Traumerei

Vivaldi! Woke up wanting Vivaldi, and ended up drinking coffee.

The madness of denial penetrates all of virtual worlds painstakingly constructed during the dark hours of slumber. I told her it was just an exercise. I told her that I just pretending. I told her that it was not real. 

I was wrong. I disconnect and blast the whole into the ether. 

The insanity of life permeates all reality sprouting of the interstitials of the day without a beginning and the night without an end. I told him that I didn’t want to miss the chance. I told him that it was all real. 

I called Immanuel. He disconnected. 

To wade

Ravenous! Ravenous. It is just a feeling dressed onto a word. It is just a state of paralysis. It is just the constant struggle of survival. It is all about still not knowing how to breathe, and it is still all about the denial of pleasure.

I wade and waddle in the incongruence of this planet and its inebriated inhabitants. Too many of them, too many pieces of incoherent information, too much linearity: no knowledge and no hope of understanding. 

It breaks me each and every time. It does. I wade and waddle, and reach to fix the broken. I fail often.

To walk

I am tired of wishing. I am tired of running away. I am tired.

To run

To evade reality is my goal and my whole reason to exist. If life is anything else other than pure imagination, I want nothing to do with it.
I remember now my little sister. She decided that this life was not worth living, and one Summer night she put an end to her life. I remember my sister and wonder what wisdom she had tried to impart on me with her letter of departure.
It's coming back to me. It is is very chemical.

On the road

Three-quarters of the way down to the impossible, I conclude that rational thought is the ultimate illusion. The alternative is that I am completely mad and beyond redemption. Either way, this is heaven.

Morning Whispers

Lies. All lies. Beautiful lies. Those are the morning alarms with harp' sounds and soft melodies. Lies! There is no urgency to the day. There is nothing that must be done. Tomorrow may never come.

Returned

There is the perennial question inquiring into my being. How are you? They ask, and I blindly respond. I respond blindly and unfiltered. I respond untouched by society. I respond. I respond and seek validation. I respond and seek acceptance. How am I? The truth in the response is illusive, ephemeral, and empty. I remain untouched by society, and seeking to touch it. The glass wall is still there. The air that I breathe is still free. 

Don't care

Never did. Occasionally I can pretend as though I do. Mostly, I do not even try. But do tell me, what does money have to do with love? Why is it that the gold diggers keep on circling like vultures?
I don't care about them. I do not care for the gold diggers. I never cared for them. It is about time that my mother take note of that. I do not care for the gold diggers. I am incapable of loving them. Any of them. I don't love them. I do not want to love them. Never did.

Returning

It is the second day. She sits by the window in the morning hours. Digital toxicology, famine, and too much theory suggest that peace remains a utopian construct that delays the species on its self-destruction path.
Life, that she has seen. She has seen it all. It is boring these days for the one who has been searching for what was there all along. She is like the tired Buddha sitting under that famed tree of the legends. She needs a rest. Doing the dishes, taking a shower; anything will do. Just a rest. Just a break. She can not hear, much less listen to the lamentations of this world.
It is the second day of Ramadan. She returns.