The staircase

"There are no trees in the abyss. They can not grow in this constant darkness. The forest once filled with birds, blooming flowers and fields of green soft grass, now resembles more a pit of tar. I figured the forest to be the entry, from where we all came down here. In a way it is symbolizing youth and the innocence of being a child still, I guess. But the path leads on downward, spiraling down into the ground. Not all people reach this place, the deep core of absolute nothingness. I envy them. I envy those that were here and found a way up too. I tried removing my own heart once. But no matter how much you want to do it, your body will still find ways to try and stop you. I thought that without a heart – what could then hurt me? Without a heart, the abyss could not keep its grip on me. I’m so lonely. So lonely I could die. I don’t want to meet people though. All they do is make you care and make you go insane. They ruin you, more than anything. In the abyss we are all just hollow ugly pieces of shit anyhow. Some are actually good people, undeserving, but then there are those like me. Those born to walk the staircase down here and never leave. I’m not good with talking about feelings, I never were. That’s how words became my true solace. A blank paper will listen, and it surely will not abandon you or break your heart."




KARIN BOYEE

Hur kan jag säga om din röst är vacker.
Jag vet ju bara, att den genomtränger mig
och kommer mig att darra som ett löv
och trasar sönder mig och spränger mig.
 
Vad vet jag om din hud och dina lemmar.
Det bara skakar mig att de är dina,
så att för mig finns ingen sömn och vila,
tills de är mina.
 
Jag vet det, för alla säger det: din tid är kort
Jag kan inte föreställa mig, att du går bort.
Det finns ingen värld att leva i, där du inte bor.
Min tanke förnekar undret. Men hjärtat tror.
 
// Karin Boye - Hur kan jag säga ♥




Morgondagen inställd i brist på intresse.

Here at the edge,
the winters frost lay ever dormant,
pushing away the strays of spring.
The grey faces are shoveling their paths,
all climbing their mountains,
while I'm buried under mine.

Do not come in, I beg you
I can not handle another cook,
throwing vitriolic in my stew,
and calling it sugar.




Everybody told me love was blind

 
Here at the edge,
the winters frost lay ever dormant,
pushing away the strays of spring.
The grey faces are shoveling their path,
all climbing their mountains,
while I'm buried under mine.




invisible

It’s almost like
I lost my ability to rhyme.

And poetry once flowed

Through my veins

And now the words have silenced

Just as the flowers withered

 

Words used to solace

But rain washed them away

Their laughs are silent

But their mouths are wanderers

And my ears is their ground 





Remains of a feeble mind - I

 

All films that venture onto the cinema screen deals with the subject of death, in one way or another. How we fade into nothingness, how we wade into the lonely lakes of darkness, and how the love we once felt dies out. Usually the climax is people knocking on death’s door, but swiftly (and predictably) getting passed it and moves on. Humans are so fascinated with their own mortality, scared, but at the same time drawn to the morbid of dying. I wish I could tell them it’s completely understandable that they all fear the unknown, but yet I can promise they have nothing to be afraid of. It was the 8th of August 2010 when I died. As I had decided to begin taking my life seriously, it was quite ironic that a van ran me over that same day. But perhaps the question of how I can tell you all this and yet being dead lingered through your mind, and I have to admit I do not quite know. I’m not a ghost, I don’t believe in such profanities, but I’m obviously far from alive. It’s difficult to express, but I can reminiscence parts of myself that are no longer here. Almost like I’ve been stripped down, and only a fragment remains alive and working. This is where I usually reside, as this rundown theatre is the only place that shows classic films from forgotten decades long ago. They make me feel calm. However due to the age of the films, the number of visitors is particularly low, and recently they’ve been forced to take in more modern films to grab a hold of the younger generations to sustain business. I do not quite know what drives me to revisit this place so very often, like an invisible web have tangled itself around me and drags me back when I go too far away. My memory capacity has been gradually decreasing, and in time I’ve even forgot what my name used to be.

