Violence

Once upon a time, a woman I loved asked me a hypothetical question. She was sick of my procrastinating way of dealing with things. She was tired of my way of waiting up, seeing what is going down, and most likely not doing anything to really influence the situation, lazy bastard that I am. She said, if you were coming to meet me, and you saw that a man was molesting me, what would you do? I said, I would wait and see… see if you can deal with it alone. So then she asked the next pertinent question: what would you do if he laid a hand on me, got rough?
I wondered if I should really tell her that those are the moments I am glad I don’t carry weapons. I can only hope that there are none to hand, if it should ever come to that. I am, generally speaking, a peaceable person. I don’t want to hurt anybody, I really don’t. But I know myself. I know what puts me in a rage, and I know that the control I have then breaks.
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I told her I would then immediately intervene. That is, as far as it goes, the truth. I didn’t say that I would probably pick up the nearest blunt object and whack it across the back of his head, and then pounce on him and smash my fists in to his face until my knuckles broke. I didn’t tell her that, should a gun be at hand, I might very well simply shoot his fucking brains out, on the spot.
Now you’re probably thinking: what a bullshitter, bragging about what he would do, if. But you don’t get it. I think violence is wrong. I’ve been on both ends of violence, and either way, it basically sucks. I know what others are capable of… been beaten so bad I landed in the hospital. I know what I am capable of, and I like that even less than landing in the hospital. I know I’ve enjoyed being violent, and that’s worse still. The last thing I would brag about is my capability for violence.
Have you ever, like me, woken up one fine morning and wondered where the blood on your knuckles came from? Horrible thought, isn’t it… but worse than the thought is the fact. Memory dawns on you… and you realize that violence is horrible. It’s bad. Though it may even seem necessary at times, it’s still wrong. It’s the last stupid exit you take when you know no other way out, or when you are so drunk that you are reduced to base instincts. Or when the situation is so intolerable that… I don’t want to think about it any more.
It’s those moments, when I am not fucking around anymore, that frighten me for myself. For all of us. I realize then what humans are capable of.
I shouldn’t have written this post. It reminds me of the beast in me, the anger I fight to keep down day for day. The beast that wants to fight and kill. Better to be lazy, and to let things go their way. Just please don’t put me in that position where I see no other way out. Please, brother, don’t force me to it. Cuz’ I ain’t violent, until that moment, dammit, until that very moment…

Sitting at the bar
Not drunk, just drinking
Listening to the music
Thinking how beautiful it is

Loving people, loving life
Loving myself
Teaching myself
How to feel good

Being good natured
Being human

Until that moment

Nobody
Fucked with me
I didn’t want to hit anyone
In the head

Until that moment

That moment
That moment…

Until that very moment
Tshak!*

*Flesh and bone, motherfucker.

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Drinking and Thinking

A very, very bad combination. Normally, you drink in order not to think. But when you drink and start to think… well. That’s the moment when you know something has gone horribly wrong. The moment when you realize you have drunk too little, or perhaps not enough… or maybe you just didn’t drink fast enough? In any case, you’ve somehow missed the point. The point of no return? No, that’s not what I meant… uhhh; no. The decisive moment? No, it’s not that either. The point. You missed the point. You know what I mean, don’t you? Christ. As always, the answer is not at the bottom of the glass. How often are you going to try this until you give up? It’s the third bottle, every damned time. That’s when you start thinking again, and it’s no good.
Just now a tractor drove past, in the middle of fucking town, in the middle of the fucking night, b’god. What the hell is going on here? Listening to Running from Milky Chance. Trying my very best to stop thinking.
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True Lies

Everything I tell you is a lie. That’s the truth.
In every good lie lies the truth. The truth in a lie is like the pollen in a flower. It hopes you will gather it up and spread it around. Lies are bad, but they aren’t evil… their just hopeful. They want to be spread all over. Like any species, they want to survive. Fortunately, they have humans to pollenate them. Ever growing fields of lies, mutating and multiplying, covering the earth until there is nothing else left. You can try to root them out, but their roots are so deep in the human psyche that you can never get rid of them entirely. And in every single one of them lies a kernel of truth. That is what makes them so attractive, you wouldn’t believe them otherwise. Lies are possibilities. It could be that way. Or not. You’ll never know, because you’re a gardner who can’t distinguish between weeds and flowers. You’ll believe what you want to believe, because truth is also subjective, or, as Bob Dylan once put it, truth is on many levels.
iris-558503_640The survival of the human race is based on lies. The first ape who stood up on his hind legs and yelled at a predator to scare him away told a lie. He said, I am bigger than you and you better scoot off, you son-of-a-bitch, or you’ll remember the day. The predator believed the lie, and that was the beginning of it all. That ape was probably pretty damned surprised that it worked, that spontaneous lie, and, of course, he never forgot that experience. Belief can make a lie true. What a lesson that was!
And, since that day, apes being the repetitive animals that they are, lies have ruled the world. True lies.

Romantics

Undying love. Unless of course you get hit by a taxi on the morrow. Or maybe cancer will get you. That’d be romantic, wouldn’t it now? Or perhaps the woman you love just stops. That’d be romantic too, because then you could live on, pining away at what’s been taken from you.
Fulfilled romantics are boring. Fulfilled… no romantics are ever fulfilled, are they? They just can’t get enough. It’s the heightening of feelings they want, and it seems as if that can only be gained through suffering. If they didn’t have to suffer for it, it wouldn’t be worth half as much. Its the suffering, the trials and tribulations crowned by ultimate victory, that makes it interesting. But the ultimate victory must always remain somehow unattainable, except of course in novels.
Suffering. Romantics are, for that very reason, insufferable. They just don’t get it. They live in a world all their own, a world separate from reality. They are victims of their own need for suffering. They never live. They need people who live in reality, but they can never quite do it themselves, poor bastards. They’ve read too many books. They truly believe there is more than the day to day, more than food, sex, and sleep. They talk, they walk, they sit, just like anyone else, but they are not of this world.
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I describe myself. The crowning victory has been denied me, as yet. Predictably. There were a couple of moments where I thought I had it in my grasp, but things turned out differently. Life caught up with me. I’ve tried so hard to leave it behind me… slowly but surely I’m starting to wonder if I can ever succeed. It’s the sublime that I am seeking, that which can not be described with any words, no matter how industrious or creative the writer.
So, for the time being, I walk, I talk, and I sit. I piss, and I shit. I bleed when I am cut.