a little transcript from "alarm call"
"crying gives me migranes. i guess that's why i had not done so in such a long while. ever since i discovered that crying was not necessarily a form of weakness, cowardness or any other lacking of one's being, i decided it was proper to make up other ways of justifying my not doing so. today, i have reached a more reasonable explanation for it: it does not amount to much, life is not meant to be blurred by salty puddles, at least not my life, not right now.
but it seems that this desperation, this ever so frustrating solitude and impotence is as overwhelming as it once seemed to be the inertial mode of this lifetime. am i to give in? it may be too soon to know if that even constitutes a meaningful question; maybe it is not so, i don't think that makes that much of a difference seeing as how things have turned out to be. several kinds of emotional confusions have turned up lately, every little thing that i remember must remain, but i crave the ability of overpowering my memory for i know i often make up the light in his eyes, mistaking it for some other's kind look.
it is very hard not to be down when the oppressive nature of this world acts upon me, it is very hard to not lose myself in my chronic distractions, my everlasting moments of silence and insight --blindness folded towards myself--, it is very hard to notice myself in the mystified path that i've chosen..."
i remember the first notebook i started, it was more of a collection of words and simple lines i dare not call drawings. now, seven years later, i find myself in the same condition as before, i am nothing but a stranger, a foreigner looking in and finding that there's nothing worth telling; that makes it harder to be
without you, even when there's them, always reaching for something within me.
coming in through my ears::Unendlich/Friedrich Nietzsche