irsinkast

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 ...