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Saturday, February 7th, 2004
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what are sad posts?
a barmaid in a familiar fifth avenue bar&grill holds a pint glass at an angle beneath the draft line. she holds her head at a similar tilt. a stubborn lock of hair tickles her cheek and strokes her upper lip. she has a skin of mediterranean tan and a shy smile like a spanish sunset. the dark, swirling fluid cascades gently and foams at the brim. the guinness settles. i do the same. all this is happening in a different place. a different world. i was there before.
i am waiting for something momentous to occur.
but perhaps i wouldn't even notice with all these screams resounding in my head.
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Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.
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it's like..what's the damn point of a journal if i don't take the time to write in it?
i am a castle built on solid foundations. my exterior decor is the epitome of the impregnable fortress. all that makes me is perhaps enviable, definitely strong and proud beyond doubt.
i ward off enemies and welcome friends. the battles are swift and clean. i win, of course. the feasts are marvelous and immensely pleasant.
to some i show a little more of myself than i do others. others discover more of me by themselves. others yet, well they are the worst. the worst in a good sense. perhaps in the best sense. but still the worst.
they are those that come along once in a blue moon. they spell moments of history, turning points. they are the ones that strike from the inside. they are not your enemies, but enemies of your integrity, that which you stand for and perhaps your sanity too. they are the unforgettable. they bring a downfall, of sorts.
and yes it hurts. and yes it's going to hurt more. but my theory stands..we all look for that pain, because in the end it reminds us of how human we are, and what indeed makes us such.
i am wounded
i am Achilles nursing his heel
the castle has been breached
and my troops are unwilling to oppose resistance..
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Comments: Read 4 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, June 18th, 2003
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| dead_run | | Magic Number | 15 | | Job | Computer Nerd | | Personality | Multiple | | Temperament | An Oft-Exploding Volcano | | Sexual | Straight | | Likely To Win | The Booker Prize | | Me - In A Word | Whirlwind | | Colour | | | Brought to you by MemeJack |
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no re-entry..come rain or shine..hell or high water..once u leave..YOU LEAVE!
but why on earth would i want to do that?
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Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.
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i enjoy being someone i'm not. does that make me stupid or does that make me hot? whatever, i care not. it fools the eye of the beholder to see, that in the end it's just plain old me. me that crumbles, me that falls. me that fails to climb those walls. walls of history, mystery, might. walls that grow taller in the night. push me aside, where i'm happy to hide. let me loose, tighten the noose. this is not what i wanted to be.
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he'd never stared down the barrel of a rifle before.
now there are six of them looking down on him, inquisitively almost. looking at his chest, to be precise. as though that were the only part of him that mattered.
and indeed he too feels it is so. for that's where the emptiness seems to radiate from. 'hah, the proverbial pit in the stomach,' he thinks.'but how do they know i feel it..and look how well they seem to be targeting it.' he can already imagine the guards later this evening, down at the regular tavern, drinking the regular cheap beer and relating the regular stories. tonight's tale will include him though, and a toast to the sharpest marksman of the lot. the one who shot right through the heart.
but there is more than that on his mind..weird, he feels, that in such a moment his senses should be so highly alert. it is as though he has developed a sudden appreciation for detail which is beyond standard human caliber. even when he closes his eyes to clear them from the sweat and tears -his arms are still tied behind his back- he can not erase the picture that is painted inside his head..
the immaculate white blanket of snow spreading to the base of the dark tree in the courtyard. the black bark as it stands, bare of its leaves in the winter frigidity. it too, seems to shiver in the cold. and he thinks it funny how trees will shed their clothing as winter approaches while humans do the opposite. except him of course, still clad in the tattered, standard-issue yellowing outfit.
the squirrel at the feet of the platoon. he spares a glance to the heavens. 'quaint,' he thinks. 'an insane, almost perverse reminder of the clash between the fragile and the brutal, the innocent and the sinful, the carefree and the persecuted.' but the creature is emaciated, too. it climbs the dirty cell block facade swiftly, in search for food. winter has not been kind on it either.
the leaden sky. clouds merely form a patchwork design across it, but it's grey and bleary nonetheless. he wonders how this comes to be. he wonders what time of year it is. perhaps it's january, he ponders. or even march. for a moment he feels a surge of hope; soon the sun will come, and the summer months. but it fades quick. 'fool,' he scolds himself.
and finally, the whistle of the wind. not too violent, and yet not too calm either. incessantly beating against the courtyard walls, like a fictitious rescue squad come to his aid. strong enough to make the tree sway a little, shiver some more, and yet gentle enough to lift the spirits, even those of the doomed. brisk. that's the word he is looking for. a brisk wind.
