At the end of another day, and as the silhouettes of the trees grow to become black cardboard cut-outs against the pale red sky, I shift my weight to the cold metal fence of the balcony, feeling it pierce the warmth of my skin with somewhat of a comfort. My body temperature isn't exactly feverish, though my inside burns like I'm taking little sips out of a cauldron of hot tar. My eyes are stern and unmoving, as they always are when I contemplate my current suffering.
"One who makes a beast of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man", said a wise man once. I rank that saying above all others, for it saved me a million times from the very personal inferno I endure momentarily. But I am in lack of time and options for swallowing, snorting, smoking or drinking anything that might soothe, so I reverse to my personal spin-off of the qoute: "One who pretends a machine of himself, postpones the pain of being a man." It's a handy one. So I grip the cold bar and stare into the contour of the trees, trying to avoid the painful wagons of thought.
But why do I take time to describe my emotional tides, and does it matter? For you, the only person I would like to matter, it doesn't. Spare me the pretty words, because it doesn't. Because it was never about me. Even if I keep this up, endeavoring-perhaps even sacrificing my youth and unadulteratedly sincere ways of devoting myself-it might never be about me. I am not the star of this show, and this show never was what I thought I signed up for. I thought to be the scanty-dressed lady delivering laughs and cheers with her jests, short songs and dances in a cheerful cabaret. But I was nothing more than a fool delivering cheap laughs in an otherwise sad musical, with the leading lady being a pale ghost with a repertoire of mournful arias. It's a scam of a hard-to-explain sort, but a scam nevertheless. So fuck you and fuck her, and fuck every single person on earth who can't clean their hearts before passing them onwards. You'd clean a pistol before presenting someone with it, wouldn't you? And aren't hearts very much the same? A heart is very much like a loaded pistol, and this one just misfired. It's just that the consequences are not a loud bang and pieces of my chest splattering everywhere, but on the contrary: it's drowning in silence and pain, not in blood but in my motionless glare fixed on the bloody red horizon. And in stillness, I hate and weep.
But nobody ever feels for anyone that doesn't take it out dramatically, doesn't it?
Those who
shut the fuck up
and endure
without whining
without scars
never the ones attracting your kind
the answer to your riddle
for it's not about them
it's about you
fucked up
impressed with everyone
equally fucked up
so go
fuck off
and enjoy that cup of tea
have a fucking tea party of sorrow
for the rest of your life for what I care.
I did not sign up for this and you did trick me.
So I turn my back to you
And turn my face to Erida,
and I hate and weep.
"One who makes a beast of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man", said a wise man once. I rank that saying above all others, for it saved me a million times from the very personal inferno I endure momentarily. But I am in lack of time and options for swallowing, snorting, smoking or drinking anything that might soothe, so I reverse to my personal spin-off of the qoute: "One who pretends a machine of himself, postpones the pain of being a man." It's a handy one. So I grip the cold bar and stare into the contour of the trees, trying to avoid the painful wagons of thought.
But why do I take time to describe my emotional tides, and does it matter? For you, the only person I would like to matter, it doesn't. Spare me the pretty words, because it doesn't. Because it was never about me. Even if I keep this up, endeavoring-perhaps even sacrificing my youth and unadulteratedly sincere ways of devoting myself-it might never be about me. I am not the star of this show, and this show never was what I thought I signed up for. I thought to be the scanty-dressed lady delivering laughs and cheers with her jests, short songs and dances in a cheerful cabaret. But I was nothing more than a fool delivering cheap laughs in an otherwise sad musical, with the leading lady being a pale ghost with a repertoire of mournful arias. It's a scam of a hard-to-explain sort, but a scam nevertheless. So fuck you and fuck her, and fuck every single person on earth who can't clean their hearts before passing them onwards. You'd clean a pistol before presenting someone with it, wouldn't you? And aren't hearts very much the same? A heart is very much like a loaded pistol, and this one just misfired. It's just that the consequences are not a loud bang and pieces of my chest splattering everywhere, but on the contrary: it's drowning in silence and pain, not in blood but in my motionless glare fixed on the bloody red horizon. And in stillness, I hate and weep.
But nobody ever feels for anyone that doesn't take it out dramatically, doesn't it?
Those who
shut the fuck up
and endure
without whining
without scars
never the ones attracting your kind
the answer to your riddle
for it's not about them
it's about you
fucked up
impressed with everyone
equally fucked up
so go
fuck off
and enjoy that cup of tea
have a fucking tea party of sorrow
for the rest of your life for what I care.
I did not sign up for this and you did trick me.
So I turn my back to you
And turn my face to Erida,
and I hate and weep.




