We're chained.

I have watched a many tv series in my life.
Only one ever affected me, though.

Californication.
Not only it has absolutely astonishing soundtrack,
it taught me one thing.
"At the end of the day, it's all about her".

And I ain't calling it a day yet.
I don't even know who she is.
But I'm certain about who she's not, now.
That's a moving on.

I  had my illusions.
They were lovely, innocent.
But they were still only illusions.
I thought I like.
I don't know, maybe I still do, a little.
Or more,
but I know, it is not real.
it won't ever be.
For the good and bad.

I've been trying to find you,
you.
You, who are not reading this.
You, who may or may not exist.

Do you call this one of my desperation times?
Don't.
It feels...
...strangely,
Oh, so strangely.
But strange is not bad, is it?

No it's not.

You, we're chained, you.

The clock is not ticking; it is going smooth.

The lights shine bright. Except for two lonely lightbulbs.
They do not shine, since they do not work.

So like humans!

MIDI drums watching from the corner of the room.
One eye yellow, one orange.

The crimson scarf is hanging down.

The computer says only (1) Facebook.
The work is done,
the time for rest has come.
To procrastination we shall,
fall.

Unleash the fury

I am very calm.
Or at least I try to be.

But one things that always get me all fired up is when someone denies the work I done.
Especially, when they know the matter less than I do, or if they know it too much to keep their heads cold.

EDIT:
Now that is just insane. I work my ass off on this thing and still get screamed at for delivering it "in time, but not earlier than I have to"

Silly! Silly! Silly!

I have seen the photos,

the people are so happy, oh so happy,

and I what do I?

I spent the night discussing,

about the meaning of the word "gourmet".

What a pisser!

HOPE: The bridge between the haven and hell.

 I see bridge.

I stand on one side.

In the shadows of crooked trees.

Meaning is fading on my side.

But the other side,

That is different.

It is full of flowers, shining with vibrant colours,

Naked people, with no fear, running around, their loose hair smells divinely; of apricots and banana.

They have happy smiles,

And they drink ambrosia’s nectar and eat its fruit.

It is almost not real;

Why are they there, when I am here?

Standing in rugged smelly clothes.

I am the deaf musician,

The blind painter,

And the retarded intellectual.

While they hear better than any humans; they know only one song though.

They see the sharpest, and they have the brightest colours of the world close at hand. But they don’t need painting. Everything around them is a pretty painting.

They are the most noble minded, but they don’t seek knowledge, for it is not the key to happiness.

When they were first there, they kept looking anxiously over the river, to the other bank.

"Is anyone coming?"

But now, even though their senses sharpened, they never look back.

They can’t see me, nor my misery, but I can see them.

I am the opposite of them and they are angels. But I am not a devil; I am not bad. But neither I am noble.

I fear the crooked trees.

Oh, the vile sounds!

Wolves are paying their prayers, for the dinner is on their figurative table.

It is me.

I want to run.

To run to the other side.

And the bridge is there, but;

It is not.

It is just a creation of my imagination; it truly is not.

They have stopped looking back,

But I never stopped looking towards them.

Their joy made me happy,

But that time is long gone.

So I will be devoured by the wolves again,

I will live again,

Another life of watching the other side of the river.

Maybe I will wake on the other side,

Maybe I earned it; is my debt paid?

Debt I never made, but it still is; the primal sin-

Most likely not.

I will stay here.

The birds will fly here to eat my flesh.

Only the eyes will remain,

Because the eyes can see.

They can see their joy and its contrast to mine misery.

Ears cannot hear the music, the one song they know, it’s too far.

So the ears will be eaten by the birds.

And I can do nothing.

And nothing else.

Or perhaps, I should jump into the river.

Oh, what am I thinking!

I know I could never swim over.

The stream is too strong, but it wouldn’t stop me; what would stop me is the metal ball attached to my feet.

The waterfall is near, just a while by the river.

The rocks beneath it are as sharp as bird’s tooth-

Piercing the flesh.

But one is different there.

One does not come back.

Something great could be there.

But nothing may be as grand as the isle of nectar, the isle I watch every day and night.

I aim high and I suffer.

But I am afraid of the unknown.

I am a brave coward.

But not a madman.

There is a chance, I wouldn’t come back from depths of hell that time.

Every time I was devoured by the wolves and my skin was pecked to death by birds,

I went trough hell and back here; or maybe this is only another phase of hell.

But if I went down the waterfall,

I maybe would fall to hell for eternity.

Maybe there is nothing else there, but hell.

But I can never lose one thing, for it is what I carry,

And it is what my debt is in, what I pay for.

It is not maybe a thing even, but it keeps me from failing.

It is a concept as simple as existence itself.

Hope.

HOPE: The submarine of deepest seas

Look at me now.

I’m lying in my bed, in my dusty bedroom, in my sweaty t-shirt.

It’s 2:00 am. I am contemplating about the past and the future,

My mind is swimming through depths of ocean of thoughts.

The depths where you cannot see, depths you cannot describe, not even I can.

The eerie tones are fading away,

The music is brutal, evil clashing with despair,

I hear shouts in the distance.

But they do not distract me; for I am not who they are calling; no one is calling me.

Am I a refugee? In the middle of wasted nowhere, yet not missed by far?

Or am I a soul that is wished for by many, only their voices are even further, beyond hearing?

A refugee it shall be, for that is how I feel.

I cannot breathe,

However it’s not sickness’ fault;

Neither the weight of my laptop pressing on my stomach,

The anxiety rooted deep in me is to be blamed.

Now there’s something changed, oh wait, do you hear it?

The tones fade no more; now they shatter in my earlobes.

The ocean’s waves are crashing upon sand,

But how can I hear, when I’m so deep, so far away?

The voices are gone.

But not for too long.

Am I paranoid?

Is there something wrong?

Yes, there is. The constant crashing is gone,

Now there are dramatic violins.

The dark blue and black waters change suddenly.

A crimson, wildly aggressive red is slashing through the nothing.

A submarine, carrying the treasure of utmost importance is the maker of this deadly light.

It’s the red flashing light on the upper red side.

I can see it, though I cannot draw it, for the image would be to dark-

Like an ambulance strolling trough the city of night,

The mirror turns and the light goes for another roundabout.

The floor is not far below.

There is no chance the tip of the submarine would turn out of floor’s way.

Dramatic music ceases, giving way to much slower sounds; the ones of tribal drums, church bells and cellos.

Submarine hits the floor.

But the floor is not of sand.

It’s a floor of chessboard.

I can see it, yes.

The colours change again;

With a brink,

Yellow and orange, in their most damaging and aggressive forms burn their image into the eye.

Not into the other eye, that one’s blind. Covered with a pirate patch,

The eye is a window to the soul, yet it’s patched.

What could that possibly mean?

Explosion throws the stones of black and white everywhere around,

There is no more chessboard.

It is merely a warzone.

And even its message to us is the same.

For warzone is a place of despair,

And for the submarine carried the treasure of utmost importance.

Hope, that is.

After a break...

Hey, it's 3 in the morning.
A second day of 2012.
A last year of humanity existance as humans themselves say.
It is stupid; why would you pretell your own extinction?

Anyway, I have created two great pieces of what might be called poetry.
I shall post them right away.
But before:

Some things defying the nature if what I consider my goals and hopes have occured.
I do not wish to be specific. Not more than this:


In our childhoods, we were taught about the bad guys, who would do anything just to get close to their love; no matter the obstacles. Kill her dear even. We learned to hate this kind of guys.
But as we eventually find out in our lives,
It is not hard, to become one of such.