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Having a room does not necessarily mean one has to live in it. Though I suppose that'd be expected of you, you having rented the damned thing 'n all. Such assumptions could, at times, even be taken offensive. If one puts their mind to it. I suppose this could be considered rude by some, but that's the way it is with life. If you don't want to be considered rude by anyone, then just… I don't know. Go crawl under a rock or something. Take a white linen, go to the graveyard, dig up a hole and lay in it.
Will she come back? Do you want her to? Therein lies the question. Do you want her to come back, if you know she can't be real, at least not real in the normal sense of the word? She's not of flesh and blood, never been pushed out of the warm, moist uterus everyone has to live through. She's made of ideas, of dreams, of your love. She's still herself, she cannot be anything other. But she's not who she used to be. She's not as you knew her. Knowing all this, do you still want her to come back?
Financial problems hinder us all. And that goes especially for us students trying to study the damned English language. Occasionally it seems to me that the thing the Brits get most of their profit is us, the gullible, the relatively poor, but still completely optionless students. We are forced to purchase dictionaries, books on pronunciation, books on the practical and non-practical usage of English, books of poems etc. ad nauseam. I see myself in the nearby future: broke, hunchbacked, four-eyed, pale as the first snow, trying to find a path in the dense forest of English tenses. It is hopeless.
Have I seen this pen before? I'm not sure at all. It seems like one of mine. Here are the teethmarks, here's a bit of tobacco, some dried dribble can be identified upon closer inspection, it's soft rubber handle is torn and worn in roughly the same spots I always keep my fingers whilst writing, it is black and sleek and its shell is half transparent. But. I am absolutely positive I refilled it today, yet here it is, the ink nearing its sorry end. Did I really write so much? Highly doubtful. Only one conclusion possible: I'm completely senile.
it seems there is nobody to love and then you wake from the misty dream and it is the crisp sharp bite of an october dawn and the finches are long long gone together with the storks and the leaves are twirling a slow long dance dance dance beneath your window and the world glints golden red and you sit in your dark warm room and take a sip of coffee and a long breath from a quietly burning cigarette and watch the smoke curl up up into the rafters and you know you just know know you are happy
don't know what is it about all these wretched colds and coughs and bronchitises and sinusitises and whatsits, that they always, always feel the urge to visit and ruminate about the good old times on the second week of September. I absolutely despise them. They're like old aunts, who never seem to catch the drift and take the hint that they're not welcome around these parts. I wonder if a huge, black sign with a sign "BUGGER OFF, ALL DISEASES!" in colossal white-and-red capital letters would help to resolve the situation. Probably not, but I sure as hell am ready to try anything by this time.
The life of a student is waking me rather rudely. At home, I was used to it that dad bought all the food, all the cleaning products, all the household items etc. Now I have to take care of everything myself. Rather devastating, at least right now, at the very beginning. And I am absolutely careless with my monies - I visit coffee houses, purchase pointless books, squander it on concert tickets. And all the while, I starve. If I want to get a bus ticket, I can buy nothing else from today on. Thus, therefore, I cry and suffer.
Marry, nuncle; I'faith there's lots more alarums and excursions, which 'twas a bit whatsamaname… confuseing. Yis yis yis, And then the hog might've have got something to do with the tapestries being all soddy and suchlike, but who can really say? The bustle was such you couldn't even hear others' voices. Much less your own thoughts trying to run rampant. No hope of actually catching one of them, so. It was the sort of hopeless stagefright anyone could catch (a cup of warm whiskey with honey in yer tea will help that). And oh, what ails thee, men-at-arms? Knock without.
Often the necessitation of the pathways leads to the conundrums of the behemoth flying gregariously across the plains with no foreword. This is definitely not normal, and diverse inhibitions must be at stake. This, of course, means that the witches must alight their own fires in which they will be burnt. But witches float whilst normal people don't, which means we can relieve ourselves of oversettlement. Whilst yesteryear the moss ran high, today we are left with only a dimple of cranberries. The surplus is running low, and we must make do the best we can.
So kill the duck.
Did the last of the unpacking today. It seems so final now, this moving to Tartu. I don't like the feeling of finality, things reaching their conclusions. I want them to go on forever. Monotonously, chantingly, ever and ever. A river slowly moving along its path, not coming from anywhere and going nowhere. Being constantly on the road is my favourite way of being. That's why I like long bus rides. Constant sway, the countryside passing by with flashes of green and brown and blue, nothing stays in place, nothing can be gotten deeply into, only small glances and impressions.
