The Right Choice

You know, I’ve made so many right choices in my life, and so many wrong, and in the end it hardly seemed to matter. Some of the very best choices I’ve made led to hell. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, though. And there were times when I thought I was being foolish, irresponsible, maybe even just plain crazy, but I just couldn’t help myself, I had to do it… and in the end it led to wonderful things. And all of that, just the other way around.
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Christ, how am I to find my way like that? No fucking system, just probabilities, possibilities… it’s enough to drive a man insane. Especially a man like me, an organized, systematic type who sees flaws in the system and wants to correct them. Correct it, for Christ’s sake, make it whole, make it make sense. As if I could correct the vagaries of life, as if life was a bloody fucking workflow. As if I could force it to be like it should.
Perhaps all that is normal, and most people just accept it and go on without a further thought. No pattern, no system, inherently flawed. Perhaps I am a stupid sick fuck because I think about it. Nevertheless I am still trying to understand it all.
It’s as if I had heard of the perfect poem in which lie all the answers I’ve been looking for. I’d always known that this poem must exist, and I climbed the hermit’s mountain to read it, only to find that some asshole has killed him and torn it to pieces. There they lie, flecked with blood, and I frantically collect them as they blow away in the wind, crying the while, because this can’t possibly be… God, the injustice of it! Blowing away in the wind! No!
What’s left is a collection of gibberish. little bits of paper with one or two words on them. Even if I manage to piece some of them together, they are incomplete. Even if I spend my entire life on it, I will never be able to make sense of it. I sit here, moving the pieces around, combining, rearranging, again and again, trying to find the right way, until I feel like dashing my head against the wall.
And all the while I have the sneaking suspicion that I am on a fool’s errand. That bastard inner voice is telling me that the man who killed the hermit was on the same mission as I am. Another crazy idiot looking for the answer. I just know that the hermit told him there is none. I just know that is why he killed him and tore it all to pieces, and that, in the end, the laugh is on me.
Gimme a drink.

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Hell

Being in love is hell. You thought you were suffering when you had nobody to love… just wait ’til there’s someone who you care about. Sure, you’re happy, because someone loves you, someone you love, but… you wonder. It is the fate of mankind to think. It’s our curse: a big bloody brain.
Thinking means wondering. Wondering whether she loves you as much as you love her. Wondering how you are going to make it all work. Wondering. Thinking about fucking logistics. Like: she lives in another damned town, 150 bloody fucking miles away. Driving there, you wonder about the cost of the damned gasoline. You become a mathematician… how often can I afford to see her? And then: am I crazy? How can I think of money, when I need to see her, every possible minute?
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Holy shit. It’s enough to make you drink. But you can’t really enjoy drinking anymore, because you have someone who cares for you, meaning you should take care of yourself, meaning… you should eat healthy stuff, exercise, and not spend so much money on rum. No rum. After all, you don’t, oh Christ, want to disappoint her. On the other hand, she seems to know you better than you know yourself…
Oh, dear. Oh, oh, dear.
It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to dance in your socks. You need that sliding movement. You need to skid along the floor, like a damned ice skater. That’s the only thing that suits the feeling, the feeling… whooh! Crazy! Everything is possible. You’re a hawk, swooping down at three hundred miles an hour. You’re going to kill, you’re going to conquer. Nothin’ gonna stop you. Except maybe the rum, and 150 miles.
Yep.

No, Maybe, Yes

I said no, I said maybe, I said yes
What’s the truth, who’s to tell, what the hell
You can’t say, try as you may
Nobody knows; oh well

But if I tried, and defied
The current of riot bastard thought
I could say, if I may
Everybody knows: it’s hell

And if words are blood
I’ll bleed, and bleed, in to it
Blood fills it up, heel to tit
No room anymore

It’ll spray the sky red
All that I’ve bled
Sunrise, sundowner
Gimme one more

Drink, gimme
Yes, fast
Maybe
No
.