the price at the end of the rope

I have this weekly ritual of being declared a madman in the dressing rooms after capoeira class. First it was because of the things I did in the past, this week it was because of the wage I work for. I remember two weeks ago it was because I said the final few years of high school are meant to drill you into a way of thinking, force-feeding you hollow and irrelevant knowledge just so they can teach you more useful matter (depending on the point view anyway) efficiently later on.
It may bother me once in a while, when I grow tired of being different than the people I hang out with. But in all honesty, I probably crave it more than anything. To personalize, to mold, to stand out. That doesn’t mean I want to be on the foreground, but for a strange reason, I am disgusted by the idea of blending into a crowd. I hang onto that with dumb little things. We get a uniform at work, Maarten goes and stencils random slogans on it with bleach. We got a new sweater now and I hate wearing it, because it looks the same as that of the guy next to me. Not that big a deal of course, but already I’m brainstorming how I will make mine that tiny bit unique, so at least I’m certain it is unlike any other sweater on earth.
Some like me, others don’t, for the same reasons. I hardly care about that, what I am obsessed with is leaving an impression. To pause some one’s gaze when they look over the group, is what gets me hard. It’s rooted in me for a reason I haven’t yet figured out.
I am holding a piece of paper in my hand, something I ran into while cleaning up one of my many "mess piles". The stuff written on it dates back from the time I spent apart from my girlfriend, a black few pages in my life.
Strangely, it seems I get most poetic when I feel like shit. Reading it again, I was quite shocked. I am copying them here, for myself to find again in a few years from now perhaps, and for any Freudian out there who can explain to me where the fuck my mind was at that time.
I sit on my balcony
I mourn the dead
Now there’s time
Room to fly
Solitude as a conversation partner
Tears as company
Can she see me?
I’m not sure [if] I’d hope so.
No magic to believe in
No love to keep us warm
Just a grey skyline
And black birds
"Urban philosophy"
The motherfuckers dare call it
[next page]
it’s ok love
it won’t hurt much
at least
not for long
I told you, stay away
I hurt as I am hurting
You killed me
so I’m way behind [overdue]
Every night I dream this
to hurt as I am hurting
I never would, of course
but it’d be nice to matter
[next page]
Hoesten is een teken van zwakte
net als wenen.
onze ziel is net zo onsterfelijk als ons lichaam
en het wordt onze dood
dus wat is er nog heilig
herinneringen? Ik zie je graag?
mag ik op je buik slapen?
wat is het nog waard om zwak voor te zijn?
ziek van liefde.
ziek van verdriet.
ziek. misselijk.
The last page had notes on it regarding the quality of downloaded MP3’s I was going to use at a party I was throwing. The rest of it is literally copied, down to the capitalization. There are a few lines here and there that I wouldn’t be quite content with today, but I suppose I didn’t give much of a damn back then. Funny thing is, as I read them I can look right through them, because even though I wouldn’t come up with them today, they are still mine. Some expressions are pulled straight from situations in my life that have lasted with me ever since they occurred. They have a double, underlying meaning to me, writing something different beside it that you need my method of thinking for to see.
The first whatever-you-wanna-call-it is about my mother. I can’t recall when exactly, but it was a very busy period in my life. I was sitting on my friend’s balcony actually, he was out to work and let me sleep so I woke up in an empty place. I took my time relaxing and even sort of meditating, and my mind drifted to her rather quickly.  When asking if she can see me that speaks for itself, but as I am today, I wasn’t sure if she would be pleased by what she would see. I take pride in a few things, but I know she wouldn’t agree with a whole number of others. To be honest with you, I really don’t want to know. She is kept in my memory in the shape of a goddess, which is fine by me.
Second one is addressed to my girlfriend, though she never got to read it. As said before we were apart for a while then, and despite her new boyfriend (which tore my heart clean out) she kept in contact, up to the point where I would, in my thoughts at least, have hurt her badly to keep her away from my agonizing self.
Number three. I wrote this one when my father was sick, and coughing his lungs out. I was catching it too but obsessed with keeping strong as I was back then, I tried to fight it back as much as humanly possible. With my girlfriend gone, I couldn’t find anything to care for me if I couldn’t. I didn’t know where I could be weak, or what for. We were all going to die, crying as on our day of birth. So where does that leave us? Nothing else to cry for, nothing holy to die for.
Reading all this again shocked me quite a bit. I remember being very confused at that time, but I had no idea it was that bad. I had completely forgotten even ever writing this. Proves how valuable it can be writing your thoughts down, I suppose. It’s very easy to lose perspective from where ever you are standing.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s