As TW puts it (well or W.C. Fields but that sounds awfully out of sync, or maybe just the opposite), so, as TW puts it "And the things you can’t remember tell the things you can’t forget that history puts a saint in every dream."
The problem with this whole thing here is bias. Noise. Noise that hisses and misses every damn word. And maybe, the glitch that made the wheels stuck was a bias too.
We are closing in on D-day when all should fall into place, beautifully and majestically, and it must. And one bit will, it will be the greatest first step of a beautiful journey. But the other journey, as a matter of the bloody fact, the whole thing is getting out of hand and comprehension or maybe it is me again. Get me the brains dept. head. I need to complain.
Who was the idiot who invented that someone should interrogate himself and asking questions that could easily kill a buffalo, about what did I do right and for how long have I fucked up things, while I thought it was on track, cause earthquakes not just happen, fault lines are there waiting to rock a bit, or, to rock to bits, whichever.
The thing is this, what if, I am a pathetic fucking whiner with as much grip of reality as a sloth has of the throttle, Bradypus complex.
Anyways, this whole thingy this world thingy I have is falling into tiny pieces. We have been cruising in this god forsaken dark side for months now. The thing is, as the jews say, if you want your dreams come true, don't sleep and hell my bed and I are like arch enemies now. The thing is, that you cannot shut it down. Imagine this, I have the worst, the baddest most worst memory of any living creature (including the slippers, that primitive little bastard), but all the bits of together are just linked and riveted and glued and taped to each and everything. We have not been together in net terms than like 3 months (and wishful thinking puts this: so far), but as if all was built around it. Well, it is also a logical explanation that I have just bleached my life and world so to accomodate ours, mindheology will have to fathom this one.
By the way, does this, I mean all this writing makes any sense, whatsoever? Am I, cosmically speaking making any sense? I mean from the first entry? God, it is so fucking stupid. So fucking stupid. Could be so bloody simple, could always have been that. Love, darn difficult to hear it from me now, like pulling guts you see, so this crazy-little-thing-called, and so fucking overcomplicated. It must be me. There I have no other explanation and now all evidences against my fucked up ways is before the jury.
I never accepted being limited in any way, or forced for any sort of reporting for my actions and never expected anybody to accept limitations or report to me, yet my residual reflection coming back suggests that. I would not take it, if this is what felt why would anyone take it. Miscommunication to such an extent that is beyond any comprehension. We used to laugh, dared to laugh, dared to tease each others' asses off. No it is like fucking tight rope. Nothing, nothing to do with the real thing. And what if the mere fear of miscommunication leads to an unresolvable communication hell loop, one that bites its own useless end. And this rids, rids talks off any inner meaning whatsoever. Something that would be so needed. And we are fucking off track with missing the points all the bloody time. Simple questions like what are you planning to do, plans, itinerary and stuff, are so charged, that our real selves would just roll with laughter. I mean, inbetween two agonies, I am rolling with painful laughter, that here we go, to intelligent, potentially funny creatures frightening the living shit out of each other, although, deep down, they might just love the hell out of each other. How about this. How about a god awful shitty mess. Locked and loaded on the dark side of the Mood.
And this whole fucking concept of truth is gone in DMZs like this. Why? Simple. Because of the interrogation multiplier. The cosmological constant. When truth ceases to exist in simple sentences and every word must first navigate by Cape Fear before going from heart to heart. Questions retreat, because there is a curfew, anybody out, shot on the scene. Answers alike. Words are chewed, thought over and over and over again, and all of them has a whole, fully equipped medical team walking by them, should anything happen on the way. You see, we used to talk in the deepest deepest realms of the soul. Wandering places even myself would not dare to wander alone and ended up laughing or watching a movie. We could talk without sentences, now, we could not talk even with the Oxford Unabridged Dictionary Anniversary Extended Edition. Things that were merely a company to our baloon flight over the River of Shits, now find themselves paddling on careful makeshift rafts of carefully selected words on the River of Styx, between us existing or not. Never have been an issue. Ever. Not even related. Suspicions so frightful that Shaft would wee his leather pants. Out of this fucking world, out of all context. Like lunatics, taking a fucking trip on a struggling spaceship on the dark side in the Lunatic Excursion Module. Not even daring to take a look at the flight plan. Plan? Drifting apart with such a speed, such a disbelief that it just burns the shields off.
She will be around and we have to deliver, and it will be delivered, because it is a must. Because if all words are lost and all trust is walking with a limp, dreams must wake up and materialise. If hearts fail to communicate and find bale outs in cul de sacs then mind and sense must take the wheel and get back to the road. Because, if this is not yet a spirit, writing shit around after the body is killed only the inner pieces fail to realise the grim reality, then there must be a way back to normal. I have no idea if we shall meet this time or not. The only thing I know, that healing must be trusted, because healing is good. It creates and has connections high up, where drive and love and open worlds are being managed. Just transmutating tense with the in bit into intense, that soothes.
Things will never be what they were. And there is a good side of it. We walk our hells, the hottest purgatories a living creature can negotiate. But one thing is for sure, if what we had endured what it had to endure and it had heights in such distances as high, then after scaling our inner most walls, it must be greatest, most understanding and patient affection and hold on to each other there is. A journey of two weathered and sometimes awfully self righteous and difficult minds over these high fucking seas must take time, must take easy to settle, but one is for sure, if this held on, if this made sense and still stirs inside to the innermost atoms, then it must be the real deal. One that is worth anything to survive and find its way to a kitchen. Just to laugh. Just to take this whole thing, bahhaha easy, with a drive. Still beats inside, firmly and relentlessly, this is it, this crazy-little-thing-called.
The hardest time comes. The most hardest time.
Started with TW, why not close this entry with him, sort of telling us a hing:
"Come down off the cross, we can use the wood."