too real for reality

I need stories, for my life to be real.
this might be difficult to comprehend.
I may be difficult to comprehend.

Right-angled events and rationality
passwords and people who cannot be bothered,
There is no room for them in this life that I write.
So when given an empty space, a silent pause
I fill it with something that goes with the drama I am composing.
A hint of unrequited love, a pinch of betrayal. Add a spoonful of deception.
Then I feign pride and strength, despite the fictitious suffering I supposedly face.

And when you don't understand me I blame you in my mind.
Blame your inability to rise to the level of your literary doppelganger.
It is an easy game.
Different ingredients cook up the same every time.
I keep writing...

muss es sein?

Does it matter what we allow ourselves to think?
Do you really think the mind cares about our silly objections?

Some things will never change, while others can never be the same.
And if they seem to be all upside down, don't bother trying to change them around.

The brain doesn't understand negations, yet stubbornly I keep telling it "don't!"
It is for my own peace of mind, but I don't find peace in imperatives.
All my metaphors are vintage, all the aphorisms worn out.

But, of course, I do.
And you do, too.

Es muss sein!

a fine frenzy.

an avalanche,
of repressed emotions, fantasises. Desire.
Released at full speed with no room for thoughts about what comes next,
after acting out what had been forbidden for years.

A nagging feeling, a tug at the heart.
Fear of the end that always comes. inevitable end.
Will it come at full speed too?

Am I different now? Am I a conglomerate of residual feelings and images;
expectations of all that is desirable, unattainable and so there for the taking?
Are you still there? Are you the same?
Or have you been replaced by the instincts that pressed on you until you finally scratched?

I need a moment to step out of line.

What comes after insane?
Insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over, expecting different result.
But what if you're fully aware the result will be the same, and you still keep doing it.
What do you call that?

Parts of me screaming: 'What did you expect?"'
But on the inside that copper coil is telling me it isn't the same at all. This is different.
And like a junkie, I hide my habits, my addiction. I tell no one.
A loaded gun, I keep my guard up.

Why does it matter?
The psychology of desire works in mysterious ways.
And I remember.
Naked feet running on a rainy sidewalk. Running, rushing to stop, but ending in defeat.
But my mind cannot conceive of this word, defeat.
And my feet keep running, forever on that sidewalk.
Hoping for a different result, or the same. They keep running.

And there you are.
Tall and strong and leaving. Like you left before.
Raindrops and tears won't keep you here.
You missed me for a while, but I can never know if you will stay.

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