Moving on.

I wandered streets tonight, taking pictures in black-and-white of city surroundings that seem as strange as my own hands in writing. I saw several rats, insects the size of my thumbs, some rodents fled away in terror penetrating bushes so that I should not be seen. It all felt so pointless, finding a reasoning behind it all. I took about 50 pictures of an enstranged city, an estranged me and the pointlessness of life. Everything is dark and shall remain so. The positive thinker in me dies every now and then. I'm not sure the walk itself did me any good. What I came to realise is maybe that there is no escape possible for me. A tragic hero classic theatre would call it.

I wrote a poem.

The Red Light

Cars stop instinctively, crossing the road wishing
just one of them would drive on and run me over, ending
in existence what I myself could never end - splashing
me against a windshield like just another bug
wiping me off to eternity with just a button's push
I see myself standing third person viewer mode
no car is driving on - they suck as predators -
the road itself contains no danger nor do the predators upon
crossing it just seems an impossibility. The other
side of it does not attract - just a simple fact -
When I'll try to return, after reaching the other side,
the light will have sprung to green predators arising:
it is the human choice, the choice to be devoured.



While writing this, I thought of a poem read long ago. It is pasted below and deals with the horrors of World War I. What those soldiers did (singing, laughing for the sake of escapism), I will be doing too in the time to come. Maybe I will, just like these fellas, even get convinced of my mood...

Everyone Sang (Sigfried Sassoon)

Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on - on - and out of sight.

Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun:
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away ... O, but Everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.


Just imagine: he's still singing.
Coincidentally, what I wrote today in Hyde Park also corresponds with me now; reading it again, I read a new story in it than I did this afternoon.

Intrusion

Straight ahead, colourful flags will greet me,
colourful people, young and vibrant
owners of a newly-founded city. The newly-weds'
bed I penetrate, befouling their sheets with
the juices of my colourless farmer stench.
And then, combustion - fire cracking bedroom -
a new fault line dividing the young city:
sunburned suburb wipes away whatever scar
back then was made. The newly-weds were shaken,
but strengthened in their bond,
one hanging from a rooftop clinging on to life
the other faintly hoping to be rescued in a fall.
weighing the pros and cons of rescuing them,
I took both their hands
and jumped
with them twenty-two storeys down
kissing Death on the pavement:
blood indivisibly mingled -
the perfect union.


I did not reach Harbour Bridge in my walk, I couldn't find it again getting lost searching for shortcuts & pictures that could resemble my mood. I saw a road sign "WRONG WAY TURN AROUND" I didn't take a picture: it would have been too obvious.


I bought some belgian chocolate -releasing some sweet endorfines in my head- and some australian juice.

Suddenly, you feel yourself just wanting more & more, but then there is no more,
just trash.