F!nal lonel!ness

The end comes when we no longer talk with ourselves. It is the end of genuine thinking and the beginning of the final loneliness. The remarkable thing is that the cessation of the inner dialogue marks also the end of our concern with the world around us. It is as if we noted the world and think about it only when we have to report it to ourselves.

S!ilver Sadness

A feeling that everything must end, the music, ourselves, the moon, everything. That if you get to the heart of things you find sadness for ever and ever, everywhere; but a beautiful silver saddness …

(John Fowles, „The Collector“)

!Sadness

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy autumn-fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

(Alfred Lord Tennyson)

Pa!n & pleasure

“For pain is perhaps but a violent pleasure? Who could determine the point where pleasure becomes pain, where pain is still a pleasure? Is not the utmost brightness of the ideal world soothing to us, while the lightest shadows of the physical world annoy?” (Honore de Balzac)

Bleed!ng !nsanity

My hand travels down my throat and into my gut and ripps out words, scattering them all over the page. I want the mournful floor to swallow me. I walk outside alone and the sky becomes a huge blackness rushing over me carrying lonely quiet screams with the thrashing wind. On the subway I feel like I am inside a huge laughing bullet crashing through someone’s heart … a young man dying on the sidewalk. The happy blue sky lauging at him. His guts all over the dirty white asphalt look like some madman’s smiling painting. I am on the train rushing forward to a nervous breakdown. I desperately clutch at buildings but they only become soft blood in my hands. I keep dying over and over again. I howl through space and millions are screaming with the winds around and around the world and millions of corpses begin falling from my hands and there’s nothing I can do but watch…

Noth!ng is what !t seems

Like tyrants assembled with tears
Trembling like a tomb
And singing like a statue
I am as empty as the ocean.
My blind eyes scream in silence
So this eternal echo will be known.
Given to the foils of time,
And shattered like plate glass-
You freeze within the fire.
Darkness now lives at daylight,
And shadows turn to the ghosts.
With all that shined is hollow
You imagine unconsciously.
And pretending to sleep you realize,
Nothing is what it seems.