stranger's disease

"i wish i believed you when you said that this was my home"




solitude is your worst enemy and your best friend. it is in your veins, in your genetic code. you can't stand it, yet your eyes withdraw from scenes too packed. this is a version of you you can understand. your incessant pondering, your inner monologue, breathing in one, two, three, four, five; exhaling in six, seven, eight, nine, ten. you've been lonely for so long there's no chance someone can seemingly get you out of it. it looks, to your eyes, absolutely hopeless to fight against the walls you've built around yourself. don't try to fight it; the only feelings you miss are from those rainy days. you weren't happy. but why do you miss them? is it the freedom of being alone which captivates? is it the way you discover yourself through it? or how it makes you desperate? in any case, you'll sit alone in yet another graveyard at sunset and smoke among strangers. you'll make your way to houses of people you don't know for long lost memories and sit in the coffee shop at their corner, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of someone else's company. maybe then you'll see yourself there and find your place. in someone else's veins maybe, that's where solitude won't turn into loneliness.

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slave for words

some of these words,
they come to me and bite me.
words are flesh eaters,
if you let them.
they corrode me and start
developing madly inside me.
but sometimes they get stuck,
dance in my head,
midnight parties
but my hands are
empty football fields.
i can't guess when they'll come
but they are always there,
i need them.
i need words more than i'll ever need
people, and that's strange.
but i do,
i'm a slave for words.



a postcard

don’t let other people tell you what you are ought to do. run away from the haunting nightmares. this barren land is not your kingdom. build your own self. don’t forget about the early summers or midnight friends with stolen booze. don’t forget about night driving or crying at the riverside. take it all in, but never forget...

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disappear here

i am trying to be heroic,
in an age of modernity.
i am trying to be heroic,
because all around me history sings.

so i enjoyed and i devoured
flesh and wine and luxury.
but in my heart,
i am lukewarm;

nothing ever really touches me.

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diary entry, july 13th

my book opens up to me in ways i didn't expect it to. the material i'm gathering there might be better than the 400 entries this blog has ever had. i wonder if anyone would be interested in reading it. i myself find it quite amusing but hey, i have been my own reader for longer than i can think of.




dead stranger's past times

i walk through lampshades
made of ragged bones;
childhood monsters i'm not too
sure if i'm even here.
i'm so tired i walk through strangers' living rooms,
reminding myself of how once
i was not invited and yet
i wanted to be liked.
in between plastic and price tags
i saw myself out in these
situations among new books
and father's day useless presents.
i walk through mahogany and pinewood,
through fleece and silk.
what is it about department stores

that make us feel so at home?

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hey, some news

i'm writing a book????? slowly
but i am


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