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Will you hold a rock in your hand? Do you have all the patience in the world to wait until it warms up, turns into a pulsing piece of life? Do you feel the pulse growing? Do you see the tiny cracks spreading all over its surface? Making soft sounds almost impossible to hear? Can you care for a stone? Can you keep it inside your soft hand until it has the courage to turn into a flesh? Will you keep it close to you, even hum to it softly as the darkness falls? What d´you think?
I wonder what people think while masturbating. Lots of various things, I guess. Round shapes, beds, warm waters, voices, dewy flowers, joy, eyes of the lover, hands of the mistress, vegetables, clear blue skies, green grass, white sheets, closed doors, earlobes, horizontal movements, wet hair, burning sun, rocks, you, cars, leather jackets, heavy breathing, fingers, sockless feet, ropes, dirty language, lips, entwined spines, the muscles behind your eyes, death, joy, loneliness, bathtubs, rhythm, words, laughing, black clothes, washing maschines, dead poets, the missing parts, the emptyness. The list comes effortlessly. I wonder if they cry afterwards like me.
I need a dictionary to inspire me. Still in the letter A. The joy of writing has left the building. These numbly woven words can only give me an eerie satisfaction. The nights are colder without the poems to write and the only black on white things around here are the shadows I cast on the walls when I anxiously pace around the room. When I sit down, I criticize the unborn words before they hit the screen, my staring eyes. I am turning into a trash bin here. I am lost, lost, without the will to write.
I miss all kinds of things suddenly. I overwhelm myself by craving for the eyes to meet mine, the ears to meet my words, the hands to meet my hands. I grew up without all those funny things. I have returned from the sea, unable to make contact with the natives on the shore, waving their hands to me. I need someone´s feet to dance with mine to this tune of craving for the things I don´t understand. I miss so many things and I´m here, now, too scared to leave the ship, sink with it.
The dreams avoid my consciousness, mock my will to understand the secret life of the night. So I am empty of dreams in the morning. It was raining sleet, you know, it´s that time of the year already. Thin white horizontal stripes passing my window. Oh, fuck. -- The ads on the sides of the trams left me cold, so I lighted a cigarette or two. I ended up at work with wet shoes and an empty mind. The day turned out to be a bore, like a common saturday, nothing special popped in my head. Only you, occationally.
A wonderful old lady washed my white sheets while I was working. She even brought them outside to the lame afternoon sun. - I cannot remember when my sheets saw the sun, amazing really. - I got home and had a shower. I crave for the night so I can change the sheets and lie beside my worries. I probably cry myself to sleep, just for the heck of it. Then I will dream the empty dreams until tomorrow comes and takes another day from me. Takes it to - God perhaps? Does he laugh or cry when he sees it?
A very bright and crispy autumn morning. I am floating free on the sunny streets. The sunlight is so low it reflects back from the windows and the cars right into your hurting eyes. It´s difficult to see where you´re going but I don´t really mind. I myself reflect nothing, I suck the light inside me, try to abolish the darkness. I watch people carefully, shrugg the strange languages off from my shoulders. At home I start to make some rice and chili con carne. No, I have nothing to say to myself. Mute. Silence.
In Middle English "ambition" was considered as an "evil wish to be great". Well, just a glimpse of the newspapers these days proves me this is true. Just seeing the face of Mr. Bush makes me sick, not to mention his whiny voice. Choke on something, asshole! What a disgusting little man, why don´t you just drop dead? It´s a bloody nice reason to declare a war on a nation because the leader looks "suspicious" or "not friendly". Showing your teeth was a sign of threat once. I don´t want to see this smiling American anymore.
Hello, my name is Rara Luna and I am allergic. I am allergic to the world. I am allergic to the people. There are no deeds in this world done from the goodness of the heart. None. Zero. They always want something back from you. I am tired of people, it is so easy to see through them. I dream that I could live the rest of my life without seeing a soul. It would be a relief, rest for my soul. Just give me a big rock I can live under. I want out of this world.
The wind is in the north. It blows right through your rattling bones, leaves you cold, frozen. Nothing will keep me warm today, not even the huge blue eyes, since blue is a cold colour, born in the depths of the sea. I can´t stop shivering and this is just the beginning. Tell me tales about the warm oceans in far away lands and the songs of the dolphins under the boat. White, warm sands for your cheek to rest and the life-giving light of sun! Tell me lies, if you must, just tell me something.
