Fighting against my own hypothesis. I skim through empty distorted channels, drinking the left over signals from a semi porno channel. I live a life remembering the remains of what once was. Not focusing on the good, nor the bad, just the fact of contingency. I resemble a pair of worn-out sweat pants that I usually wear. Everything seems familiar already, and I can adapt to almost any body size, but Im still just a pair of sweat pants. I stretch and hang loose from all the options. Ive been used by time, punctured by its silver thread. Left unconscious on the marble floor, watching aimlessly at the roof of an overwhelming temple that once was my belief and pride.
I can reach the sky, so be it. I can mold to the floor. So be it too. Its not about what I can and cannot do. Even if my imaginations covers for it, the distorted porno channel just shows inverted images, broken appart by bit misunderstanding. I can’t get the image for more than five seconds, and then, it is lost again in noise.
Im not alone, although it would be easier to be so. Im not with her, although it would be easier if I was. I needed someone to be with, as not to be alone. All the options I have are still there. He says its about believing that you are an interesting person. Bottom line is, Im only interesting when people don’t know me. The disemboweled truth, rip appart from my crusted skin. Feeling of a waving stroll around the park. A feeble sensation of happiness and bliss. Mainly caused by ignorance of actual problematics. Response. Responsibility. Just names, just words I tell you. Nothing but the mere essence of sound cast to the voids of space turned into reality by an overcoming conscience, fretting the idea of non-existence. Just a sound a conscience and imagination. Thats all we are. Everything else is an undermining section of reality given to you to do whatever you wish with it.
Why can I see their feelings? Why can I bend their thought so easily? Why can this talking to the chance of readers being two or three, become a slow recovery? Why am I calmed down by the beating of Röyksopp?
Turn back. All questions were answers. There was a moment were doubt was not. There was a moment where empiricism was everything. No words. No sound. Just a black void, fearing existence.
Thats how it all began.
Thats how it will all end.