Breathing From Underneath A Pile of Clothes
While sitting amidst a pile of dirt, I pick up a pen to write down some notes trying to keep track of time. Eighteen days since I last took a shower. Six months since I last cleaned my room and three months since I last made a phone call. I am a fugitive and anyone could arrest me, anytime.
The feeling of living on the verge of nothingness brings me comfort. It offers me a kind of satisfaction. Standing up next to the windowpane watching a woman park her car makes me realize that I could have been doing something more useful instead. I could have been thinking of a way out of this mess.
I am filthy. My home is my prison. I return to it each time after I have had enough of wandering around. Sentences that don't rhyme and ideas expressing a feeling of despair. This is all I have to offer after a two-year drought. I can't seem to remember how to get everything out in an artistic way. I think it is because I am not searching to please anymore, not looking for somebody to accept me in my misery.
I stink. This is how I feel about myself right now. I can't get this thought out of my head. Lyrics and long walks under the rain used to soothe my wrath, not anymore.
Waking up day after day with that sour feeling of disgust makes you realize that you have to change something about your life. Just looking at this leafless tree makes me certain that nobody really cares whether you are happy or sad, had enough or just having some time on your own.
Convincing yourself that you are leading your life for a higher purpose makes you kid yourself for a few minutes. It gives a kind of logic to the nonsense you must face everyday.
I smell awful. I have always enjoyed sitting for six sometimes seven hours in front of my P.C. They seem just as endless as the number of years during which I have been alone.
Loneliness is not the issue here, or maybe it is. Perhaps loneliness is what I am feeling right now. It is just like my shadow, my half, my other self.
Scratching my back with what is left of my shortly cut nails, gives me pleasure, just like the sound of my breath: they are such extraordinary sources of inspiration.
Stopping for a moment on this day, just to realize that nobody cares and that I don't care for a whole lot of other people, provides a sweet satisfaction for my soul yearning to be misunderstood; because being misunderstood is a good reason for somebody out there to sympathize with me, and give me once more the chance of pushing him away.
As I try to persuade myself to sit on this computer chair - the brand new chair my absent roommate offered me on my birthday - I hear the sound of water heating up. In some two hours or so, it will be time for my shower. Until that moment comes, I will just sit on my chair before I will have to become clean enough to meet the filthy you.
The feeling of living on the verge of nothingness brings me comfort. It offers me a kind of satisfaction. Standing up next to the windowpane watching a woman park her car makes me realize that I could have been doing something more useful instead. I could have been thinking of a way out of this mess.
I am filthy. My home is my prison. I return to it each time after I have had enough of wandering around. Sentences that don't rhyme and ideas expressing a feeling of despair. This is all I have to offer after a two-year drought. I can't seem to remember how to get everything out in an artistic way. I think it is because I am not searching to please anymore, not looking for somebody to accept me in my misery.
I stink. This is how I feel about myself right now. I can't get this thought out of my head. Lyrics and long walks under the rain used to soothe my wrath, not anymore.
Waking up day after day with that sour feeling of disgust makes you realize that you have to change something about your life. Just looking at this leafless tree makes me certain that nobody really cares whether you are happy or sad, had enough or just having some time on your own.
Convincing yourself that you are leading your life for a higher purpose makes you kid yourself for a few minutes. It gives a kind of logic to the nonsense you must face everyday.
I smell awful. I have always enjoyed sitting for six sometimes seven hours in front of my P.C. They seem just as endless as the number of years during which I have been alone.
Loneliness is not the issue here, or maybe it is. Perhaps loneliness is what I am feeling right now. It is just like my shadow, my half, my other self.
Scratching my back with what is left of my shortly cut nails, gives me pleasure, just like the sound of my breath: they are such extraordinary sources of inspiration.
Stopping for a moment on this day, just to realize that nobody cares and that I don't care for a whole lot of other people, provides a sweet satisfaction for my soul yearning to be misunderstood; because being misunderstood is a good reason for somebody out there to sympathize with me, and give me once more the chance of pushing him away.
As I try to persuade myself to sit on this computer chair - the brand new chair my absent roommate offered me on my birthday - I hear the sound of water heating up. In some two hours or so, it will be time for my shower. Until that moment comes, I will just sit on my chair before I will have to become clean enough to meet the filthy you.
© Maldoror37 - 2005
posted by Maldoror at 4:58 PM
1 Comments:
It's the Maldoror effect, Farooha ;-)
Nonchalance is a strong point of yours, Maldoror. And it describes what you are trying to show us. but I don't buy it :-), no matter how much you try to persuade us.
However, I'm willing to accept it, if it generates such expressive writing. I like it a lot!
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