I have to get my dose of salmiac regularly or I will go nuts. (It sounds a bit perverse to be addicted to the stuff the batteries are made of. - But things could be worse, right?) This habbit probably makes me a Duracel bunny, since it raises my already high blood pressure. I´ll risk it anyway. I don´t care. It´s the stuff the food of the Gods is made of, if you ask me. The day God finally realised that man was a big mistake he ate loads and loads of ammonium chloride. Poor bastard.
I like the way we exchange quick, lighthouse kind of glances during these weeks. I have grown soft feelers on my temples and they are always aimed at your direction. I sense your antennae as well and it´s just impossible not to enjoy the feeling. The hunt is always the best part. When you prey for the eyes of the intriguing soul, anxiously pondering the possibility of the voyage along the roads of unknown. I hope you enjoy my eyes as much as I enjoy yours. Thank you for lighting my darkness, few seconds at the time, randomly.
What the hell was God was thinking? Did he actually believe that things work like this? That there are women and there are men; as a divine combination, or something? It just seems to me that most of the men out there are seeking for a cock-warming pussy. And that´s all. In the meanwhile women might appreciate some other qualities in life, some mutual caring, some feedback in the form of feelings.. Huh? Intelligent conversations between sex - instead of snoring? It´s simple -- and so goddamn complicated. Oh, why? God, can you update the man? Please?
Ars longa, vita brevis.
I bought “revitalizing” skin cream for the first time in my life. Obviously I am thirty something. Difficult to tell, really, since I have felt like 70 most of my life. But I like this age. It is nice to be right here, right now. It was cold, I took a tram back home, only for few blocks and the smell of the old people surrounded me for the whole trip. I listened U2 through the headphones, stared to eternity, ignored successfully all the looks of the people while standing in the middle of the corridor.
Acta est fabula, plaudite!
Probably the most horrible night you can imagine. After a brief, spontaneous, lightly dressed visit to the grocery store in the evening the key snapped and jammed the lock of my door. The caretaker came home late, left me alone with the problem, with no money to call the locksmith... The battery of my mobile phone was almost dead. The window of my flat was open and the possibility of snow was on the air. Miraculously, I had one place where to go for the night. I hardly slept -- when I did I had nightmares. Finished.
Probably for no particular reason. Just nothing interesting going on. NOTHING. It´s dark and cold outside, I take naps all the time and still sleep like a baby during the nights. I live the life of a bear and I might have that sort of a teeth, too. I have been quite furious because of several people lately. The idiots make me crazy and it shows. I have never read The Idiots, maybe I should have. The idiots are everywhere, what the hell can you really do about? Tell me! I need to get some sleep, now. Fuck.
I feel abnormal. There must be something wrong with me. What is it? What do other people see when they look at me? What do they think of me? If they are friendly to me, like they usually are, do they do it because they really want to or is it just the common courtesy? What do I look like in their eyes? I wish I knew. Why do I bother? To raise all these questions. I most certainly want to hear what people say in my funeral. I would not miss it for the world. Just watch me.
We share the dead serious outlook with each other. (I´m sorry it must be contagious.) Life is so serious now that it kills me, I can only give you the serious ave, not the happy one, the relaxed one. I could kill for a happy, joyous moment with you. But life is just too serious now, I have a horrible status quo and it´s eating me alive. Even the dead can enjoy life better than me. I feel like I have to let you go, watch you go and vanish in the air. I wish I could --
I burned my foot with boiling water. I´m aftaid I killed a piece of me, about the size of a two euro´s coin. (Even the colour matched.) I don´t know how to work tomorrow since wearing shoe is pure agony. I have no choice, I have to make it somehow. Picture this: flashback of a woman I saw on the street with two blue plastic bags over her shoes and she wore hospital clothes. It was very cold day and she just happily carried a shopping bag in her hand and jumped into a tram.
The week is done. My body knows it´s the only day off tomorrow and I can feel the flu coming already. It is crawling up from my lungs, tickling my throat and shivering up my spine. I should have known. The key incident a week ago did not do me good. I was standing outside in the wind smoking cigarettes in a row, without any underwear... Did I learn anything? Yes! Next time I do spontaneous shopping on the other side of the street I´ll wear long underwear. No matter what time of the year it is.
