untitled angel. ( iron king ). 



Somewhat distorted.

 It can happen, and quite often too. Some feelings that I carry can vanish for a moment, I can forget them, leaving only a strange consciousness and other peculiar perceptions to gaze at a specific mood. Those moods can be terribly destructive sometimes.
   I stood by a river, and having had contemplated suicide a few hours earlier, I curiously threw a gaze down into the water. I didn’t think about anyone else, only them as an institution and for a second or two, I felt cut loose from it all, and completely free to act as I preferred. And that wasn’t a feeling that struck me with emotional pain, nor happiness. It was simply a realisation, that stood like a solitary candle with a black light somewhere.*
   The reality, the silent, nameless reality thrown into minds, etched into perception and drowning feeling.
   Why I didn’t think about anyone else? They felt recorded, empty, just like I felt, depraved of anything but a reality and thus that reality’s perception of what they are. And they all felt the same, just like me.
   I was my own character, a creation of myself. Another one of my short-stories’ faceless, sexless and unaroused characters, that existed only for my purpose, that wasn’t symbolic or an attempt at mirroring an issue in a reality, simply a ‘sadistic’ experiment with individuals and reality in general.
   I had stood by my bed, La Nausée and M Train as well as my diary, black and misshapen by water and myself constantly ripping out some pages here and there laying by the window. The first page I know awfully well, because I had put a note saying my name accompanied by a heart there. It was written by a friend of mine. I suddenly came to smile, for an eerie notion swam thru me, a notion that was enchanting and exiting in it’s strangeness. I could kill myself. I have that power. A power that then felt rewarding, a proof to myself that I can make a mark, that I can make something new, and that last striving, that I felt that I could reach.
   And then I laughed at myself, although in the core of that laughter there must’ve laid an immense seriousness. I want different hallucinations, but I want the same drug as them.
   When thinking of committing suicide, I haven’t reached a black zone. I am not even in the greyscale. I’m somewhere else, where there isn’t colour at all. There are only reservoir pens that go on writing without making a mark.
   And I don’t trust this at all. There is something wrong, something slightly twisted, these thoughts is a figure walking down a dark, film-noir street, draped in some edgy coat, yet a finger on their hand is strangely twisted, therefore an odd, but unrecognisable -due to the silent appearance – image is given off.
   – Thy can hear thy own voice, yet thy is unable to stop it from talking for it is the voice of someone else. It’s tearing thy head apart, for it is already recorded and it will pour into thy past that thy will hand to them, as it becomes all that is left of thy, and now, thy can leave. Again and again.
*comment if you got the Bowie-Adja Yunkers joke.
It is just an individual, without any purpose at all.
                                                – Louis Ferdinand Céline
Note: This is a literary work. Not a diary.

Nothing new. Ever.

at the end   A museum’s bathroom. The walls were black, wooden and gave an enclosed yet breathable feeling thru that. Right before me was a picture, Mapplethorpe’s. Of a pale, bone white man resting his chin against the shoulder of a man of opposite skin colour. And the gaze. I have seen it before. Endless times before.

  “It’s all the same” I chanted, whispered and stared into the image with tired eyes. My reflection, resembling a young person in a checked shirt and a knitted cap I could vaguely spot staring at the print thru a glass pane. I had a gaze to. And it was the same gaze. I have seen it before. Endless times before.
   I had been staring at pictures for an hour. I looked at them. Excellent, they were. Yet they were the same.
   People were looking at me thru photographs, with the gaze of the searching, never contempt nature that drives us forth, like cogwheels in a vast machinery. The machinery of mankind. It was as if the emotional layers that made the human-machine, and the emotional layers that were recomposed or mirrored in the human eye had disappeared. Or that I could see thru them.
   I could only see one thing. The life. The sad life. The mechanic life, the empty, dry and skeletal life. People were machines. And there was nothing new, there had been nothing new.
   They. I am a part of they, and they are the people in my head.
    Secluded individuals, secluded bodies has nestled into my mind, I trembling, searching with a leaving gaze thru these endless rows of they. I can’t understand them, as little as I can understand myself. Yet they are there, remnants of dialogues, exchanged gazes, without humour teasing me for not understanding them, nor myself.
    How could I?
    How could I understand a vast machinery consisting of endless put-togethers of cogwheels and chains and gasoline that stand out in their massive loneliness yet also serve only one purpose: None. Or, life.
    I don’t understand.
   They were staring forward, Mapplethorpe’s models. A bone white man resting his chin against the shoulder of a man of opposite skin colour. They didn’t understand, they did not know who their skin was touched by, or what. They only knew that their skins were touching. And there wouldn’t be anything more.
    Yes, I will talk to you. Yes, I will touch you. Yes, we will exchange gazes. But nothing more. We’ll just exist in each other’s minds. And maybe outside.
    I exited the bathroom, put my hands in the sink, felt the water on them. I looked in the mirror. Did I see myself?