 The theatre was still lit, and the film was yet to begin. I sat in the same seat as always, the seat I had counted to be in the exact middle of the room. The red velvet seat just felt softer in this particular spot than the rest. A fairly young couple sat two rows behind me, and I could hear their kissing and silenced laughter crystal clear. From their point of view they were still alone in the cinema, and I had learned that this is how people naturally are when they believe to be alone. I was guessing how many people would venture out from their safe havens to the cinema this evening and hence it’s a new film my number was pretty high. Turns out I was wrong. A group of young delinquents entered and took seats a few rows in front of me. Their chattering and storytelling was unavoidable, but certainly they kept at it. They were like giggling dead corpses pretending like they made a difference to the world. After suffered through perhaps ten minutes (or I guess, even when I was alive time was not one of my fortes) of their small talk I had learned more than I wish I had. On the far left was B, and only his placement said that he was the leader who had taken place first and the rest mindlessly followed, just like sheer silk linen dancing in the wind. His constant talking left little room for those beside him, which was a shorter boy with short black hair, who mostly sat smiling and they never mentioned his name. On the far right was another blonde boy named A accompanied by a red haired girl, most likely a couple based on their position toward each other. Drawn to one another, like the ground cranks the rain so close it becomes one. I was sure the film would be completely destroyed by distractions, but at least some manner hung onto those kids, who fell into silence as the theatre blackened and the screen lit up. Sometimes I tried to imagine my life on that film screen, eternally burned onto an 8mm film roll, but every try took more energy than before. Remembering didn’t come natural anymore, and my head begun spinning like I was soaring around on the back of a bird if I tried too long. Memories only matter for such a long time, until they become so distant it doesn’t even feel like those particular memories belong to you, like somebody has showered you in unwanted information about their own happiness. The screen blackened. Where had the time gone? Much to my displeasure this happened more often, like I was erased from the last humans who had once known me. Perhaps time had gone so fast they had all died. If I was dead I could have joined them. Such a common longing I found myself wrapped in.
 




Vi har kollat upp emot rymden och sett stjärnorna blinka till oss ljusår bortifrån.





"Mad Girl's Love Song" by Sylvia Plath ♥

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
 




Dålig poesi.

THE DIMINISHED LONGING

The rain drops
touched my fragile skin,
like razors on silky sheets.

Decided had I,
to finish all these lives,
dreams impaired by
the longing for death.

Calm arose the storm,
brought down timber and pines.
The milk teeth chewed into my inner,
and left a permanent scar.

The sun shines
ascending on water’s surface.
"No more Death shall kill me,
No more Silence shall silence me!
But more than that,
No more Life shall I live!"

A red river
containing chunks of their hearts,
piecing themselves together,
as the stream carries them on.
It won't be long now,
as they are yet to find home.

 

"Omgiven av en upprepande dissonans, där alla tycks befinna sig i ett stadium av ultrarapid utanför min egna tillförslade bubbla. Konturerna av människor synes utsuddade, och väggarna kryper närmare inpå efter varje gång jag blinkar.

 Jag uppfattar rörelserna ifrån de omkring migs munnar i min ögonvrå, men allt som fångar intresset är de svävande tomma bokstäverna framför mig.

Men ack, i samma stund mina ben förmår sig att fungera igen, kommer de stora fiskekrokarna kastandes emot mig! Huden separerar, som alla människor slutligen gör, och i hålet som lämnas kvar tränger de vassa uddarna in.

De gräver sig in långt in i köttet, där de förankrar sig emot de mest vitala organen. Varje försök att dra sig loss resulterar i spillt blod och tårar. Jag är fast här.

Viskningar i luften säger att elden kommer snart,

och det finns ingenting mer romantiskt än att lova någon annan sin evighet."

 

-

 

INGEN KAN FÅ DIG.

 

Vilka hemligheter

vältrar sig bakom dina blå ögon?

Du sjunker under bitterhetens tunga

Ögonen har förlorat sitt fokus till tomheten

Och du tänker; att vi var ju ännu så unga

 

En arm, två armar, ett ben, två ben

Fem knivhugg och sedan krälar vi mot mitten

Du behöver inget av dessa något mer

Varför gråter du? Jag har ju lovat dig;

evigheten.

 

Din ryggrad begravd under mina fingrar;

Dansar över de vassa benen

Det går att skrika men inte att fly

För om inte jag kan få dig;

kan ingen det.

 

 

 

Meteorite

Why are the birds still singing?

Why is the wind still chiming?

Why does the heart of mine beat?

Don't they know?

 

Erase the stars, fade the seasons

I don't want to see them anymore

Taxidermy yourself while youth still prospers

Before the bottle wins the fight

Kill the laughter’s, nobody cares anymore

My friend,

Don't you know?

 

Opulence blinds you of the stone in the sky

And it will keep blinding you,

even when the world is burning.

