I went out on a rainy Wednesday night when only cocaine dealers get out of the house. As I was glaring absent mindedly out the window of the cab, I couldn`t shake the feeling that I was living a life that was not entirely my own. One was not my own at all, really.
Outside, in the calmly chilled dark, hands held each other, some broken, like the inner fabric of their owners. I got off and started walking. Music could be heard from a myriad of places. Clubs, bars, food stalls and passing cars. Soundtracks for the sleepless and the wicked. Girls winked, laughed and shouted as they passed me by. I walked on, indifferent, where probably greater men than me have fallen. I felt this unusual darkspace between me and the world as the cold rain started to slide down my hair.
Along the canals, I strode through places where light shines meekly. Where dealers of dreams whisper like demons through holes in the walls. Their faces obscured. Somewhere in the distance, a girl is crying, a black bird tattooed on her right hand. I didn`t stop for a second to comfort her. I walked on, spellbound, through the ghost lights of Regency Wharf. the boats rocked gently against the wind and seagulls made shy noises every now and then. I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds and I could see myself in Brighton. The sun, licking my skin. It felt so strangely real. Like a heroin dream that melts away an unstoppable urge to be sinister.
I opened my eyes and the world seemed for some reason,lazier than ever. A slow motion apocalypse in which I silently resumed my immersion ritual.
Outside, in the calmly chilled dark, hands held each other, some broken, like the inner fabric of their owners. I got off and started walking. Music could be heard from a myriad of places. Clubs, bars, food stalls and passing cars. Soundtracks for the sleepless and the wicked. Girls winked, laughed and shouted as they passed me by. I walked on, indifferent, where probably greater men than me have fallen. I felt this unusual darkspace between me and the world as the cold rain started to slide down my hair.
Along the canals, I strode through places where light shines meekly. Where dealers of dreams whisper like demons through holes in the walls. Their faces obscured. Somewhere in the distance, a girl is crying, a black bird tattooed on her right hand. I didn`t stop for a second to comfort her. I walked on, spellbound, through the ghost lights of Regency Wharf. the boats rocked gently against the wind and seagulls made shy noises every now and then. I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds and I could see myself in Brighton. The sun, licking my skin. It felt so strangely real. Like a heroin dream that melts away an unstoppable urge to be sinister.
I opened my eyes and the world seemed for some reason,lazier than ever. A slow motion apocalypse in which I silently resumed my immersion ritual.
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