The guitar sounds exactly like a spider dinglig-dangling down his web, ascending stealthily towards my head. I hate them spiders. Anything with more than four legs is damnedly creepy and unfamiliar. The more legs, the more distant it is from a human being, and the more alien and foreign they get. All them legs, moving irregularly, clawing out in every direction. One can never know where the creep'll be heading next, because they don't seem to need to turn around. Just change the program and have the other legs do the forward-movement. And those millions of little eyes... Positively disgusting.
How does it feel to die? Should be easy. One moment you're breathing and the other you're not. Only the "how" of getting as far is a mystery. Usually the way we go is not of our own choosing. But we are living in a free society. The freedom of speech etc. I deem that we should be able to choose our own death.
But. One shouldn't harm another human being. "I" is a human being. Should we then harm ourselves? Where do "I" begin and where does "I" end? How to tell whether I'm harming myself or someone else?
Clean your room. Keep your room clean. Don't let dirt gather on your premises. This we are told every day. Every day. Brush your teeth. Mop your floor. Don't leave your cut nails on the floor, or the Devil will make his hat. Don't let your hair get in the hands of strangers; they will curse you. The evil eye. Must clean the house, or the Ash-Thomas will be your lot. Clean. Sterile. Pristine. Fear of idleness. Mustn't let your hands stay idle. Don't let your boss see you're loitering. Be constantly on the move, or death will get you.
this tiredness does not become me. my hair has lost its radiance. i sit here in the shadows, a worn-out doll, the shadow of a former life.
i have forgotten the kettle on. there it whistles away in the kitchen, a nuisance. too tired to stand. too tired to think, too tired to write.
it wasn't supposed to go like this. it was supposed to be a new life, new people, new location. all has changed, but nothing has changed. the same people moving past me, the same old streets winding around me. this is life. get used to it.
Tonight, it almost felt like home. Like being at home. Like leaving old school. Like never leaving old friends and family. Vision narrowed on the fringes, the sounds were the same, the warmth was the same, same blanket, same computer, music, earphones, curtains, pillow, lamp, clothes, food, stationery, mug, knife, same fork, plate, socks, same pencil and same bag. It almost felt like home; it almost felt exactly like home .I was alone and enjoying it and this moment a moment of forgetting the uprooting the vastness between me my friends my parents my homeplace... This moment of perfect happiness.
I know no-one on my course as of yet, except the girl who is the only one besides me who smokes. I only know myself (barely). But that doesn't stop me from developing a dislike for a certain mister. Yes, the mister Flagpole, with his hoity-toity head hefted so high it might soon roll off, with his back so straight it will soon double over and he'll have his head inside his butt. I don't even know his name. But I hate him. Hate him. Pompous ass. I hope he doesn't see this, but still. I'll be honest. Bugger you.
Funny, that. 'Twas only two years ago that I got my computer and broadband, and besides the fact that I read more ("porn writing" aka fan fiction, not any serious writings) than ever before, I also do less other things than I ever did before. I barely ever play the piano, I haven't read a real book in months, and I no longer take walks at nights. My social live is as inactive as before, but in this time of no internet, I am seriously starting to regret I never took up the guitar. I have nothing interesting to do.
It's still a marvel to me that I only started reading poetry roughly 4-5 years ago. Before that, I didn't even think about it. I didn't even hate it. I just knew it existed, and that was all. But then I fell in love. And got the whole package - took more care of my appearance, read more, even tried to write something. Nothing remains of all that, except a mild interest in poetry. And to think that I came by my favourite author, Atwood, purely by a chance - the book was cheap and one translation sounded good. Strange.
I look out of the orifices of this body, two holes chiselled out of flesh and blood, membrane, so-called eyes. What is this body that I must inhabit? Who is the giver of orders, the mover and the moved, the outspoken one and the meek? Why do I feel the nails chiselling my face, what has this body got to do with me? You can take it back, this flawed shell. The "I" is an incandescent being, why this shaggy, weak padding of pure flesh, red & sickly? I had no part in this. Take it away, for I burn.
Pull me out from inside, for I don't want to be alone. Capsulated inside my mind, I've built barriers so high and steep I no longer can cross them on my own. The strength has failed me, the outside world scares me. Come and take my hand, lead me away from my own worst fears. Solitude I used to crave, now I am alone with everybody. This was not in my mind, when I went on this journey. Even if the journey was not of my choosing, I don't want to continue. I want… something different. Something larger than life.
