So, i haven't write anything in more than a few weeks.
It always seems to be the case , some stupid comment about it thrown in there (like now).
Stuff happened. Apparently it always does.
Few good things: a new environment, a cheap form of companionship, a little hope, perhaps.
Some bad things as well: growing older, friendships lost, people died, fishes starved; a new found hatred.
Guess the major event (that succeeded in pissing me off more than it should) was the loss of my journal: a colorful book, filled up with thoughts and scribbles, written up to the brim with long gone demonstrations of my artistic self, the book that followed me anywhere.
A far away island, where, despite all the population and a language i could not understand (even though it was my own); where i could see happiness in peoples faces - something i am not used to experience, mind you - after a hard day's work, assembling on a plaza for a cup of coffee and a few cigarettes; where the scenery, reminiscent of centuries past, lay untouched, unchanged, unblemished; where you could gaze ahead and not see a single wire in the sky; where you could go through the wilderness at 140 km per hour and not encounter a single person, feeling the wind run through your fingers, eager for more, flowers blurring your vision everywhere you looked, the amazing scent strong enough to awaken your sense of smell; where the fisherman lay by the water, waiting for a bite and, occasionally, throwing it at to hell, taking off their clothes and jumping fearlessly into the crystal clear water; where there were huge trees, flowers everywhere, cows grazing in the mountain sides and even grazing in the clouds; the sky clear everywhere you looked and the air fresher than anything i have yet experienced till that moment.
Definitely a glorious place.
Where the fights and despair of my everyday life were registered.
The times i just picked my bicycle and just cycled away, leaving everything behind in the cold nights, just to get away.
Where I recorded my unceasing thoughts that could only be stopped with music.
where the memories of my friends and people long gone now showed their inner being, when i still could see peoples inner being.
When everything was right and no purpose beyond life itself was needed.
The fed animals and trembling purple hands, trying to write away whatever I needed, just to get a possibility of ending it, getting it out of my system, forget it all. A wish i regret now all too often, since i can no longer retain what little things i did remember.
Where my decline and experiences were; the final resting place of all my rage and loneliness, beaches, railways, road trips and moments of epiphany.
Sure, it was a fucking notebook: a cheap assembly of processed trees..
"You still have you head, don't you? Everything in your life resides there." Apparently yes. I am no longer able to grasp it beyond the slippery surface. It's too painful.
Yet i am no longer the kid i once was and, to hell with modesty, i was brilliant. I was something. Despite the fact that everything still resides in here i never could recall the events of my life past a few days.
Whatever experiences i had that made it through to me they were never the real thing and it never stuck.
I am now a shell and am still alone.
Whatever proof i could show that i was maybe something more is lost.
With that, possibly one of the most important assets i had.
I am me, only me. And that you can not see. nothing more i want to pretend but the truth is I still want somebody to accept me for who i am. Everyone does i guess. But the proof is gone now.
Is it too late to start again?
It always seems to be the case , some stupid comment about it thrown in there (like now).
Stuff happened. Apparently it always does.
Few good things: a new environment, a cheap form of companionship, a little hope, perhaps.
Some bad things as well: growing older, friendships lost, people died, fishes starved; a new found hatred.
Guess the major event (that succeeded in pissing me off more than it should) was the loss of my journal: a colorful book, filled up with thoughts and scribbles, written up to the brim with long gone demonstrations of my artistic self, the book that followed me anywhere.
A far away island, where, despite all the population and a language i could not understand (even though it was my own); where i could see happiness in peoples faces - something i am not used to experience, mind you - after a hard day's work, assembling on a plaza for a cup of coffee and a few cigarettes; where the scenery, reminiscent of centuries past, lay untouched, unchanged, unblemished; where you could gaze ahead and not see a single wire in the sky; where you could go through the wilderness at 140 km per hour and not encounter a single person, feeling the wind run through your fingers, eager for more, flowers blurring your vision everywhere you looked, the amazing scent strong enough to awaken your sense of smell; where the fisherman lay by the water, waiting for a bite and, occasionally, throwing it at to hell, taking off their clothes and jumping fearlessly into the crystal clear water; where there were huge trees, flowers everywhere, cows grazing in the mountain sides and even grazing in the clouds; the sky clear everywhere you looked and the air fresher than anything i have yet experienced till that moment.
Definitely a glorious place.
Where the fights and despair of my everyday life were registered.
The times i just picked my bicycle and just cycled away, leaving everything behind in the cold nights, just to get away.
Where I recorded my unceasing thoughts that could only be stopped with music.
where the memories of my friends and people long gone now showed their inner being, when i still could see peoples inner being.
When everything was right and no purpose beyond life itself was needed.
The fed animals and trembling purple hands, trying to write away whatever I needed, just to get a possibility of ending it, getting it out of my system, forget it all. A wish i regret now all too often, since i can no longer retain what little things i did remember.
Where my decline and experiences were; the final resting place of all my rage and loneliness, beaches, railways, road trips and moments of epiphany.
Sure, it was a fucking notebook: a cheap assembly of processed trees..
"You still have you head, don't you? Everything in your life resides there." Apparently yes. I am no longer able to grasp it beyond the slippery surface. It's too painful.
Yet i am no longer the kid i once was and, to hell with modesty, i was brilliant. I was something. Despite the fact that everything still resides in here i never could recall the events of my life past a few days.
Whatever experiences i had that made it through to me they were never the real thing and it never stuck.
I am now a shell and am still alone.
Whatever proof i could show that i was maybe something more is lost.
With that, possibly one of the most important assets i had.
I am me, only me. And that you can not see. nothing more i want to pretend but the truth is I still want somebody to accept me for who i am. Everyone does i guess. But the proof is gone now.
Is it too late to start again?
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