I don’t really know. Fragment of life.

I didn't feel real.
I lost myself.
   I was about to press the button. I was about to let the coffee pour down into my cup. I was about to… I could feel the machine at my fingertips. I could feel the cup. It didn’t feel real. I didn’t feel real. Nothing felt real.
  It was a notion of meaninglessness that grabbed ahold of me. I was cut loose from meaning, I stared ‘round the cafe, couldn’t see anything. I could only see hopelessness. It was all so vague: Purpose, meaning. It was all so far away. The world. I had lost it.
   I think I lost myself too somewhere, but as I turned myself to face me, I couldn’t see a trace. I was lost. I was lost time and time again. I heard people. I heard voices. I could see the face of someone I loved, I could hear them speak. I couldn’t feel the sorrow in me, I could only experience it. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel real.
   I passed the counter. I looked at him. He was living. Living. I couldn’t really understand it.  I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t really understand myself. I was constantly falling out of my time. He spoke. He spoke again. Someone ordered something. He spoke again.
   I slipped away. The door closed, the sound of the city. The sound of life, I couldn’t hear it. I couldn’t really walk. I halted forward with narrow steps, feet pointed inwards. I crossed the street, I put on my headphones. Patti Smith.
   I couldn’t feel, I could only experience. The impulse caused me to shake, I shook my hands and face, I didn’t know why. Not that it mattered. I didn’t feel real. Could I shake life into myself? No.
   I couldn’t go home. I could only halt forward. On and on. I sat down on a staircase, close to a river. Lovers coming and going above me, on the bridge. Speaking. Comfortably numbed. I thought about throwing myself in the river. Disappear with the wind. I thought about dying. I didn’t really care, didn’t really know. Death didn’t feel real. Love. Humans. Relationships. I stared down on my feet, I held my hands in front of me. I rose. I slipped away.
   I walked. I didn’t know why. Patti Smith was the only one who felt alive, in my ears she sang…
   She sang more. My eyes were watering. I didn’t know why. I wondered if someone would be there, further down the street. I wondered if they’d say ‘hello’. I stopped. Listened. Stood in the middle of the street. I was trying to discover myself. I didn’t really know. I didn’t really care.
    I wrapped my arms around myself. I was the only one I had left. I stared forward.
    I didn’t know why.
    Happy Valentine’s day, I guess.
   perhaps love someone
   perhaps love someone
   I don’t really care about
   myself, life neither
   I don’t know what has purpose
   I don’t know myself
   I’ll fade away, slip away
   but thanks for your time


Proof that it is unable to live. Manuscript b.

concentrated self. bleached shadow.
concentrated self. bleached shadow. 21 x 29,7. Ink and typewriter on paper.

Walking down into the subway nature of life.

 Is life a station?

The wanderer of death ( the wanderer of death is a demon ) strides from station to station, now over a hole; the hole of life. The hole is descending into nothing and on into the very undefinable ( the nothing is the way between two stations, i.e. the stations of definable and undefinable ). What is the process of life? What is life? What is it not?

   Is life undefinable?

Life can not be defined. Life is existing, yet we die before ceasing to exist, by different dimensions of death.

 Is life nothing?

Living is nothing: but not undefinable. Living hasn’t reached the final station, it’s wandering on the railway in the dark hole of itself. Is the light in the end of the tunnel a train? Can nothing be felt? If you feel nothing you’re feeling something ( one can’t be empty without a matter surrounding the emptiness ). Nothing is only the way. Yet if you are not feeling anything, you’re not even feeling nothing: Are you feeling the undefinable?

Can you feel no thing? Nothing isn’t a non-matter. Is there a non-matter? A non-matter; an undefinable matter.

Yet matter is concentrated. Is there an all consuming undefinability, or an all consuming nothing. Like space.

   Is space something? 

1. the unlimited or incalculably great three-dimensional realm or expanse in which all material objects are located and all events occur.

Is it three dimensional? Is it enormous; unlimited if we can’t calculate it? How do we even know that it is there: existing; living? Are we the only matter in space? Or are we the emptiness ( of matter ) in space? Space is nothing.

  Is life limited?

Life is an empty hole that isn’t a hole because that would make it something; a hole. Life is undefinable, but also nothing. Life is a paradox, life is not a station, nor a way. Life is a process, the process.

    Life is life. Space is space. Time is time. Death is death. Depends on how you look at it. So it could be the opposite.

    Everything is wandering from station to station.