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Dispassion

 Once you watch everything from a distance, even the desolate mornings, even the desolation itself, or the one who experiences it - a certain ease sets into being. Understanding that nothing ever lasts apart from the ancient urge to survive in the face of eternal doom, Man finally is born, suffering is born. What is life but the simplest kind of droplet inside the ocean, the breeze that blows and outpours itself to death inside the atmosphere in which it was born, the fire that eats away its own mortal candlestick, where human happiness and human despair were tradable instruments which were passed from generations to generations beyond while people start to talk mindlessly about ecstasy or suffering but never gaze into any of them out of sheer fear, because once you gaze into the depth of anything then everything dissolves into pure nothingness, and you live and I live and we all live in a shell - playthings for eternity with which she started to play but forgot instantly and ...
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Haziness

 As things lie down finally after a hailstorm, I walk in streets unfurled carefully for walking in rain soaked midnight light, I walk into the stillness forgotten over time, a thought of being born and raised to natural decay constantly haunting the footsteps, I gently push everything away as I swim through soft unending haziness where everything comes and everything goes in time, where stillness reflects the past years, stillness reflects the future years, and the heaviness in human heart remains, since there is no consolation for being born, since there is nothing but walking into haziness, and never quite walking out of it.
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Urge to live

 There is no "I" when the thought arises at the end of a drunken night, the meaning of "I" is dissolved, there is nothing inside you, there is nothing inside us, only a few words remain for a saddening submission to the universal silence, days and nights pass like simple meditative states when people hear their favourite songs, blue sky melts into the blue horizon of the sea, blue afternoons live between us, but love is compromised, peace is a romantic dead end, you are a flower into my life, and that is everything that I know, that is the Truth of existence, the simple guesswork that everything looks as it seems, and I rediscover a self, probably that illusion is a necessary condition for living, help me live, help me be a normal human being, help me to live, to live and laugh within this sickness.
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Non-belonging

 The sense of never belonging anywhere, the sense of alienation that stabs quietly every night, I am living through this, this pain that never subsides, and when there is pain there is doubt, doubt about the origin of the self, I retrogress towards death, an unholy movement through time, but the self is unmoved while everything else moves towards intellectual and moral hibernation, I try to sleep the night out, but words travel with the intensity of light indeed, words with no consequence, words that reverberate with the same rhythmic destiny, I never like to be myself, I never like to be but I am, I never want to be myself.
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Gunshots

 In this line of seconds, I hear gunshots from the clocks, like everything was natural, was truly mundane and everything flowed like blood from the heart, unless you realise there is no heart to begin with, or the heart is nothing but every thought that appears unknowingly, creeping up inside the white walls of forgotten despair, but you had to see it, you had to witness your own maddening sickness unto death, and the simple act of "not doing anything" seemed exceedingly difficult, while getting out of this maze seemed difficult too - so you froze, you froze inside time, never going back and never walking forward, you look at the clock and you are blinded by movements, deafened by the sound of gunshots killing each second amidst the frozen silence, but during everything the world went on without the slightest perversion, flowers and food bloomed from nowhere, tigers died in childbirth, butterflies appeared, so natural was the violence of moving that it almost got unnoticed by...
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Living is trauma

 As history culminates into nothingness, I write an endless paean of 'I'-ness, the solidified nature of myself, into white letters forming words under the framework of language, I pass, I pass the borders of being self-aware and being less drunk, I undergo a surgery of the self from the body, and the self reflects upon it, upon the procedure itself, it emerges like an unvanquished soldier always battle ready on the excess of itself, because the excess of the self matters, the excess of everything matters, as excess of thought tricks me into reflection of the world, and I suddenly realise that trickery, I wait and wait for boredom and death to take me, I wait for oblivion to send me letters to remember myself at times, I help tears to build up a civilisation, I breathe, and I breathe, and between those epiphanic moments, I wait to breathe again...
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Inability to move

 A world of unseen heroism and happiness, I stop in this, I find myself into a jugglery of consequences, I find myself beneath the alter of a point, ever expanding outside and ever contracting within, never knowing the way out of this hellhole, yet I am always keen to move, anywhere apart from this oppressing point would do, any way, be it towards the sun or towards the moon or the murky sky or volcanoes, I tend to move but cannot make a choice, cannot make that leap, I fixate myself in my own prison of melted sadness, and I watch myself unburnt yet killed, and I watch many others moving towards nowhere, I watch them towards different addresses in Europe, in Asia, in continents, in kitchens, in offices and games, in occupied minds, and I know the path will eventually kill them as my point will do to me, but I revolt against this very idea of revolution, I confiscate my existence and I am here, I am here, I am here...
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