irsinkast

But maybe I have to tell you now already that these pressures of ignorance and subjection will only get worse. You will gradually feel your control over the environment slip away, but this is just an impression since it is really your view on the world that is enlarging. Adding years to your age expands your mind and thoughts. And you start to realize that there are actually only very little things in the world that you can deeply understand. The only thing you have any power over, if you are born so lucky, are your own actions. Your emotions and even your opinions are mere slaves of circumstance. They just drift along helplessly. This is of the essence in meditation. Mastering your behaviour through activity or inactivity, to the extent that, over the years, many years for most, you feel that you can eventually channel and steer your emotions. There lies a first step in the practice of ‘letting go’. Your goal should be to let go of your emotions which are mainly reactions to outside s

No single one is better. Reddened fabrications pass on and through our heads. Concocting weary tales of our stature being different. Swinging the big oak doors wide open and leaping from the granite steps over the threshold. Rolling down the slope of busted skulls and collar bones. Sliding into the tar pits. With losers emptying large bags of feathers from above. Chuckling because they don’t get the least of it. Most of my days I spend in my head waiting for the second hand to turn the other way. Typing gibberish that serves none of my dreams. Talking to others instead of facing my nightmares. That’s real dishonesty for you. It’s a defensive manoeuvre in which I’m the first to get it. Totally pointless. If I practice what the circles have learned me I know that forcing the light in works. I know that the efforts are rewarded every time. Still the fall kills me time and time again.

I freeze up when I hit it. There’s nothing I hate more than the public road to achievement. The expectations that line up like miserable mutilations of life. Because they have succeeded in fooling some that ambition matters. That things, other than real things, could matter. Which of course they can’t. The real things like life, death, food, housing, compassion, … are absolute to us while we are alive. Ambition is your pretext to justify egoism and hedonism. And while I love exploring, enjoying and developing my senses, there is no point in glorifying them at the cost of others. Mistakes: yes, ruthless ambitions: no. My disdain for objectives and milestones is inflexibly exaggerated, beyond any realism. I carry it in front of me like a doctrine. Strutting like a peacock. Wielding my contempt like an axe. (It has become the perfectly accepted excuse for my ongoing mediocrity, which almost feels like a Zen practice. But I’ll tell you about that some other time.) Ambition is on the cuttin

One of those days, again. Seem to be having many lately and it all falls down on my head. All at once. So I’m sitting back, relaxing the shoulders, lowering my breathing, loosening the jaw, lowering my eyes. Days like cliffs. Like tall building’s roof tops. Days like rope. Of reckless driving. A forever sleep. I can’t even pinpoint what I believe to have lost. It tells me nothing. It shows me everything without explaining anything. Barely staying afloat in these days. And no longer afraid to admit it. I no longer have any practical issues. But I’m left with inner turmoil. Ravaging and howling. It’s a day for heading to bed early. And to sleep in late tomorrow. Just made a mental note. Will do.

If the dialogue has no chance to develop, our pathos has no space to grow. Contrary to what you might assume after reading these regurgitations of mine and other people’s words, I am no fan of dialogue. I am no fan of words. They are lost before they hit the floor. The life has been forced out of them before the waves bounce off the skin of your face. Once they leave the ravine that is my empty mouth that articulates these destined to be empty words. Born hollow and absolutely pointless. The only thing that moves in words you hear or read is the reflection of your feelings. The recognition of your own abandonment. The incapacity of your own expressions. Every conversation is an immediate road to defeat. As much platform as there might appear to be, nothing supports the absence of whatever these words were in their premature state. To utter means to disconsider. It is better to bury and possibly forget than to deprecate the initial thought. All the rest is losing energy. As life is just

There’s a heat wave. Statistically even. It was on the news and all. And that’s where all the truth comes pouring out, no? That’s the moment we look forward to so we can feel informed. I’m sleeping like a charm though. If I take some precautionary measures. But during the day I’m dragging this awful thing along. It hangs from my spine as if it is attached directly to the cord inside. The pain is like metal flashes of memory cutting and slicing away at my breath. I feel bereft. Cleft in twine, straight down the middle. It made me think of the wounded, dying girl that cut off her own face as she sank to the floor. Not to be recognized, nor remembered. I thought about the reason for that mutilation in those last seconds for a very long time. Because I did not have to convince myself that it made absolute sense. It just did. I even liked the concept. I don’t just talk to myself, you know. I do speak to others about this amour for the negative. It still is a delicate subject cause it makes

