Dead Flag Blues

Today I sought inspiration somewhere else. In the music of Godspeed You! Black Emperor. In my opinion, the best band ever to have existed.

I could walk through the night for hours; it lied peacefully in my heart. I could smell its beauty, taste its wonderful scent; I could feel it in its wholeness. At times my thoughts would stray, and I’d start thinking, wouldn’t it be great to be a vampire, a creature of the night, one that truly appreciates nights’ beauty? But, does he really have a choice? Can he choose the world he wants to live in? The empty streets, the peaceful darkness, the gloomy yellow streetlights, the time of sleep; when everyone can truly be who he wants to be?

Who am I? I hate this question. When you meet someone new, and you start being interrogated, as if you were a criminal. What if I told you I didn’t know? What if I told I had no story to tell? Would you be disappointed? I’m sorry, but I don’t dream, I don’t make up stories, I live reality. A reality that doesn’t exist.

I’m a musician, and my instrument is time. I’m a poet, and my words pray silence.

Thought I should get back to writing. My mind is in a desperate need of some practice. I have been away searching for different realities for far too long now, swimming in the eternal world of ones and zeros. It's time for the simple process of imagination to take place in my own mind again. But I don't think my mind is just ready for such a challenge yet. I've started looking at my old notes again, and a solution came to my mind, what better way to start practicing, than by trying to continue something started long ago? So I've decided to post what I already have of Maelström, and to continue what I once was so proud of writing. It'll be coming in in parts, everyday something new. A good way for me to come to terms with my self again maybe? We will see.


Maelström

It was a wonderful night. It could have been better. Smoke was filling his room, and a [beautiful] full moon shone through the window. There was no need for further words. She had given her everything, given her best.

He was everything and nothing, the whole gamut of human emotion. He was frail and fungible, a fallen hero foreseeing his own demise. His sepulcher was his heart.

He was a deist, the demigod of his own universe. He was a hopeless millenarian, a nihilist, a walking paradox. His own nemesis.

He loved the night. And it unraveled him.