tiistai 15. helmikuuta 2011
Lightness of the day
After giving up the whole world seems kind of different. People wander in the dining room so insignificantly that it is hard to realize my being there. A friend sits at my table. He is so enthuastic about the things he is about to do that I don`t know how to respond. It is so hard to act as if something matters, when nothing really makes any difference anymore. So I keep smiling and nodding my head. I can`t tell of my real thoughts because I don`t want to hurt anybody. Sometimes I feel like wanting to drown away with my loneliness. But that has got to wait for I still have some work to do. Apathy. Unbearable anxiety. Paradox of being. I look at the people around me. I`m there though nobody notices me. A gaze through the window. Books lie on my desk as they always have. In sloping piles.
lauantai 12. helmikuuta 2011
First day of the last days
"When I am at the pearly gates, this will be on my videotape"
Nobody will read this. No one has any reason to. Yet I`m writing this anyway. I`m nobody. I`m somebody. I`m someone who passes you by on the street in the morning. I watch the people in the safety of the darkness of the morning, while they are half asleep going to work. Just as I am. Many thing differs me from everybody else. One thing is clear, though. I have finally realized the mistakes I`ve made in the past, and at where they have led me. The future opens itself clear to me. For the first time in my miserable life I know what I am doing. There are not that many days left for me anymore. During my last days I have decided to put my thoughts on writing so there`ll be something to remember me by when I`m gone. I`m alone now, and I will be alone when I leave. Nobody will notice my leaving, just as nobody notices my existance at the moment. Loneliness have always been my only friend and it will be it till the end. I have never wanted to make a big scene of myself. So these writings will be the only theatrical thing I`ll do now or ever. Writing is one of the rare things I have enjoyed. So in writing I will express my last days. I can`t really give any reasons for it. Maybe it`s like Camus put it: "one could not die without having confessed all one`s lies." And since I don`t have anyone to confess to, may it be you my transcendental reader.
Night is falling. I look at the walls of my apartment. They are as they`ve always been but something`s different. It`s maybe in the way I look at them. The end is the beginning. I see the dark sky from my huge window through which I have gazed the world during the last couple of years. I see my furniture. They can`t create a home for me. Home. I never found you. I didn`t find myself till it was too late. The fact that I exist or my thoughts of it do not give me any purpose to keep looking. A flash between what has been and what is yet to come. Moment between the "not anymore" and "later". Anxiety. The night embraces me. Those who come out at night are awaking. The city awaits. It`s hard to believe I have finally opened the last door. I sit at my computer. Nothing or no one will miss me, and I will miss othing or no one. I walk on the path of the days to come. Alone as ever. At the graveyard of my lost dreams.
Nobody will read this. No one has any reason to. Yet I`m writing this anyway. I`m nobody. I`m somebody. I`m someone who passes you by on the street in the morning. I watch the people in the safety of the darkness of the morning, while they are half asleep going to work. Just as I am. Many thing differs me from everybody else. One thing is clear, though. I have finally realized the mistakes I`ve made in the past, and at where they have led me. The future opens itself clear to me. For the first time in my miserable life I know what I am doing. There are not that many days left for me anymore. During my last days I have decided to put my thoughts on writing so there`ll be something to remember me by when I`m gone. I`m alone now, and I will be alone when I leave. Nobody will notice my leaving, just as nobody notices my existance at the moment. Loneliness have always been my only friend and it will be it till the end. I have never wanted to make a big scene of myself. So these writings will be the only theatrical thing I`ll do now or ever. Writing is one of the rare things I have enjoyed. So in writing I will express my last days. I can`t really give any reasons for it. Maybe it`s like Camus put it: "one could not die without having confessed all one`s lies." And since I don`t have anyone to confess to, may it be you my transcendental reader.
Night is falling. I look at the walls of my apartment. They are as they`ve always been but something`s different. It`s maybe in the way I look at them. The end is the beginning. I see the dark sky from my huge window through which I have gazed the world during the last couple of years. I see my furniture. They can`t create a home for me. Home. I never found you. I didn`t find myself till it was too late. The fact that I exist or my thoughts of it do not give me any purpose to keep looking. A flash between what has been and what is yet to come. Moment between the "not anymore" and "later". Anxiety. The night embraces me. Those who come out at night are awaking. The city awaits. It`s hard to believe I have finally opened the last door. I sit at my computer. Nothing or no one will miss me, and I will miss othing or no one. I walk on the path of the days to come. Alone as ever. At the graveyard of my lost dreams.
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