Run around in the ground lifting thousands of pounds out of the gentry's pocketses. What have you got in your pocketses? Rocketses, locketses, abundant quarry of focketses. Run run run around skip and jump over the underbrush over the underbrush jump with your little legs. You have the strength, you have the strength, jump over the underbrush with locketses and rocketses in your pocketses. Ennoble the forest, for you have the power. Run around the tree, pick your teeth clean. The rabbit, the fox, the wolf, the wren, they all are after you; show no mercy. Give back the quarry.
It was said this keyboard was made of black, the blackest black ever to blacken the earth. And the same goes for this infernal mouse. And these blasted earphones. These shirts. These printed words. These cups. These everything. But whenever I look at them closely under a harsh light, there are hundreds, thousands of hues! Seacolor blue, bloodcolor red, pisscolor yellow. Endless varieties of color. I don't want this! I want the blackest black, blacker than ebony, blacker than murder, blacker than the killer's night itself, or my soul shall find no rest until the final trumpetblast of Judgment Day.
Strange hands touching my things These are my things! I want to shout out I open my mouth and scream There is no sound No sound Where did the sound go Can they hear me Can they understand they must understand but Should they also obey
Pounding my fists against the window
(I am left out)
No effect I stand
Mute immobile impotent Where am I Why am I alone Do I belong here Not belong Let the loneliness receive the rivers but What if the rivers are too crowded
Leave my things alone
Leave me alone
The senses sharpen at night. The slightest creak of the floor, the quietest rustle in the bushes, and all your hair jumps up on its ends. Nerve-ends are tight as drums, violinstrings, play the harp. Darkness closes in, you feel insecure, alone, aloner than before, isolated even from yourself. Or maybe it's just the opposite - there is no wall, no barrier, no sun and noise and clatter to guard you from your true self. Look into your own eyes for the first time, the slim cover of civilization falls away, you run howling into the woods like a wilderbeast.
The smells in this room are strange. Strange and unfamiliar.
Though this is my own room. I should know evey inch of it, every moth, every dustball, every sheet of paper, every spiderweb.
But it is dangerous to conform. Dangerous to become attached. For the world changes constantly. And so I shouldn't know every detail. Every last crook of even my own room. For the moment it comes clear that there is nothing left is the day it will all end. Is that a truth? A certainty? Is anything we ever say or do clear and certain?
I know nothing.
Oh, yes, I know. There is a war going on. In fact, there are several wars going on all over the world at the same time. People are dying, homes are being shattered, hopes torn asunder, hunger and pestilence stalk the lands, blood, filth, death, hopelessness, death. Everywhere.
But you know what? I don't care. Tra-la-la, I just don't care. Not one whit. And don't come to me with your pompous, hypocritical speeches about how every person should care for his fellow being. Because I don't. I just don't. And you can go and stuff it up your hoity-toity lardyass.
Has it always been so cold here? The heat is off and my fingers are freezing. The window lets in the breezes and the rain. It is so cold that thoughts freeze before they reach their ends. My fingers are blue. By toes are blue. The wind revolves in the air and wails like a banshee. Trees are being stripped bare, decay and death everywhere. Smell of rot in the air. Apples are going to waste. Yesterday we threw away another barrelful. They are spotted with brown. Marked by death. So is everything. The season of wasting away has arrived.
Everything bulges, bulges out, arches, convexes. The world has changed, surfaces moving away, back and forth, double-helixing on the borders of my vision. Walls, surfaces morphing, changing shape, luring at the corners are bumps and bulges. I feel as if I was suddenly living underwater. I wish I could actually live underwater. My underwater hair would flow madly, and skin would always be babysoft. Also, I would not have to bother with shampoos or shower gels or other such paraphernalia, which is usually bloody expensive. No towel-drying nor blowdrying yay. And let us not forget constant lovely prune fingers. Yea.
A curtain is a glorious thing. Piece of fabric, so flat, so dull, so stagnant. Put some rounded thingums onto it and pull it high, it becomes so much more - a protector, a guardian, keeping out the evil eyes, holding in the light and good thoughts. Shuns the sunlight boring down heavily, trying to burn my head into a hole - it's no use, the curtain guards me, would give its life for me. The room feels more alive, more cozy, homely, warmer even. As if I was not alone anymore. So much joy from such little a thing.
From my window emptiness
Expands and expands
Bristles and dead leeves no name no land no home no love no identity
I have no measures for it
What is it
Loneliness? Aloneness? Being without others?
Emptiness is more frightening than loneliness
To be alone is to be with yourself Uncover yourself Do you know who you are? It is cold outside. Cold and sterile. Pristine asphalt glistens after the rain. The coldness brings in the smell of moldy leaves. Soon the trees will be all naked. The nights and darkness uncover the cosmos
The stars stand immobile and I spin
The Tip Jar