I once wrote these lyrics in my hardcore days: “These metaphors, don’t tell me who I am. They classify me in a box and feed me to death. Now I am dying here, in your euphoria. Your soft coercion, I name chains. I don’t need your new age doctrine, I don’t need to shake your hands. I don’t need your pretty pictures, I don’t need your promised land. You spread your lies, like rain across the land. They live your lies, savages… “ and so on. The song was called ‘Box’ and the thought of it kept me awake last night. Or maybe it was just something to do while I was awake anyway. Serves me right for listening to this 108 compilation (which you all should get if you want to know shit about shit) over and over again in my car, to and from work. I got up to piss and while I strolled into the bathroom, I saw the light of the washing machine which sprung the voice of my girlfriend saying: “I’m gonna put in this laundry, but – shit – it’s gonna suffocate if I leave it ‘til the morning. Ah fuck it” (w

It can be a day, warm like the inert surface of a vibrant lake or the loose skin of a silver serpent. Slithering through our shadows. Something hoary and ancient. But still seething and bursting with your most venomous and murderous fires. Warm days can feel truly cold and dead. Whereas frozen, damp and dim places can be the most heartwarming of them all. They seem to be. My warmest moments never had anything to do with the weather or the outdoors, even the outside world was far from there. Our skins did burst with rapture, making real nasty gushers of melancholy and promise but also of unanticipated pleasures. Puncturing our unripe senses and unleashing something of a god on our souls. I felt it. Haven’t you? I’m floating and bobbing languidly on layers of thick sentimental drivel. My pathetic goo of discontent and a thick sense of abandonment. A sorry excuse for empathy, which I seem to lack completely. And, let’s be honest, somewhat of an extravagance. Lavishly and shamelessly self-

Uh, it wants me. Wheezing in my neck, dripping and slurping at my lobes, soaking my shoulders in its viscous mouth water, glaring at my stale carcass, grabbing at my feelings, all horny for my breath, ruining my wanton virtue. A many legged undead something that outstretches over the skies, flaking and propelling its warty scales into my forcibly unlocked, broken jaws. Discharging its reeking sick from gaping and spluttering orifices for it to come down on me in foul, oily rains. What a sight for knifed eyes. It stands and spans over all, for all the world to see its bitterness. Clasping its claws into volcanoes and crevasses, holding on for dear life, to immortalize the second in an era. Behind its murky mantle the atmosphere is ablaze, heaving intense vapors of amethysts and emeralds like a downpour over its horned and spoiled back. Dripping and spitting from its loins into our open wounds. Blended with the sour sting of its festering boils. It is wrapped around the globe for all to

One can manoeuvre around one's own self half the time and just be plain oblivious the other half but still find yet another ‘extra’ half or whole to be thoroughly miserable. What does that tell us about ourselves? What does that really tell us, except for the fact that we have too much time on our hands. Idle time for the psyche to construe more layers than we can deal with, up to the point where we split in half or in thirds or more. The trick is to keep busy and not to find or give yourself the time of considering the gist of things. The thick of it. Every thought endures a process that siphons you straight to the same end. An enchanted figment where the rainbows touch the ground right where you stand, leaving you ankle deep in tears of joy. Engulfed by the warmth of bitter love and protruding harmonies as to wring the very nature from your bodily vessel. The evaporation of the last drop of effervescence in your words, since words are useless there, and the decimation of the myri

What a day. Such a wonderful collection of dear moments. Every next one more magical and compelling than the last. The sumptuous meadow I’m lying in. The embracing wire fences. The stumbling calves and the smiling herd. The hillside I’m repeatedly, vigorously, compulsively rolling down. The mitigating warmth that tickles me. The flow of scents that pulls back on my fleeing through the wild. The willows that reach down to sweep their plush branches against my head. The crunching echoes of the old tree trunks releasing their outer bark. The staggering sounds that whisper and kiss my battered drums. The length of time that opens up in front of me. The absolute simplicity of every former step. The gentlest of hands to loosely clasp my dried out knuckles. The earnest thoughts of leaving everything for only this faintest of possibilities. Pushing out the realities that stab their mortal judgment and oppression into my softened gut. Banning the bitter sting of the grime that pushes in, to ove

