How can you ever smile, as if your life hadn't capsized?

Have I really fallen so far? Am I so broken? Unable to be fixed? Like a chair that squeaks am I kept only for my practical purpose but is an embarrassment to any and all who is to look or listen? Our relationship is but stained glass that has become ugly to you. The suffocation of these times is overwhelming me. Grief is making me a machine. By inflicting this piteous spectacle on myself, I feel, I'm not trying to exhaust the scandal of it, the insurmountable feeling of a transgression, of a monstrous violation of the Good and the Beautiful, but rather this feeling of scandal came to wear out all by itself, one got used to it, and in the long run stopped feeling much; thus what I was trying, desperately but in vain, to regain was actually that initial shock, that sensation of a rupture, an infinite disturbance of my whole being; instead of that, I now feel only a dull, anxious kind of excitation, always briefer, more acrid, mixed with the fever and my physical symptoms, and thus, slowly, without truly realizing it, I am sinking into the mud while searching for the light...

One of many incidents threw a harsh light on these fissures. In one breath she cannot stand the site of me, to be near me! And in another she can look at my face yet shy away when I mentioned the name of god, not that I believe in such nonsense. Religion is morality for those who cannot think of it for themselves. But I digress. Is it such a burden to be proud of me? Is it so embarrassing? If so, then why the charade? Before when I asked this, nothing, but a blank stare of uncaring. She looked at me, a clear, luminous look, washed of everything, and I saw that she understood everything, knew everything in her own primitive way, and faced with this pure knowledge I burst into flames. My clothes crackled, the skin of my belly melted, the fat sizzled, fire roared in my eye sockets and my mouth, and cleaned out the inside of my skull. The blaze was so intense she had to turn her head away. I burned to a cinder, my remains were transformed into a salt statue; soon it cooled down, pieces broke off, first a shoulder, then a hand, then half a head. Finally I finished collapsing at her feet and the wind swept away the pile of salt and scattered it. Perhaps this is why others cannot stare at me for long, my burning visage a plague upon them. Wishful thinking I suppose, wishful thinking of a dying man, inside and out.

For days on end I reflected on this strange scene; but my reflection stood before me like a mirror, and never returned anything to me but my own image, reversed of course, but true. Hideous, grotesque, an embarrassment. And still we play this game that I know is coming to an end, a painful, heartbreaking end. For I have just started the realization, and am only recently living it, where she must have been living it for months. I wish only to stay whole, a feet that is already proving to be impossible. This whole time I've been dying to live only to find that in the end I am living to die...

Avez-vous vu le Fantome?

Man gets on a subway, dies, will anybody notice?...this post is not for the faint at heart, you have been warned, sorry rather tell ya first lol.

After all I have seen both imagined and real there is still one thing that i can't grasp. I was beginning to perceive that no matter what swirls in my mind or in front of my eyes i will never be able to grasp death, that moment precisely in itself. It was one thing or the other: either you are dead, and then in any case there is nothing to understand, or else you are not dead yet, and in that case, even with the rifle at the back of your head or the rope around your neck, death remains incomprehensible, a pure abstraction, this absurd idea that I, the only living person in the world, could disappear. Dying, we may already be dead, but we never die, that moment never comes, or rather it never stops coming, there it is, it's coming, and then it's still coming, and then it's already over, without ever having come. That's how I'm reasoning anyway, very poorly no doubt, but without your sanity I'm probably not doing so great.

For our lives are just that, a moment and then the end, quickly and unnoticed. For a long time we crawl on this earth like caterpillars, waiting for the splendid, diaphanous butterfly we bear within ourselves. And then time passes and the nymph stage never comes, we remain larvae-what do we do with such an appalling realization? Suicide, or course is always an option. But to tell you the truth suicide doesn't tempt me much anymore, I've danced that danced and played that funny game and yet here i sit telling you and you probably don't believe, not that i care. There is only one person (or two if you count the other person in my head) that needs to believe my past, and he lived it. If i was to resort to it again, i wouldn't play Russian roulette anymore, obviously that leaves the off chance of basic math that you'll walk away, hence...me...here. No if i was to do it again i would defiantly do it like this: I'd hold a grenade (hey if a uneducated nomad can make em outta spare car parts so can i) right up against my heart and go out in a bright burst of joy. A little round grenade whose pin I'd delicately pluck out before I released the catch, smiling at the little metallic noise of the spring, the last sound I'd hear, aside from the heartbeat in my ears. And then at last, happiness, or in any case peace, as the shreds of flesh slowly dripped off the walls. Let the cleaning women scrub them off, that's what they're paid for, poor girls. But as I said , suicide doesn't tempt me. I don't know why either-they say its addictive if you fail, hmm guess I'll never know. Maybe it's an old philosophical streak, perhaps, which keeps me thinking that after all we're not here to have fun. To do what then? I have no idea, to endure, probably, to kill time before it finally kills you. I'll stop there, we could go on forever.; I invite you to continue on your own, until to ground opens up beneath your feet. As for me, there is no need: for a long time already the thought of death has been closer to me than the vein in my neck, as that beautiful phrase in the Koran says. If you ever managed to make me cry, my tears would sear your face.