Down with the flu, down with the life itself. Just watching old movies from the videos, reading the newest of Anne Rice, my favourite vampire story writer. I have a passion for vampires, what else did you expect, my mother was born on Halloween. I have my mother on my mind, obviously, since I am in the middle of a economical crisis at the moment. All the men around me have left me in trouble. Who can trust them anyway, who? God knew the man was a challenge and he decided to create woman to deal with it.
I´ve been talking on the phone with the woman they call my mother. She promised to loan me some money. Now I officially owe money to everyone I know!! I can forget about the driving school, I can forget about moving to the country side. I can definitely forget everything about my fucking future. I needed this kind of a year like a bullet in my head. How bad did I actually get in the previous life? Do I deserve all this shit that falls on me? Yeah, sure. Oh, just shoot me. Fuck. What did you expect?
Apple a day keeps the doctor away is bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
I am still sick. Not to mention my poor leg. I sure made an interesting tattoo with the boiling water. Oh, for Christ´s sake, I´m pathetic. I went to a pub and tried to kill myself by smoking few cigarettes. Really bad idea. I consider joining my friend in some of her Buddhist get-togethers: just because I´m so bored and generally quite tired with this thing called life. I think Mr. Buddha has said that life is a torture. I think I like him already...
I am so sad today that I´m old and simple and my days of brainwork are over. (They are.) I just wish I were a pathologist. I would love to see what people are made of, I would love to cut some slices out of the brain and search for the human soul... Does this mean that I´m nuts? Maybe, but I´m afraid the diagnosis is much more simple than that: I´m just bored. Very much so. And I have to quit smoking. (Once again.) I don´t have the money for it anymore. No.
Nice day to cough. I got a little wave of the hand out of you, at least. It saved my day since I have nothing to think, nothing to feel, nothing to gain, nothing to breath ( I am not able to smoke, I tried and failed badly), I have nothing to live for - or nothing to die for that matter. I have a terrible loneliness inside me and it pushes me into the dark. I let it all happen, keeping the image of your hand in my mind. Trying to let go, to leave, to forget. The star.
I worked eleven hours without a break. The revenge of the hip crashed me at the end of the day. I do get some sort of a satisfaction about this kind of days. In a way I like to collapse into the dreamworld at the end of the evening. So I fell asleep while watching an old black and white movie. My dreams where not black nor white, they where just something to forget. Like me, I am something to forget: keep moving, get out of this place. Go home, there´s nothing to see here. Break up, folks.
I washed the windows, enjoyed the thought that it will be the last time in this stupid place, I am anxious to leave altough I have no place where to leave to. I just want to leave. I need the change, no matter how stressfull it will be: things have to change from now on no matter what the cost. I´m running out of satisfactory mental health and it´s time to do something about it. My muscles are sore because of yesterday, my head is sore because of myself. The heart I don´t have anymore.
I´m not very happy. Does it show? I think it does. If you have the guts to look me in the eye. The pain is clearly visible there. I avoid the mirrors because of it. I wish I were a vampire who lacks the sad reflections altogether. I am blind to the reflections I make of myself on the faces of the other people. I see nothing when I talk with them. I laugh in the right places and maybe I do cry in the wrong ones.
* Are We Going To Have To Go Through With This Again?
came up in a conversation the other day. The memory of the pros and cons of the English bastards made me smile wide open. He was a waiste of energy, so much energy you could light a city of this size with it for a day or two, darling, sweetie! They have their place in the world, the smooth talking men who are afraid of their mothers and seek for love with the help of a kitchen ware or any other chemical combinations there might be. He does not bother me, the memory of him only keep me alert.
Don´t get me wrong, Dear Diary, but I am sick and tired of people talking about how horrible thing a suicide is. How´s that? If someone is tired of life - I can tell you several thousands of reasons why that might happen - and does not want to experience it anymore, fine. Not all of us are born to be fighters. Life stinks and it can be unbearable to some of us. I don´t blame people who decide to commit suicide, I really don´t. Their message is loud and clear, easy to understand, to respect.
I think I made it. The first batch. What it comes to writing the 100 words I can barely manage but the poems have left me completely. I am very, very poemless. It makes me sad. Mad. Lonely. I don´t know if I ever write a poem again. Where did they go, and will they ever send me a postcard? (But they don´t know my new address.)(Even I don´t know it.) We have lost each other for good this time. Farewell, the fields and the leaves, goodbye, my old, weird friends. I miss you.
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