Some people are clutching at straws to make sense of what's going on. I am clutching at pieces of paper. My entire life is nothing but piles of paper, heaps of paper, castles of fucking paper.
I think it's time to strike a match and say to hell with it.
I am just too tired for words and yet words are what I have left. Words and cathairs as well as cats, the avid producers of the aforesaid hairs. Enthusiastic producers they are for certain. I'll give them that.
Fifteen years old, with a lovely voice. Raped, killed and thrown down the cliff. The razor straight, almost vertical cliffs of beautiful Ireland, going down to the pounding sea.
Less than thirty. Slowly executed in a concentration camp, the kind of living death when every day you are stripped naked of everything that makes you human. It was a crime to be of gypsy blood. Seventy years later, it still is a crime.
Twenty three years old. Killed by her abusive, drunkard husband for having an affair. What's new?
The thoughts and stories and little lives circle me tonight, circle me resembling large goldfish, dragonfish, orange and green and golden, and they want a piece of me.
Have a piece. It's useless anyway. I am living a pretty much pointless life. It does not make much difference one way or the other. It's Zen, baby. Zen to the rotten core. That apple is zen. My life is zen. I am so fucking zen that the great masters of Zen stand ashamed in front of me. They slap their foreheads and wonder why they didn't think of it themselves; living a perfectly empty existence.
(The last strings were cut, cut free, cut clean, and even though I am floating the gravity of my own mind pulls me down, pulls me down viciously, and my soul feels like a lead balloon, and I don't want this kind of soul, I want a different one with lots of colours, not such an old, dirty and torn thing. I don't want this kind of soul with the weight of countless ages, the weight of so many deaths on my hands, on my conscience, no no no, please take it away, please take it away, I DON'T WANT IT ANYMORE)
The art of living is such an easy thing. Breathe in, breathe out. The rest will follow.
I have never felt about any one thing that it could be such an exercise in futility as much as I feel it about my life. Never, ever have I considered something as useless as those thirty something years here. What the hell do I struggle for? Why do I fight, why do I insist? Why do I torture my mind over countless pieces of paper, why do I work like a slave and say no to so many things, and put up with so much bullshit, and discuss so many daft matters with such a variety of idiotic people? Why do I bother sticking to my code of honour and asking what would be the best path of conduct, and brush my teeth and wash my hair and all that shit? Why oh why do I bother with these, give me one valid reason why I bother, why I even try, why I spend so much time and put so much effort in this pitiful semblance of existence?
Poor Daisuke, poor little child of mine, birds of a feather always flock together, don't they? You just came into my head uninvited one day, just like we all come and leave one day, you came to stay and what I can say is that I am sorry, I am so sorry my little boy. I am sorry because I am not a story weaver. I am a teller of tales, which means a witness. I am merely a witness to what's happening anyway, behind closed doors, by people with no conscience. I know why you can't connect. Don't let it bother you anyway, it's the same here. I can't connect either. Some things are not meant to be, and I cannot be like them because I know, and they cannot be like me because they don't. And I don't blame them one bit if they don't want to know and understand. I chose knowledge and look where it got me anyway. To the madhouse, in a room with a view.
Don't let it bother you one bit. Just raise your gun and shoot me once. Aim true. Make it impeccable. Make it a mercy killing, make it a banquet. Make it look like I am sleeping. Make it look like I was torn apart by wolves. Make it look any way you like, it doesn't really bother me in the least. What truly bothers me is this so-called life.
To hell with it all.
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