Most of the time I try not to feel entitled to anything at all. But occasionally, when I do slip , I profoundly feel I have the right to be annoyed by the evolved state of things that used to matter to me, and which I have failed to consider for a while. And before I regain my desperate posture, a vast amount of disgruntled thoughts, has already made it to my disfigured mind. Many of the influences and input and noise that we get bombarded with, is teeming and bursting with plots and vicious schemes. I don’t know about you, but it makes me feel totally disconnected to myself. The deepest of feelings are ‘construed’ and ‘displayed’ and ‘facilitated’. It’s like soul is being marketed, easily achieved. I hate that. Really! It goes for anything nowadays. People think they are buying slices of downright purity while they are really spooning filthy shit into their open and vulnerable hearts. All unsuspecting and innocent. Concept used to be the direct consequence of context. It needed valida

There’s more to come where I came from. When hordes of people, and especially the muses and wonders in your very own head, start telling you that there is something totally wrong with you, you have to start taking it serious. I admit that ‘totally’ was not the word they used, but I like drama more than the next one. You will see me do that a lot: exaggerating the point for the sake of the argument. You might as well not be that insecure child you used to be when you were growing up. Maybe you are a filthy speck on the otherwise spotless world. Maybe you really are a swine amongst gods and this entire soul searching trip you’re on is just a proof, a demonstration of a tasteless, inelegant ignorance. Well today, finally for some mysterious and wonderful reason, I could no longer exclude those possibilities. I was hoping to postpone that finality for some more years, until I was stronger and brighter, but what the hell. I take everything as it comes, so why not this. My building blocks

What a few hollow words can do? I threw them together and ended up here… and it didn’t seem to do anyone any good. It just confused people. It confuses people. Because words spoken, are words lost. And thoughts lost. Soul and sense lost. I’ve given up so much of my senses that it frightens me at times. But I feel all that much the lighter. Like I’ve thrown off huge piles of excess baggage that were slowing me down. And that's what it always seems to boil down to. Letting go. Infested with principle and dedications. Crawling and breeding inside me like roaches in a rotting shutter. How willing and delighted I would be to give you the keys. But these things can not be told or instructed. They have to be lived and experienced. The blanks can only be filled out by what you fail to express in your ways. Or what I fail to mention or stick to my words. If I let myself be lured into the arrogance of trying to convey the irrevocable, I stare at myself from the other side. I see me as you, l

There is something hideously horrid about the whole house. The long lines of waits; queuing behind yourself and the last time you lurched around with the same intent, the same personal providence. The heaps of perfectly thoughtful questions at the door. The rooms that always stay disabled and empty, no matter how high stuff, that you keep dragging along, gets stacked in them. How can you stand it? How can you deal with those halls of things to be tackled any longer? Wouldn’t it be a true relief to see it all fall apart. To feel it burst. To close half the doors and ignore most of the open ones left. Or all of them. To close down ambition altogether. Things want to be meaningless and open. Things don’t want to be clear or sizeable. Nor manageable. Meaning is a spur of the moment commitment. Behind the meaning of meaning lingers the absence of question. Asleep and perfect. Almost like an absolution of doubts. The more relative state. A delicate but stern decision on a glorious and vivid

hello, I am Irsin Kast. You are most welcome. These writings are unlimited by the real things that might hold me back when I would talk to you in person. When we would speak in real life. I found out that I am not a true fan of real life. There is no imagination in real life. And imagination is the thing that keeps me motivated. The awkward things make me comfortable, more than the normal flow. I have no point to make, since I believe there is no point in the classical sense of the word. We interpret things from an angle that has proven itself completely irrelevant. I am no exception but I acknowledge my futile position and I embrace the beauty of it. The real feelings of life are 'in between' life. On the outskirts of reason. Beyond the desires of matter and light. Dwelling these white places is where I feel more alive than elsewhere. You are most welcome to stroll along. But don't look for content here. There is only white empty space and a hand full of dark dust to take