The overwhelming urge to put my leg behind my neck

Beep, beep, beep... Don't even open my eyes. Blindly groping for a couple of seconds till I finally find the phone and kill the alarm. Give me 5 more minutes, will ya? I hate mornings. Beep, beep, beep. Fuck, that was short. Slowly I'm opening my eyes. This tiny movement literally hurts. Wider and wider I try, but rather I quickly close them again. I can hear the morning noise brutally streaming inside of my room through the open windos. 9 o'clock. The waiters from the restaurant opposite side of the street are carrying the tables and chairs to the garden, people are rushing, cars are driving by. Everyone is annoyingly active. Ok, this time I have to give some visuals to the morning, just open those eyes for good.

I sit up. My mouth tastes like shit. My eyelashes are stuck to each other. I feel like someone is happily sitting on my chest. The air cannot reach my lungs. I feel funny. Oh yeah, I was out. I was drinking. And smoking. I have no idea how much vodka I had and I can only guess how many cigarettes I smoked. I think opening my wallet will certainly give the answer to that. The lack of these important numbers holds me back for a sec. I don't feel the hangover yet, but it surely gets worse when I stand up. Do I have to? Bit by bit I'm crawling myself to the edge of the bed putting my feet on the carpet.

I'm standing. Dizzy a little. I'm saying just as many thank yous to the C-Vitamin I had yesterday as it includes in miligramm. Could be so much worse without it. I have to wash my face. Right now. Trying to remember the last night seems much easier with putting my head under cold water.

I told her. Almost everything. I think that was right after the 3rd double vodka. I shouldn't have to, now I know. I hate opening up. Not because of showing the weakness, or the sadness, or the misery. But because of feeling ashamed showing the weakness, the sadness, the misery. I always feel shame afterwards, never really knew why. I'm blushing and I feel like every drop of water on my skin is just a drop of corrosive shame, acid that burns my skin. Avoiding the mirror seems the best idea.

What did she say? Frankly she didn't speak a lot. She let me talk. After nearly one hour of silence I don't think she wanted to stop me to talk it out. What did I say? Everything. From the beginning till the end. I was drunk enough to mention names, places, ridiculous hopes, nasty details, fucked up thoughts. Oh, I shouldn't have gone, I shouldn't have drunk, I shouldn't have talked. An itch that I shouldn't have scratched. I could have saved myself from loathing myself.

It's so hard to give a vocal form of the emotions I feel to someone who's not in my shoes. How to put it the most simple way for others to make them easily understand what I'm going through. I wish I could just open my heart and brain, connect them with a projector, and then just let them screen what's coming outside. Pictures of me, pictures I have, pictures I feel. One picture can say a thousand words without making me stupid with all the unnecessary explaining I have the urge to say. I don't trust the others enough to believe they've been there, they've done that.

I had no pictures just a fucking urge that I surrendered to, and I was just talking, and talking into her silent face.

Public loo blues

We are sitting at a table in a restaurant. Nothing special in it, it's just an ordinary restaurant. I cannot even sense the patterns on the wallpaper, pictures on the wall, the order of the tables on the floor, the order of the chairs around the table. It's just a restaurant including all the normal features that kinda place requires: bar with wine glasses hanging upside down, beermugs surrounding the beer dispensers worshipping them. Dozens of all different kinds of beverages, a shelf with cigarettes. That's all that matters to me right now. Alcohol and cigarette.

I'm smoking. One cigarette after the other. I'm drinking vodka. I hate vodka, I do. Every time I drink it clear shiver runs through my spine, and not the good kind. But as I hate the state I'm in, I thought this loathed drink would be the best entourage for the night.

The waiter put the other double just right before me. I'm slowly pushing it away with the two fingers that hold the cigarette. I'm moving it towards the ashtray inch by inch with that sweet curly fume heading straight up to the ceiling. I want the ashtray and the glass to be next to each other. I want them to be best friends. I want them to bond, while I'm deepening way too down in my useless agony. They have to hold me together later on anyway. Sweet tools of my cure. Because I'm sick. And I'm in pain.

I'm doing everything with one hand. Every extra move is bothering me. My left arm is resting on my lap. With my whole left side I'm leaning against the edge of the table. That's the pose of a broken person.

- This is no good - she says drawing a circle with her hand above my sacred triangle. My trinity, she is talking about. And she is saying bad things about it. The word Blasphemy pops into my mind, but then I immediatelly feel that'd be exeggaration, almost ridiculous. I'm looking at the table. With the ashtrey in the middle, the glass just right next to ashtrey, and my hand holding the flaming cigarette right in front of and in-between them. this round and smooth piece of wood seems the island of peace. What can possibly be no good with that? I'm staring foolishly at that hand that just drew that circle. Maybe I don't wanna see her face. We are not good friends. Not even friends. I don't even know if I have friends. She is just someone who I like and who was willing to come with me to this featureless restaurant with the typical features.