The ashes will come, the rich shall perish

And all is left to see the world how it is

A dark desert without sound nor light

Don't I know?

 

But I do know,

that this is the end of the world.

 

 

 

Ärr i tiden.

 

Inte ens liggandes

i den gröna ängens omfamning

låter ljuset sig tränga förbi

den stegrande horisonten av mörker.

 

Omsluten av silkespapper,

så fragilt att rörelser krackelerar dess yta.

Som en nål i ett läkt sår,

kommer avgrunden emot mig!

Den rullar in marken under,

och den är evig.

stillheten

tystnaden

och

mörkret.

 

 

 

N A D J A

En bänkrad i en enformig sen Augusti dag

Axlar går ifrån bränd aska till utsträckta vingar.

Väggarna och golvet går i matchande solkigt trä

(Ingen får komma in i mitt hus.)

 

Lutandes mot väggen skymtas konturer utanför

Rör sig i horisonten, som svarta skepp i en storm.

Solljuset kastades emot den ensliga rutan,

och färgade världen i ett dovt grått sken.

Den enda dörren kallar ibland,

men det går inte att öppna utan att de anfaller!

(Ingen får komma in i mitt hus.)

 

Jag höll på att rulla ut över världens kant,

när hans hägring skymtades i himlaranden.

En främling vars detaljer jag frenetiskt granskade,

en främling vars värsta vapen var ignoransen.

Jag ville att han skulle vilja knacka på min dörr,

den dörr som hållits evigt stängd.

(Ingen får komma in i mitt hus.)

 

"Igår var vi fulla" berättar de och småler,

och utsidan går inte ihop med den inre likgiltigheten.

Jag är en matta, vill du torka dina skor?

Jag måste säga att det tog en evighet att skriva dessa, är lite ledsen i ögat att jag bara fick VG. Men som vanligt säger dem "DU kan mer, du har potential!" SLUTA. Jag har gjort mitt bästa redan. :(((( Även om jag kommer gå i specialskola nu kommer jag säkert få höra skiten ändå. Det får en verkligen att känna sig misslyckad och mer värdelös än vad man redan är.




The ruined life of someone better

"Omgiven av en upprepande dissonans, där alla tycks befinna sig i ett stadium av ultrarapid utanför min egna tillförslade bubbla. Konturerna av människor synes utsuddade, och väggarna kryper närmare inpå efter varje gång jag blinkar. Jag uppfattar rörelserna ifrån de omkring migs munnar i min ögonvrå, men allt som fångar intresset är de svävande tomma bokstäverna framför mig. Men ack, i samma stund mina ben förmår sig att fungera igen, kommer de stora fiskekrokarna kastandes emot mig! Huden separerar, som alla människor slutligen gör, och i hålet som lämnas kvar tränger de vassa uddarna in. De gräver sig in långt in i köttet, där de förankrar sig emot de mest vitala organen. Varje försök att dra sig loss resulterar i spillt blod och tårar. Jag är fast här. Viskningar i luften säger att elden kommer snart,
och det finns ingenting mer romantiskt än att lova någon annan sin evighet."




The Diminished Longing

THE DIMINISHED LONGING

The rain drops
touched my fragile skin,
like razors on silky sheets.

Decided had I,
to finish all these lives,
dreams impaired by
the longing for death.

Calm arose the storm,
brought down timber and pines.
The milk teeth chewed into my inner,
and left a permanent scar.

The sun shines
ascending on waters surface.
"No more Death shall kill me,
No more Silence shall silence me!
But more than that,
No more Life shall I live!"

A red river
containing chunks of their hearts,
piecing themselves together,
as the stream carries them on.
It won't be long now,
as they are yet to find home.





A Universal Emptiness.

Marauding drops gazing over cracked pavements.
Ascending darkness effortlessly remains untouched.
The scent of reminiscence wobbling into my mind,
when asphalt kissing rain on a burning summers day.

Sheltered underneath a swiftly mended wing,
rays of eternity gently lands on naked skin.
The world outside is burning,
but you,
you are saved now.

(Hej jag har börjat skriva dålig poesi nu också hahah. Vill även påpeka att jag är dålig n00b, tog en evighet att komma på rätt formuleringar och ordval som kändes korrekta och även är det bara två korta verser.)





You've got that medicine that I need. Dope, shoot it up, straight to the heart please, I don't really wanna know what's good for me.

