Cease

Oh holy fuck you have no idea how I sit here under the glaring unforgiving light of some fucking sun or other and write this fucking shit for consumption by who knows what for creatures, creatures that are are unknown and strange to me like animals, be they out of a flipping fairytale or horror story, a terrible story of normal life, which is, in the end, more fearsome than all of the other possibilities that any human being can think of put together in one huge animate piece of…

I am not listening to music right now.
In the end I am only afraid that my voice will… stop. That I will cease to speak, that I will cease to care to speak. For that is the end. When I cease to care to make my thoughts known then I cease to exist in my own mind.

Another Glass of Wine…

to Give Succor to My Ailing Existence from Frank London’s Klezmer Brass Allstars. My song of the day. The day went well, the evening was swell. But then a woman dashed it all to pieces with just a few words. Damn you women. I love you, but you’ll kill me yet. Or, more likely, you’ll just reduce me to a weeping lump in the corner.
To conclude: Princess of the Streets from The Stranglers.

Nonexistent

I do not exist. You are not reading this. How do I know? Because the Deutsche Post told me so. I am a nonentity, because I have no papers to prove that I exist.
Deutsche Post tried to deliver a package, and I wasn’t home. So I had to pick the package up, at the nearest post office. To do that I had to identify myself… and, lo and behold, my fucking passport is no longer valid. No, sorry, they said, you are not you. As far as we are concerned, you’re not anybody at all. I said, my God, it’s me, you even know my face, though you may not know my name, we live in a fucking village here; you know me, dammit. No. I drew my drivers license, my health-insurance card, which even has my bloody picture on it, hey, it’s me, I said, c’mon, give me the frickin’ package, it’s a present for my son, I need it, his birthday is tomorrow…! No.

I thought: this is insane. I explained: If a purple ogre had opened the door when you rang at my apartment, when you delivered the package, you would have given it to him without asking for any identification, and you wouldn’t have given a flat damn if he had disappeared over hill and dale with it… and yet now you demand that I identify myself, though I have the stupid little docket you tossed in my mail-box…? No dice.
At this point they actually were sort of apologetic; they were almost human. They said they were terribly sorry, but the rules stated unequivocally that… and so on.
So, dear reader, I too am sorry, but, since I do not exist, you do not either. After all, no reader exists when there is nothing to read, and since you are reading nothing from a non-existent author you can’t possibly be an existent reader… you follow me. Unless, perhaps, you can identify yourself beyond the pale shadow of a bureaucratic doubt? In triplicate, if you please; then I will consider acknowledging you as a reader. Perhaps that will also help me establish my own identity. I’m feeling sort of uncertain, since my encounter with the Deutsche Post. Feeling more nebulous from minute to minute…
Listening to Borrowed Time, from Jaya The Cat.