Select Page

It´s somewhere in between tragic and funny me having this moment of revelation, hangovered, stoned – no not a vision, I was not even close to what you call consciousness, I was closer to pass out, but I felt it, a feeling of nothing. Betrayed by disgust. Like a stone in your shoe or butterflies in your stomach, but you need to get rid of it, it´s so not healthy, so not endurable and so terribly annoying to an extend. To that moment where you can´t stand it anymore. You want to scream, flail, poke through, breath again. Because I feel disgusted with myself. Not because of the fact that I feel differently than I want to feel – it would just make things so much lighter, but because of these, my thoughts, these rumbling, bleeding, meanness-festering, cold thoughts. How can I think about her in such a surge of denial. – That´s our way to talk us out?! Again! What a shit strategy. For Christ sake, for Christs’ penance. Jesus fucking Christ. This my world is blessed, drowned and soaking in guilt and shame, greed and fame if you believe. – Deconstruction of a romance. Me and the bad guy´s feeling. Me feeling and by that being bad. Bad kid. I love you but not as strong as I should to live with you, to return what your love deserves – purity. What makes you a friend kills you finally. It´s not enough, but it is. Utterly. Get the hell out of there, it won´t get better, right? Deconstruction is brutal. You build all this flourish paradises, one for each, for the dogs, kids, cats, your garage and your two cars, your plans, you paint in colors you do actually hate, but you laugh about it, together, because you are on this trip of being stronger than ever, and more complete than ever. Forever and ever. And one day after forever and everything, this guy drops off a message. I haven´t seen the guy, only a shadow, it was on a sunny day, calm sky, blue noise, yellow fever and a stretch into each other, entangled in love. I picked up the message. Nothing. There was nothing on it, the message disappeared, it was I think never there. And it left nothing. That nothing. A monument of prophecy. And believe it or not, I do not believe, but it nailed me to the cross, stroke by stroke, slowly, the hammer resting on the head, crescendo, resting screams, engraving the distortion of pain in your face, before it winds up again. And you just want that it stops, make it stop. Stop please. But you make sure you don´t fall off again, in the arms of your consolatory torturer, your lover. Don´t forget.