DEAR LIFE.. PARTE DOS..

So, Life... It didn't work..

Well, in some way it did: now my thoughts crawl around deeper INSIDE your belly, bitch...

Here's the thing: A friend of mine asked me to dance after challenging me to unleash my inner will.. the REAL one, you know, whatever that is... I don't want to, although I know that my inner will is just LONGING to dance. I know so well that my kind of dancing right now would make me an even bigger stranger to what's around me. It would be the ultimate privacy (well unless there's somebody to dance with who would feed this distant four-letter-myth I already told you about.. someday you gotta give me the answer to that one...(did I previously mention that to you or was that with someone else?.. please get back to me on that one..)).

Anyway. I would be a wall without any outside. Period. A dancing wall.. Seriously: If I imagine myself dancing right now there's just me inside a solid nothingness.. even the music would be rooting inside of me.. And what I hear and do would be hard and dishuman (don't get me started on the impossibility of that - I still don't believe you, remember?..). Movements of pushing the edges of eternity apart (perhaps that's so because I don't actually dance - another one of your little quirks, I guess.. Fuck you, life!..)

So... I'm heading off to where the waters flow as from the other floor a familiar tune catches my ear. Blindly I follow: seriously, they are playing dire straits' 'southbound again' upstairs. -- Now I'm home. I stand and listen..and fidget and grin. How come I don't want to break the edges anymore now? - Not with that music - MY - music? (and don't you dare telling me that's because it's the dire straits..)... My guess is: It's the absence of a struggle against what I really don't want: Radiogagarintintin..(or can you make me dig it; CAN YOU? - Well, tucking DO IT then..)

Anyway. Now I'm in a place I know fits me (or at least doesn't misfit me..).. Now my dance would be fitting. There's a spot that misses me when I'm away. I built myself a home in these tunes. A HOME, understand? (I don't by the way, but how is that an indicator for the truth?..) . A home with a dance floor by the way (and o! so.many other rooms..). Funny thing, life: That home is INSIDE your belly. -- Or isn't it ...? 

Here's lookin' at you, kid.... 

So long again.. Watch my sleep, life -- but first: Watch me dance! 

Worst, E.S.

DEAR LIFE..

Good mo(u)rning again! I salute you, 'LIFE'!... 

What's it gonna be like these marvellous tiring-inspiring moments ahead? Given the fact that trust is yet still to come, dear life, I'm gonna play along with your game for a while and check out what's REALLY at stake here. So far I'm under the impression that I must play just to be allowed to keep playing... So, let's play.. not that I had a bearable (livable) choice.. 

Allright, See: in abstraction I like to go big. - Any highrollers in here? Up until now it seems to be just high wires and even attracting those takes an effort I can't justify. -- Or - assuming for now that playing indeed IS the reward ('intrinsic reward' is your (our?) word for that, I think..) - the justification I mentioned is not to be figured out, but rather an imperative of getting ahead ('winning' is out of the question, I presume..) in a game, your (our?) game, where 'ahead' lacks a definition (such as quite a few other things..). 

Tell me, life: are you indeed oxymoronic?.. And if so: why am I able to see that? How do you justify the higher boredom that must come out of this? 'Higher boredom?' you ask? -- Yes, what would that be now, hm? I'll tell you: It is the kind of highly sophisticated overthinking (or 'boredom') that figures that temporarily it is the veryest mostest cleverest way of perceiving you - and that still is the most boring way of actually BEING a part of all your twists and cul-de-sacs.. I am enchained by this higher boredom right now and way to often.

Is , as some voice around me is constantly suggesting, a drink gonna help? Well, dear life, let me find out.. Gonna be back just in the nick of time for your next need of bothering me with another suffocating question... 

So long, take care. 

El Stupido.

MO(U)RNiNG

rise, rise..

Take me back, sweet silence!...

Can life stand still and still be? – Sleep is the answer... an answer...

No conscious heart'n'soul is to be taken anywhere these times. They don't exist as themselves. At least not as MINE themselves... The world around, outside, lies dead, salutes MY form of death. But how would I know? ––

Because much more importantly: Every WILL lies silent, too...

Then, shortly waking up during the depths of sleep, peeking into a semi-life for the blink of a soul and realizing: This kind of sleepy-deepy freedom of the 'inner whatever' is an ornate, ancient, heathen kind of truth that's hard to be topped by anything in life but ridiculous ephemeral thrills (or per-maybe-haps the still not entirely dismissed myth called 'love'?? – assuming it's not just a somehow periodic special case of them..)...

Finally the inescapable stone cold awakening:

A semi-automatic restrengthening of these inside-the-world monochrome senses.

O! still so hard heaving heads out of where they scattered-mindedly want to belong – wherever that might be –; finding impatient joy in ongoing time again, in the limited movement of those strange bodies one carries or gets carried by, in somehow identifying with them...

And yet still to develop a WILL further than theirs.

Mornings are the hardest part of life when you just still KNOW that being conscious is not the state'n'place to be (even, or especially when you don't know how you know)...

..and fade away --

The dimming of the day is very much alike.

[the same but different..] ––:

This hard day is never done at sunset.

It took too many cuts, too close to the heart, to get used to this ruthless light..

So i stand and stare...

And mourn in vein.

'How, Nature! (or God! if you like), how can you dare ending a day that is not yet, that might never be finished?

How can I ever play along with your wicked game; your periods so fixed and unforgiving..? –

I just merely got around to performing these broken, imperfect out-of-dream-gestures...

Don't leave me hanging now...!

Don't make me drink my next world to sleep.

Don't fucking push the next hangover down my throat.

Don't let this circle start over...'

Hopeless.

Hard.travelin' it still is...

INTRO.

i'm thankful that old road's a friend of mine...

It's time. If there's any healing, I shall let it begin. -- MAKE it begin. Now. This is a journey out of unmotivated cynicism and worn-out weariness, out of overmotivated sense and nonsense, out of that lazy depression that lurks in last drinks, strange beds, mute cocooning and in every helpless, broken shot at causality thought fires at the world and itself. This is HARD TRAVELIN'.