Shadows . . .

. . . as if the shadows themselves where concrete, and threw shadows of their own, a multiplicity of shadows that threaten to crowd my mind in to insanity. So, if I whine in my sleep and you see my legs moving, you know now what I am dreaming of. I’m not a dog chasing a fox . . . The fox is chasing me, it’s a huge, unholy shadow with fangs the size of daggers. I haven’t the guts to face it, though I know that if I turn around it will simply fade away. It’s my own damned shadow I’m running from. It’s me.
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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.

Shouldn’t Talk About It

That feeling. That sublime feeling. You talked about it, because you thought you’d found someone you could talk to. Really. Talk. To. It was a mistake: to talk about it. You talked too much. You wrote too much. You broke it across your knee until all the magic was gone. If only you had known to shut the fuck up. Christ, keep your big trap shut, can’t you? No, you can’t.
Actually, you thought you were keeping it alive. You tried to sustain the sublime by evoking it, by conjuring it again and again with your beautiful little words. You danced around it like some fucking shaman. Yeah baby, yeah baby, you’re mine, yeah baby, you’re mine, c’mon, be mine, oh yeah.
How could you be such a fool? How could you believe that anyone you love could be swayed by such nonsense? Desperation led you to it, and you simply weren’t smart enough to see the trap. You flogged the idea across the desert until it was dead, you fool! The most beautiful thing in the world, and you tickled it, tickled it again and again, until it had laughed its last laugh. And that was it.
As if love was something finite, like a bottle of water that you drink until it’s empty. You simply couldn’t believe that. You still can’t… but maybe you’re wrong. Maybe.
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The Race Question

Pardon me, but what in hell is that? What is race? I know there are people willing to kill each other on the basis of racial differences, but I do not understand why. Don’t they realize that all human races are mixed? Shit, even if you ignore statistics, which are often misleading, you can be pretty sure that, for example, as a typical American white boy, you are a mix of God only knows what. I am an American „cracker“, as they used to call me in school in New York City, back in the day… well, what-all blood runs in my veins? Czech, English, French, American Indian (if the family reports are to be believed), and no one knows what else. Perhaps I am, at heart, a Bulgarian? Or a Cheyenne? Who in hell knows, and does it matter? If we are to believe the scientists, I am descended from humans who wandered from Africa in any case. Does that make me a black man? Does it make a difference? No. We are all human beings. No, we do not all have the same desires and needs. No, we are not all „equal“. What the fuck is equal? I don’t want to be equal, I want to be unique, dammit. Every single human being is unique, and, if you will, that is what unites us.
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The Sink

You decide to hit your head against the sink. You are very drunk, but the pain is nevertheless exquisite. You do it again, and again. She will never come back… again. Is that blood? Yes. Again. Something cracks. Is it the sink, or your head? You aren’t sure, you are extremely drunk, and the blows to your head aren’t helping either. Again. Your vision blurs… at last, you think, some results. Again. The sink cracks. The landlord will simply have to replace it. Again, again, again… again! My God, the pain! Get it done! Again! She will never come back! Again! You pass out and fall on the hard white tiles.
It was one of those cry for help things.
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Bitter

So you’re in love and she isn’t anymore, and you lie alone in bed, trying not to think. She’s the best thing you ever had. Even as the thought occurs to you, you know how cliché that sounds… but there it is. She is creative, intelligent, passionate, capable of deep feeling, and honest. She doesn’t want to hurt you, she just can’t love you anymore, and is being honest. But you can’t help being hurt. You feel like a dog that’s just had it’s leg torn off, and stands there, utterly bewildered, blinking stupidly at the stump. Not yet even remotely comprehending how, or why. In a state of shock.
Unfortunately, you are not a dog. If you were, you might think: fucking bitch… she smells so good… oh well. You would go on with your life without worrying. But you are cursed with the ability to think, being a big-brained ape with nothing better to do. So you think of the promise you made. You never actually said „I promise“, but the promise was there, in your heart, clear and sweet like the air after a thunderstorm. She knew that, she saw it in your eyes, she felt it in your hands. She heard it and read it in the beautiful words you unfolded before her in a calm stream of love and certainty. That’s why she waited so long. Longer than she actually could… she counted on you, and you failed her. Circumstances prevented you, you say to yourself, and it’s true enough, but nevertheless you wonder what you could have done, what desperate measures might have led to salvation in spite of it all. You were already on the verge of doing something insane when she pulled the ripcord. You felt in your bones that things were getting ticklish. Circumstances! The word threatens to split your head.
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It’s bitter. So damned bitter. You’d rather kill yourself than taste that taste; but it would be tantamount to cowardice not to face the facts. She’d pity you then, and hate you for betraying her belief that you are a good person, strong, a man worth loving… no matter whether she loves you anymore or not. That would be worse than anything you can think of, for even now you still want to please her. It is better, in that case, to drink some more wine. But even drink doesn’t help in the least, much to your chagrin. You drink more, and more, and even then… what’s the point in drinking, when it doesn’t stop the pain?
So, what recourse do you have? Face up to the horrid truth: you’ve lost her. The one that got away, like some damned fisherman’s tale.
She never did you wrong. If she had, you could at least indulge your mind in thoughts of morbid revenge, or in the belief that she isn’t good enough for you. Not even this avenue of emotional escape is open to you, and you begin to wonder if you can ever even stop loving her. You’d cry if you had any tears left. You contemplate the stump. Blinking. Stupid.
Listening to Don’t Bother Me from the Beatles.