The conclusion of all this, if you'll allow me on more quotation, the last one, I promise, is, as Sophocles said so well: Not to have been born is best. Schopenhauer has written roughly the same thing: It would be better if there were nothing. Since there is more pain than pleasure on Earth, every satisfaction is on transitory, creating new desires and new distresses, and the agony of the devoured animal is always far greater than the pleasure of the devourer. Yes, I know, that makes two quotations, but it's the same idea: in truth, we live in the worst of all possible worlds. And ultimately we are all dead men...

krieg ist krieg und Schnaps ist Shnaps

"My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go." Shakespeare

Alive or just breathing? Going through the motions or are we truly on this train? Maybe it is love that has made me a fool, made me dull so i cannot see. Before i could see all. Witness all, i was incredibly observant. Now? I am as silent as a grave. I am a grave without you, a cold and frozen hole without you. Pour toujours et à jamais! If a man hasn't discovered something that he will die for, he isn't fit to live. And yet i find myself thinking of you constantly even tho i know the same cannot be said otherwise. How can it be? Our very make-ups are different. And maybe that's why I love you with all my heart, because you are not these...money grubbing, truck slobbering, porn star must haves. This whole side of the world is bent on it. And it is sadly (hardly) something that i will never ever be. Maybe that's why I'm leaving this place. That is why I love you and why i hope you love me too. And all i can say is hope because love has made me blind, for i cannot see. People all around think they can but they don't know. They don't know us like i do. I search the faces of the gods... for ways to please you, to make you proud. One kind word, one full hug... where you pressed me to your chest and held me tight. Would have been like the sun on my heart for a thousand years. What is it in me that you hate so much? That makes you draw back in fear? O it has happened before and will most probably happen again, i do not doubt that much is certain. I would butcher the whole world if you would only love me. Love is as much a flame as it is a light.

"Dear God the only thing I ask of you is to hold her when I'm not around, when I'm much too far away We all need that person who can be true to you But I left her when I found her And now I wish I'd stayed ’Cause I'm lonely and I'm tired and I'm missing you more than life itself"

a bit of toast my friend...

After everything had happened, i craved calm and predictability above all. The course of my life had crushed the bones of my childhood dreams, and my anguish had slowly smoldered out, from one end of my life to the other. I emerged from my sickness a empty shell, left with nothing but bitterness and a great shame, like sand crunching in your teeth. So a life in keeping with all the social conventions suited me fine: a comfortable straitjacket, even if I often contemplate it with irony, and occasionally with contempt. At this rate, I hope to someday reach Jerome Nadal's state of grace, and to strive for nothing except to strive for nothing. Now I'm becoming bookish; another one of my failings. Alas for saintliness, I am not yet fully free of desire. I love one and one alone, with all my heart. Although i rarely feel she thinks the same. I have to teach myself not to read too much into everything. It comes from too long having to read so much into hardly anything at all. Maybe that's why I'm so in love with this women is because i can't figure her out like all the slews around here. Hmmm interesting. But all that has lost much of its interest for me. They no longer take my breath away. For my love has spoiled me, as sappy as is sounds, if you don't like it don't read it. These things aren't for your benefit they are for mine. Its like after a long illness, when food has lost all taste; what then does it matter if you eat chicken or beef? You have to feed yourself, that's all. To tell the truth, there isn't much that has kept an interest for me since she left. Its sad I know but I have never garnished that much respect so I'm not going out on a limb. Anyway maybe its literature, possibly, but even then, I'm not sure if that's not just out of habit. Maybe that's why i am writing these god awful things (because I'm sure i will be the only one reading them and enjoying them, in fact i will bet money on it):to get my blood flowing, to see if I can still feel anything, if I can still suffer a little. A curious exercise indeed...

Not to have been born is best..."Sophocles"