Hands free

Image taken from "the Unspeakable Vault of Doom", see my link "Cthulhu humour."

It's irritating. All those fools walking the streets speaking out loud to nobody. All those people, wired and cabled, like they're parts of some huge experiment in human gullibility. They are giving us, original lunatics, a bad name. We walked the streets talking to ourselves and our entourage of invisible friends for thousands of years before they came to be. And what are they worried about anyway? Brain cancer? Do remind me if peas can get cancer. I don't think so. :)

Tearing up things again.

Music: Agalloch: Ashes against the grain.

Song: Fire Above, Ice below.

"The woeful silence and wind's reflection/

Of your body's pale ode, an icy fortress of blood and ages/

Sky fire above, ice below the hearth/

Fall away from me to that citadel at the end of time/

Where death sleeps and dreams of your buried pain/

There has never been a silence like this before/

There will never be an ode like this again."

It has happened twice in the last three months. Been tearing up all those things I have been keeping as mementos. Old letters, letters and photos of boyfriends, terrible poetry I had written when I was ten or eleven, diary pieces complaining about boyfriends I never had, clipouts from magazines, copies of letters I had sent to people... I have been keeping those things believing they were in a way describing me and what I am. Problem being, I'm not that person anymore. I do not care about those people, don't communicate with those pen pals anymore and generally these are just old skins I have shed on my way to now. Like an idiot I have been holding onto skins while the original is here in flesh and blood. Who needs those things? Certainly not I. So I tore and tore and tore until I had a trolley full of past and then I went and emptied it into the recycle bin. I felt relief.

It's amazing how much papercrap one manages to accumulate in any given amount of time. For me, at least, it's papercrap. Other people with different inclinations collect other types of crap. Notice the keyword: crap. These things are just material objects. They are not us. Western civilisation has given to death the status of the absolute end, while it is nothing more than the transmutation of energy. So people collect things in order to keep death at bay, they hide under tons and mountains of bullshit. One day death comes and finds them and those left behind throw everything away, or suffocate under their crap, harbouring the illusion of those things being the person that is gone. We have promoted material objects to people. Congrats.

What is it about death that scares us so much? Probably the dissolving of ego, the loss of personality. Why? Ha. I wish most people HAD some personality, in order to be justifiably scared of losing it. I am being mean again, I know, but believe me, you have no idea what being mean is about and I'd rather leave it at that. I however promise that at a later entry I might decide to analyse what good and evil means for me. You don't have to agree, of course. You don't even have to read it, so...

Night walk

Sometimes, late at night, the urge strikes me to go for a walk. I take my MP3 and off I go, letting my feet guide me. The place I live is close to a mount and a forest of sorts, but I walk the streets. They are a maze.

I walk quietly, or I might go dancing and singing if the song is inspiring and the mood is right. Most of the time I am what I strive to be in real life too: an observer. I walk by and steal glimpses of the lives of other people. I see their gardens. I stop and smell their flowers, or touch their trees. When a room has the light on, I stop and observe the house. I see what kind of feedback I get. Would I like to live there? I often wonder what I would be like if I had grown in that house and had been in the company of different people. Would I be different? Then I count the lighted windows, estimating how many people are not sleeping, much like I am not. Are they expecting something? Are they insomniacs? Perhaps they are guardians, even without knowing. Perhaps they are suffering, or making love, or staying up till late watching this or the other film. Or maybe they are tormented by others, or tormenting themselves or others. Are they happy? Are they sad? Do they realise time flies? Do they strive for the best they can, or they hold back, afraid of fate, others, themselves? Do they live at all?

I don’t envy the lives of others. I know I will never get to live their lives and don’t want that to begin with. It’s me I am always talking to/with. Through my eyes and personality I interpret reality and am content being myself. Yet there are times I wonder, how many of these people will come to be meaningful to me, how many will be indifferent or even enemies, how many of them will be my lovers, which one (if any) will be the one to kill me, though ill intent or otherwise. Does it matter? No, it doesn’t. Those are just questions to pass time. What does matter is that time passes.

Do you ever see me passing by? Do you realise I am talking to your flowers or myself? Do you think me crazy? Do you crane your neck trying to catch a glimpse of the glorious night sky which envelopes the whole planet? Do you realise how tiny you, me, we all are, how easily a tragedy can take place, stripping you bare from everything you consider familiar, from your security and preconceived notions of life? Do you tell to those people that matter to you how you feel about them? Do you spend a few minutes every day with the one you love, be it a parent, companion, child, pet, or craft? Do you let them know you are there? Or do you just let time pass, thinking about bills and wages and pussy and dick? Do you really care? Do you see? Not just look, but see? 

Open your eyes

The night sky is clear tonight and the stars are a sight to behold

The night is sweet, and mostly quiet, and smells of flowers and spring

The earth awakens

Every moment, with every breath you take you change, you become a different person, a different version of yourself

Every moment, with every breath you take, millions of cells in your body die and new are created and your consciousness is begging you to make that one step that separates thought from action

Open your eyes. Wake up from your coma.

This is your life, right here, right now. This is your life, so you might as well live it.

Open your eyes.

You might just see me passing by.

Goodnight.