It makes a hole in my beautifully painted wall.

It comes from the outside and intrudes me.

It disorders everything that I call reality.

It makes me paranoid.

Phantasies are dissolved.

Meaning evaporates.

Denial reigns. 

But when I try not to deny, I am punished with horror.

It blows my bubble. 

It is the REAL.


22.6.08 00:05, kommentieren


Displeasure Of Talking About A Secrecy

It's nothing but a secret. You hide it, but you urgently and fervently need to talk about it, you almost explode.
However, you've managed to suppress even this explosive state. You get tired and worn. Even wasted.
But you NEED to talk. You need to share your secret, this thing that you effectively hide from others not to get destroyed.
It causes so much "Unlust" (lack of desire, absence of desire, DISPLEASURE), so that you prefer to keep it to yourself.
The mirrors around you (namely the people you live with) need to be spoken to so that it can be reflected by them!

17.6.08 15:22, kommentieren


Repetition is a basic symptom of all neurosis. Everything is repeated, every compulsive drive and obsessive ceremony gets acted out again and again, until the core of it is spoken of.
You can cure this drive of repetition, this principle of degression, of inertia, the "death drive", as Sigmund Freud put it, only if you talk about the core problem. You need to talk about hidden things in your life, try to collect your memories and just talk about it. A mirror can be any person. Hopefully you got anyone to trust.

You repeat this thing over and over again, as if your unconscious mind keeps saying: "I want to be heard. I want to SPEAK!"
And you carry this burden until you speak of it. Until you confess to yourself and your environment that you are not fine. Thus, the repetition is a reiterated mechanism caused by the unbearable shame and fear to tell anyone of you; of your problem. You always think to get around it, you always try to circumvent the "dark thing".

However, what you really want is to break out, to SPEAK of it, to TALK. But society's order in which you live and which you may not disturb prevents you of doing so. You feel too ashamed and afraid of talking, because you may be misunderstood. You know that others don't have this experience and thus you know that they will misinterpret you.

So you keep reiterating and repeating the same stuff over and over again, just to have your desire fulfilled in at least this way.
That's all  of  the  obsessive-compulsive  attitude you got when you experienced something and you don't want to talk about it. You DENY it. You try to get around it by repeating stuff and thus avoid the Real, avoid complete destruction of desire.

2 Kommentare 16.6.08 18:20, kommentieren

Can't be washed away...

...the stain

which impurifies the soul.

A scar that's been left

by a coincidence, it seems.

So it was determined.

So I was led

and shown the way.


painful drama

in which I have been playing the protagonist.

And though I can vastly remember now,

I am not satisfied.

Still, there is no meaning.

But I know,

meaning lies in acceptance,

and acceptance comes with


And with experience.

With the comprehension

that will fulfill

my soul.

That will reconstruct

a little bit.

That I will see.

23.5.08 19:51, kommentieren

A Reason For Suicide

Am I not repelled by her...

and still, I do as it were so.

My love, 

reversed to repugnance,

for a reason God knows.

Probably fear and powerlessness

that cause my troubles

to be accused

to other people.

And my sight's obstructed

by blind hate, 

and even though I try,

I am rarely able 

to feel love. 

3.5.08 23:24, kommentieren


It seems to me that I need to lose everything at first, that I need to be this self-consumed personality who aims for doing dumb things and to disappoint everyone and relinquish all my friends and all my illusional burden at first, everything that seemed to carry me (which it definitely did not), so that I can realize that I have done the biggest mistake in my life and have lost everything, to feel the pain and devastation of my life, to feel real pain.

Yes, I think, only then I know what's wrong with me. Only then I can be myself. Only then, I know what pain is.

And it seems that this is my destiny, that I am disposed for that.

23.2.08 00:00, kommentieren

Sorry, but I'm an asshole.

I'm not the guy I expected to be.

I'm not the person you expected me to be.

I'm not friendly,

not polite,

I'm not very lovable,

I'm like dynamite.

The way I've lived,

the way I've been

is what you got,

is what you've seen

of me,

but that doesn't fulfill me.

All these good grades @ school

and my musical talent, too,

it's not what I've been made for,

 I like to be an asshole, like to roar.

Forget what you knew of me,

I know it's painful,

but see, it was much more shocking for me,

to accept that I'm cruel.

It's really that I just

want to fuck.

It's really that,

in loving matters, I suck.

Well...that's how I swelt

in my phantasy constructs of me,

and I dwelt

amongst these illusions, you see?

This is my character,

this is my life, my pride,

my disposition, my consummation.

Loving soccer, sex & beer,

that's really all...

THAT'S my satisfaction.

So I'm sorry,

but there it is, my life,

getting the ingredients

to taste just sweet.

22.2.08 20:13, kommentieren