"Behind every system, behind every rule stands a corpse and laughs. You can't tell me who I should sleep with. I don't work for wages. My life is a revolution... My life is a beautiful life... What you call freedom, I call waste... I will continue to love my own voice. If everyone becomes me, everything will collapse."

Bruno K. Ă–ijer

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Snowing in the club of Gore




I was sleeping with an open window. Woke up strangely early. The view through the window was mesmerizing. It snowed. Snow was landing heavily, massively and with out any breaks what so ever. It felt strange, as suddenly somehow the country and the city of stone itself was changed unrecognizably. Beautiful. Old Gothic buildings where covered in gray. Speechless. The smoke coming from chimneys was playing along with the strong wind and snowy swirls. The city was still.

Only sounds where coming from the ambulance sirens. Whom is a long term visit-card of this fairytale look alike country. No misunderstandings, no mistakes, no fake smile. Just the snow, wind and the far along sirens appearing and disappearing in to nothing.

A calm and stay in bed, kind a day. So I did. Reading page after page almost manic and obsessed with my new lover. My long term affair. Sometimes it feels like I'm cheating on one with the other. Whom lay by the bed side, on the ground, on shelf's, in bathroom, on the kitchen table, window shield, cheers (2) in the bedroom, near the sinks, closet shelf's, couches. And yes, in my bed. I love to feel them when I lay my heavy head on the pillow. MY unpredictable, stunning, extremely smart and demanding lovers. My books.


It an unforgettable experience. A one in a life time shot. A roller-coaster ride. A walk throw a mirror. A rabbit hole. An acid trip. A jump from the floor number 97. A knock down. A needle filed with adrenaline, strait to the nun beating heart. A white line on the golden framed mirror. A carefully arranged stack of pills for the new beginning.
Thous relationships are eternal, they stay in the back of your head for ever. You remember them, dream about them, feel them coming trough you, have a taste of them when you have morning coffee or evening lunch.
It's not that sex is out of the picture, but for a breathe moment imagining the boring talked, cocktails, beers and useless blahblahblah bullshit when all the need under the table are already boiling, the wishes and cards under are already MIXED.. It seems so boring, useless and cheep. As the busyness is over you always think the exactly the same. What a fucking moron....! You split the territory, wash away the bad/satisfying "memory" and hope, that the one and only truly satisfying non fictional lover will forgive you as you, with tremble, lick you finger and turn the page after page.

So, if there would be a choice (usually there is none) it's better to be completely "nuts" then believe there is a night in a shining armor that will bring you the same joy that paper with a maze of words does. Choice is pretty clear. Although I have never meet the one who had put me it no the choosing position.



Good Night,

Dietrich

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