Better,
despite the worms talking to
the mare's hoof in the field;
better,
despite the season of young girls
dropping their blood;
better somehow
to drop myself quickly
into an old room.
Better (someone said)
not to be born
and far better
not to be born twice
at thirteen
where the boardinghouse,
each year a bedroom,
caught fire.

Dear friend,
I will have to sink with hundreds of others
on a dumbwaiter into hell.
I will be a light thing.
I will enter death
like someone's lost optical lens.
Life is half enlarged.
The fish and owls are fierce today.
Life tilts backward and forward.
Even the wasps cannot find my eyes.

Yes,
eyes that were immediate once.
Eyes that have been truly awake,
eyes that told the whole story—
poor dumb animals.
Eyes that were pierced,
little nail heads,
light blue gunshots.

And once with
a mouth like a cup,
clay colored or blood colored,
open like the breakwater
for the lost ocean
and open like the noose
for the first head.

Once upon a time
my hunger was for Jesus.
O my hunger! My hunger!
Before he grew old
he rode calmly into Jerusalem
in search of death.

This time
I certainly
do not ask for understanding
and yet I hope everyone else
will turn their heads when an unrehearsed fish jumps
on the surface of Echo Lake;
when moonlight,
its bass note turned up loud,
hurts some building in Boston,
when the truly beautiful lie together.
I think of this, surely,
and would think of it far longer
if I were not… if I were not
at that old fire.

I could admit
that I am only a coward
crying me me me
and not mention the little gnats, the moths,
forced by circumstance
to suck on the electric bulb.
But surely you know that everyone has a death,
his own death,
waiting for him.
So I will go now
without old age or disease,
wildly but accurately,
knowing my best route,
carried by that toy donkey I rode all these years,
never asking, “Where are we going?”
We were riding (if I'd only known)
to this.

Dear friend,
please do not think
that I visualize guitars playing
or my father arching his bone.
I do not even expect my mother's mouth.
I know that I have died before—
once in November, once in June.
How strange to choose June again,
so concrete with its green breasts and bellies.
Of course guitars will not play!
The snakes will certainly not notice.
New York City will not mind.
At night the bats will beat on the trees,
knowing it all,
seeing what they sensed all day.
 
- Suicide Note av Anne Sexton ♥




Målningar i mörkret

Första paragrafen ur något dåligt novellkladd jag skrev.

Utrivna sidor ur gamla dagböcker, tidningar med bortklippta ansikten och gamla fimpar täckte den solkiga heltäckningsmattan i sovrummet. Tystnaden bröts utav den plastiga gula väckarklockan, som varit en gåva i barndomens år, som gav ifrån skärande ljud i någon minut innan den hastigt stannade. Hon behövde inte väckas, hon var redan vaken. Dem tomma ögonen fokuserade på den vita gamla takfläkten. Dess vingar täckta utav ett tjockt lager damm, dess knappar som nästintill formade två ögon och lampan i mitten som såg ut som en leende mun. Ett genuint oskyldigt leende, sådana som man aldrig ser i folk längre. Det är inte det att det icke finns längre, utan bara att hon vänder ryggen till och avfärdar all godhet som en väg bli utnyttjad på. Tiden kändes evig, som om ingenting spelade roll förutom den inre växande skuggan. Den var tillbaka, starkare än någonsin, beslutsam om att dra med henne ned i fallet. De vacklande drömmarna kunde inte ens göra sig påminda längre, hon var mil därifrån. De utslitna tårkanalerna kunde inte ens förmå sig att få fram något längre, det var som allt i henne var kasserat, ett absolut slut. Tomhetes murar höll henne instängd med alla dessa kretsande tankar. Hur kom det sig att ord inte kunde laga det som ord åsamkat? Hon visste att dessa tankar var fulla av blasfemi och nonsens, alla mår dåligt nu för tiden, det är nästan så att man inte kan ta det på allvar. Tapeten på väggarna hade lossnat på sina ställen, hennes naglar skärt igenom den pappersliknande massan. Minnet kunde inte förmå sig varför detta skett, eller hur livet var innan allting blev så tungt. Det var ingen som misstänkte att någonting var fel, de alla trodde att det var såhär hon ville vara. Full utav självömkan, pessimism och ilska. Hur kunde hon förklara att ibland verkade hon glad när hennes energinivå plötsligt steg, fastän hon ändå ville dö? Hon förstod det inte själv. Hon förstod inte varför hon var sådan, varför hon varken ville ha framtid eller förflutet, varför hon inte ville dö, men ändå inte leva.