Luxury Before Necessity

I’ve moved again, moved out of your brain. I hate moving. Nevertheless, there are advantages. I’ve got money at the moment –won’t say how– and I can afford to make the new place the way I want it. God damn, it’s a bloody wonder what you can do with money. I got a ton of furniture given to me, I had to turn down half a dozen couches; I, beggar that I am, got to pick and choose. And then, for sundries, I had, for my taste, a lot of fucking money. What did I do? I bought luxuries. I bought a new headset, I bought a cool bluetooth speaker that I control with my cell-phone, I got plisse blinds, custom fit to my damned windows. Nobody seemed to have a bed left over, thank God, so I bought a bed made of oak, a good slatted frame, and a mattress that’ll last until I’m dead. Add to that cambric linen bedding. Motherfucker, you wouldn’t believe what that all cost.
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Unfortunately, my lighting is limited to reading lamps. Two. Makes me go to bed early (well, unless I simply do without light, excepting the light that comes from my monitor), and the early worm, as everyone knows… I have a television, but no connection (I’ll miss those vignettes from your brain). Well, I have a connection, but I’d have to pay to have it activated. Does that count as a necessity? Not for me. Light? Ahh, I’ll get by. I have to wash my dishes per hand, no dishwasher. If I stopped drinking for a a couple months I could buy a dishwasher, but… necessity? Nah.
Drinking a mudslide, listening to Vorbei ist vorbei from Die Ärzte –it’s blasting out on the new bleutooth loudspeakers in the neighboring room– and thinking: Yeah.
Luxury before necessity. I catch myself thanking God that the level of my „necessity“ is so high. My supposed necessity is another man’s luxury. I could sink to his level, and I would still be satisfied. The fact is that I live at an incredibly high level of civilization, a level which I don’t need. I got music, any time I want, and drugs, and a bed so incredibly comfortable that it boggles the mind. Do I need all these things?
The answer is easy: No. I don’t need all that. I Love it, I enjoy it, but I don’t need it. I’d be just as happy sleeping on a palm-matt. Probably happier. Most humans are happy as long as they don’t have to fight for their lives on a basic level. Sure, they want to improve on things, that’s the way humans are, but basically their doing fine.
As I think these thoughts, further delights are awaiting me. I had today off, and I took the opportunity, being flush at the moment, to buy two expensive bottles of rosé and some smoked salmon. This is what I mean with luxury. That salmon is waiting for me….
And now comes a song that reminds me of my previous (and still) love, and I revel in my regrets, my melancholy. That, too, is a luxury. If I was looking for my next meal, I wouldn’t have time for this mental self-torture crap. And I’d probably be healthier and happier for it. Looking for the next grub, and thankful if I found it.
All this make me fearful for the way humanity is going. All these things surrounding me, the plates, the forks; what good are they? The salmon lies on the plate, enticing, lovely. The bread toasts in the toaster. It’s lovely, these are the fruits of civilization, but…
It’s luxury. And it doesn’t make a damned difference. Yes, I enjoyed buying all these things, but it didn’t make me happy. I will enjoy eating the salmon on fresh toasted white bread, but it won’t make me happy. Give me that woman back, then I will be happy. I’d gladly live with her in the meanest hovel, scraping lichens from the rocks in the winter to get through… then I’d be happy.

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Sleeping on the Park Bench

I woke up one morning on the park bench, remembering a dream.
„Why would you want to sleep on a park bench?“ God had asked, „That is about as desperate as you can get.“
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„Well, I didn’t exactly want to sleep on the bench,“ I replied, „it just sort of happened.“
„You want a thousand dollars?“ he asked.
„Uhh… no. But since you ask, five thousand would be nice… have you ever slept on a park bench?“
He laughed, and that was the end of the dream.
It only remains to add that I have no idea how I came to that comfortable bench.

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.

Your Life, Do You Like it Well?

You like the money? You like the holidays? But when they kick down your front door… well, you probably live in a country where they don’t do that sort of thing, don’t you? Like me. Not your front door. Freedom is something you take for granted. You don’t realize it is a privilege that someone once fought for. A privilege that may have to be fought for again at any time, a privilege that can be taken away, just like that. Lay your life on the line, baby. Better yet, make sure it don’t go that far.
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