Saturday, April 14, 2007


Sitting on top of a mountain smoking and watching the sunset--as the sky fades away from its brilliant display of colors--is sad. And I feel as if the bottoms of my mind are empty. Once I looked at them like pools of water. With sudden sparks ignited by the people around me. I am trying to understand what it is like with nothing. In terms of no more ignitions for my mind. Those puddles just sitting there still in the dark. And I am walking by each of them with my fingers stretching out.

I want something besides this endless task. The endless task of writing and reading. Back and forth, we are partners, but it makes me feel like withering into holes. I need release. I lost the things that made this worthwhile, and in the end it only became a discovery of inner turmoil that persisted the words along. Strung in a chain of daisies. Wonderful flowers along a clothes line in a New York skyline.

I ran out of water.
And it feels like I ran out of food and out of any nourishment. I am simply consumed by an urgency towards a future that is seemingly more of 'these days.' What sort of future is that? Where the best things are only related from the past. Even when they happen now, only then are they projected back and enjoyed in the past.

I ran out of feeling.
And gave up instead for meanness and solitude. Crawling under my blanket at night and looking at my books in fondness. What sort of future is that? Where the things that are with me are dusty and solitary. Just like me. I am slowly morphing. It feels like the spirit that makes me light is faded, and now only in moments of exuberance with distant magic, talking across the sea will I spark again. And then, in the dim sunset, sitting on the mountain smoking a cigarette, it fades from brilliant color.

I took up meanness.
And it gave me this. Small red spots on the pure white skin of my body. Tingling in pain, the hate can literally not survive in my good body. So it tries to struggle free from the prison of good. But I won't let it. I need 'you' I tell my hate and anger. I need you so that I keep on breathing. Because otherwise, there is nothing and no one. And so they stay and in pain and agony I lie in my bed hurting all over. I don't want this I tell myself. But what else is there.

I took up the colors of the world one day.
I tried them on and they gave me the impression that I am an outcast. Like those characters of books when writers wrote three words a line. And the impression made me feel all the more jealous. I took up to writing the worst things that any writer should write. Freeing myself from the chains of self-control and discipline. And instead penning the rape of women, the torture of men, the dying of children, and the pains of ten. All in instants, people would be spilling blood from their mouths, sleeping with their friends lovers, and shouting in rage as other men shoot other men and everyone is crying.

When we take up up the colors of the world, we get the impression that is everyone else.
And I hated the impression. So I went back to solitude. And this time it became worse. With every little thing that was mine becoming hated. Even my friends, those books that I would stare at in the night, were my enemy. And everything became colorless because it lacked feature and depth. I became like those dead roses sprayed to stay stiff next to my father's picture. That last memorial before they were thrown out as well. I just can't bear the boredom, the nothing, the escalating thing that I am just becoming those roses.

I can't.

i'm going to beat your face with a hammer!

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