One more time my hands run wild all over the keyboard,
eager to just chain words to the blank page and feed on them,
to feed on their meanings like a predator,
to feel their juice running down on my chin
without caring that my mouth is smeared
with crushed particles of language,
while listening to the same song all over again.
Too many people around,
too much noise,
and the headphones barely manage to fill my hearing
with Clapton’s Layla –
I’ll grow deaf if I turn it just one scratch louder.
I need silence,
I need an empty night,
where I wouldn’t have to turn such a pretty song
into white noise able to annul all the pointless sounds striving to reach
my core
I have to choose between yelling at everybody around me
or simply sitting in a corner and feeling sorry for myself.
I am a monument of unhappiness.
So, would it be better to be silent and swallow,
bit by bit,
my daily slice of mournful thoughts,
or should I simply burst like a volcano,
unexpectedly and splattering anger all around me?
I’m melodramatic.
I’m pathetic.
I can’t even make up my mind on how I should feel.
What’s worse, I am aware
that I should simply find something that makes me happy
and focus on that.
But I don’t want to do that. Why?
Because this stupid pathetic self-sorrow has an
awkward taste
that keeps filling my mouth and thoughts
with its flavor,
and for some reason my mouth and thoughts
love to be clogged with it.
What’s even more pathetic
is the fact that all this state of mind is triggered
by the most idiotic things happening to/around me.
I’m tired of pretending to be wise
while rambling among myths and legends.
I’m bored.
I’m worn-out.
I’m old – the bad sort of old, not the good one.
I’m dusty and I keep on peeling my neurons of thoughts,
hoping to find some logic within their string –
but I don’t, and this drives me crazy.
My fingers tap the keys in Clapton’s rhythm –
and not even that can clean up the noise in my head.
It never ends.
Pain never ends.
No matter how much you smear its skin
with philosophy and/or presumably gained wisdom.
Some say that time makes it fade, but they’re wrong –
and the best proof of this are words.
Words lock the pain within them,
like within some black box of the soul,
and they release it when you least expect it.
And this is why I try to line them now chaotically,
in this futile attempt of letting go.
They say there’s no greater bitterness in love
than that of watching your loved one
slowly drifting away,
unchaining himself from you,
allowing ice to form first at the surface of the bond
and then deeper and deeper,
until the capillaries of love crack,
turning into thin needles.
But you know what? There is:
that one moment when you realize
that what you took for love was just a masquerade of it,
a sweet but shallow shadow of “the real thing”,
and that true love is still far away out-there.
A careless gesture moves the table
and the coffee cup spills all over the place.
//Rep…you know what, I think I should change the song…

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