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i have taken the healthy habit of updating journals under the influence..it's quite funny, productive and definitely entertaining..i mean, i've written before when drunk or mildly so, but rarely on an online journal..i wish i could leave the mistakes i make while typing, but then no one would make anything out i'm sure..
for exa,mple i have a temndancy to 'slur' even while typing..i hit the wrong keys, probably cos i dont dffeel like making the effort of thinking just wherer they should be instaed of where my brain tells me they are in this state..
that was me..giving it a shot..not as bad as i expected..
well, my point is..every good night is like a well-produced theatrical ensemble..it has a decent plot and its main points/themes and also its key charachters..
there is always a 'she'..she is the most outstanding person you will see on the night..you swear to yourself, and your friends, that she is the most incredible thing you have seen so far that night, or ever, depending on how drunk you are..she will be elusive, even if wasted, seductive, even though she can hardly stand straight, and she will want you, even though she tries to hook you up with her friend..
there is always a drink..a drink to put aside whatever the long day of work has dealt you..a drink to forget, to drown in, to hang on to..a beer will do sometimes..other times nothing seems to work..
and there is always a song at the end of the night..a song that helps you flow..metallica's 'the unforgiven ii' is all i need right now to confirm that all i just said is in fact, true, at least as far as i'm concerned..
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Wednesday, April 30th, 2003
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so i played a little crank on a friend..i'm so the little prankster..haha..
dead_run says: hey!
kat says: hey [dead_run]!
kat says: how are you?
dead_run says: i'm PERFECT!
dead_run says: i'm really really well!!!
dead_run says: and u!??!
kat says: really good as well! I'm going to toronto on Saturday!
kat says: are you still in the states or are you back [home]?
dead_run says: wow!!!
dead_run says: home in july hun!
dead_run says: after the concert on the 13th!
kat says: concert? who are you going to see?
dead_run says: see??? i'm playing!!!
kat says: what?
kat says: details!
dead_run says: welll..
dead_run says: i joined a band as a temporary guitarist..
dead_run says: and they kinda liked me i guess
dead_run says: cos their guy broke an arm and i answered to an ad in a guitar mag..
dead_run says: turns out the band is none other than...
kat says: cool! so you're a rockstar
dead_run says: LINKIN PARK!!!
kat says: what?
kat says: no freaking way! you are the guitarist for linkin park?!?!?!
dead_run says: shhhhhh
dead_run says: just for the moment
dead_run says: shhhhhhhhhhh
kat says: you're not shitting me [dead_run]?
dead_run says: NO!!!
dead_run says: my life is a blast!
kat says: you are crazy!!! i love it!!!
dead_run says: *and right now kat should have the insight to go to the linkin park website and find out that i am sooo full of shit!!!*
dead_run says: lol
kat says: hahahahahaha!!! you are totally full of shit [dead_run]
still laughing..
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it's not so hard to think of the place where all inspiration comes from..
a few notes strummed on an acoustic bass to the accompaniment of a guitar and a voice that could move angels to tears..sometimes the words don't even matter, because if they are written for the music, then it's only the music that counts, the music that is doing all the work. the voice is just a medium, or better, a catalyst..
all it takes is a mental picture of what it's like out there on a gloomy day in North-Rhine Westphalia..somewhere between Bonn and Cologne in plain bleary landscapes where a 16yearold ragamuffin found an everlasting story he liked to call love. a story which would turn out to be everlasting, but not really love..at least not like anyone could ever have imagined..
the smell and the taste of earlymorning freshly-ground italian coffee..while your eyes get accustomed to the pre-dawn dark, and the heavy boots walking around the deck of a fishing boat you spent the last 14nights upon in the hope of getting as far away from routine as possible. and in the end all it brought you to was a new home, but it was the same one you had left..
i thought i had left that place, but luckily it had never left me..and the postcards it sent me which i ignored for a while, found their own way to the surface of mass confusion, and whispered scenes into my head of beauty so abstract that it could only be real..
i may not be standing at the railway station on the Brocken at almost 4000feet in a warm 10degrees but as long as my spirit soars up there, my feet will barely notice the ground i walk upon..
