irsinkast

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-...