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Saturday, April 26th, 2003
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foolish. to think that anyone should ever care. to think that i thought i might do something of interest by acting like any other puny little insignificant nobody from the desertofsouls. if i wanted to know what it felt like to be lost, now i had a better idea than i think i ever needed!
and the irony of it all is that i still end my paragraphs in an exclamation mark! and that last sentence too..should i be learning a new form of respect for that little straight line hanging over a full stop?
so a 'forgive me' goes out to all those who felt like they were being drawn into a different, inexistent side of me.
it's like a silver downpour, so dense is the rainfall
the glitter among the droplets is nothing but sunlight
what little is left of it, that i can see from here
or maybe there is none, and perhaps that's what i like
yes, it is raining outside, and although i know that no one cares and neither do i want anyone to, right now it feels like the most significant contribution i can make to anyone who might want to know what it feels like inside of me..
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Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.
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Thursday, April 24th, 2003
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One of many philosophers tell me that to reach understanding you must understand that all dilemmas are in constant flux. Because life is in constant flux, so therefore no issue ever remains constant.
I have been away from the people that I love for too long and taken for granted the friendships that I had left behind. It is the penalty i pay for the lifestyle i chose. Always searching for the answer can take you far from its source. Life is always present. Wherever you are you cannot escape your past and therefore who you are.
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normally i am one to keep his feet well on the ground, especially when it comes to such situations..
but my shirt bears her scent and it's a frightfully welcome sensation..
i just thought i'd share that..
from a not-at-all-soppy sort of guy ;-)
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another night, more lights, more monsters..
but tonight i fail to see them, because i am with her..and she is all i can focus upon..i had forgotten how good it felt to let go and to be wanted..
now i want to live a little more, i want to linger where i am; as far as i may be from whatever i want to be near, i want a little more of what i feel right now..
and between new york and starry southwest florida skies at 3am, something scars a memory in my everlasting infatuation with life itself..
she smiles sideways and reminds me of a movie star..
i make it through another day..
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Thursday, April 17th, 2003
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do you still think of that boy who always wore his heart on his sleeve?
do you still think of him as that boy who knew the meaning to your every smile?
do you still think of that boy who knew what you were thinking before you spoke a word?
do you still think of him as that boy with whom you shared your soul?
do you still think of that boy who could recall every word you said the first day, the last day, and every other day in between?
do you still think of him as that boy who gave you his beach towel when you trembled by the midnight sea?
do you still think of that boy who will never forget what it took to kiss you the first time, or how it felt?
do you still think of him as that boy who walked along the streets of two different worlds with you?
do you still think of that boy when you taste the sea or when you stay too long under the sun?
do you still think of him when you look at the pressed rose in your book of memories?
do you still think of that boy when you remember the person who walked into your smiling world every morning anew?
do you still think of him as that boy who gave the word love a real meaning for the first time?
do you still think of that boy who said he had forgotten you just so you could live without the guilt?
do u still think the silences between us are reassuring and comfortable?
do you still think of me at all?
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nothing hurts as much as the light that marks the end of an evening. fortunately, the pain is only metaphorical..
and as that light goes on, i am sure that i am seen in a different way by many people. or perhaps they are too drunk, too superficial to care, as i suspected all along. but they look different to me too..and the difference is scary..
like the times when you were about six years old, and you called your mother into your room just so she could turn on the light and banish those creatures you knew were hiding in your closet..only this time the creatures are actually there..
and in that revealing light all the creatures take on shapes so hideous that you wonder what ever possessed you to be drawn to them in the first place..they have new blood in their veins and act strange. they are now unholy when in the mellow yellow haze they appeared untouchable. they are cumbersome and grotesque and your only wish is to be as far from them as your last lungful of air will allow you to run..
and you run to the door, as fast as you can, with any one who will lead you away..
before somebody turns those god forsaken lights off again..
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Wednesday, April 16th, 2003
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![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
dead_run's journal
sore.
blah.
happy.