Doing it is inevitable, I know, so I lift my head up and turn it towards her. Looking at her face is something new. There's nothing on it. No pity, no empathy, no fun, no joy, no warmth, no coldness. Nothing, totally emotionless. Soft and empty face. Doesn't really feel bad, just different. She is not faking like the people I know. But then again she knows nothing about me. I don't think there's room for feelings towards someone who she knows nothing about. She is just not that kinda. I like that. This way I can fake being emotionless. I seem slightly pathetic, I know, but that's not an emotion. That's a state and this thought all of a sudden warms me up. Rather being slightly pathetic than seeming utterly sad. I'm looking at her face, relaxing my eyes totally, I want that smooth, emotionless face to be blurry. Because the eyes, I cannot risk the eyes. I might not be able to handle the emptiness in the eyes. I feel too sorry for myself inside not to give it a try, and play for some understanding from her.

-What do you mean it's no good? What's no good? - of course I know what she meant. But I have to somehow form a conversation. The words about my misery aren't in rush that much to come out of my mouth. Fuck, why is it so hard to throw my feelings upon her? This sucks, almost as much as when I'm at a public loo standing above the toilet with crooked knees trying to pee. It might not be clean, it's uncomfortable, it's so strange that even though I almost pissed myself just minutes before, I still cannot let it flow. Still, I have to relax my mind, my muscles, it has to come out, I have to let it go.

- The chainsmoking and the shitloads of vodka, I meant. - The hand takes a round in the air again. Oh that gesture annoys me so bad. Feels like I'm at the doctor with a gross infection on my skin that he does not touch but draws circles around it explaining the disease with his pen in his rubber gloves on.

Fuck, she talks like I'm some kinda alcoholic, grey-skinned 50 year old smoking chimney, who cannot lead a normal life without the usual portion of cheap vodka and 2 packs of Black Death a day. Maybe I'll end up like that. Isn't hard to picture myself this way right now.

Maybe this time I can start, I can say that 3 words out loud. Come on, just take a deep breath, don't give a shit about what she thinks, just split it out. It can't be so hard. Oh God, I'm so longing for someone even with the fake emotions, someone who I got used to. Just to suck upon the smallest chance of getting some courage. Ok, I straigten up as much as I can on my chair. I look into her eyes to... nothing. That's what I was afraid of. I cannot fucking pee.

Cat on the Cobble Dancing on Violin

It's raining again. Now it's been a week and not a day went by without getting the asphalt wet, sometimes even with little floods on the cobbled-streets. Mostly it is just boring raining but tonight it's spiced up with some thunder and lightning. I'm very much enjoying this mixture of sounds: the cars, the big booms, some human voices, the horn of the tram, the violin play coming somewhere from our house, the thing that's hung on the balcony and tinkles as the wind blows it. That thing, which I don't know the name of, but as a fucked up chorus accompanies the night orchestra of this bizarre mass.

I don't mind the rain right now. Even though recently I've been so depressed of days passing by on me and I could easily say rain is a subsequent obsticle on the way of me starting living my life, a vis major I cannot forsee and defeat or avoid. I should hate it. Fuck it. Maybe I would have minded the rain yesterday, maybe I'll mind it tomorrow. I hated it and I'll hate it because of destroying my Cons as I'm not willing to wear any other shoes during summertime, the end of my jeans' legs which are totally muddy, the people with umbrella poking my eyes out even if there are just a couple of harmless drops falling.

But not tonight. Tonight is fresh. It doesn't feel the continuation or the beginning of a weather period. Today smells like summer rain, no history no future. It's cool, it's sweet that has washed away the stench of the city.

I'm on the balcony to smoke a cigarette. The goose bumps on my arms are the marks of the chilly air but it's chilly in a very nice way. I'm not yet cold. I'm holding the tip of my cigarette into the fire, inhaling a big one. And then just sitting on the balcony with my left hand resting on my lap. I'm totally calm. Sucking the fume out of that fag then blowing it into the night watching it disappearing at the bottom of the balcony above us. I'm wondering if the cat from the flat accross the inner garden is going for a night hunt again. Or someone in the hotel next to it forgets to draw the curtains. I can see some silhouettes of people at the back of TomTom smoking a cigarette, drinking some pints, talking about stuff. I noticed a tiny spider and its huge net linking the clothesline with the satellite and somehow Matrix popped into my mind. I'm sure that tiny spider won't be there tomorrow. Maybe the wind will sweep it away or it has already run away from the thunder into our apartment taking full adventage of the open door. Maybe it'll simply disappear just as the last pale cloud of the smoke from my lung becomes frayed.

Something about nothing

Haven't written a thing a while. I know. Let's put it this way, I haven't really had anything to write about. Or if I have had that might have been all those complaints of how I haven't felt good here. I've been through some serious bullshit and believe me when I say bullshit. Because it is bullshit. No beginning-no end whining about how I've missed out on so many things and how I can't seem to find my way back into my own life. It's like the path I'm walking on takes me somewhere I might not wanna go. Because it feels like just a big fucking by-pass. I feel I'm wasting my time here. And instead of this pushing me forward to something which contains the word "further" it has just dragged me down into an apathy I apparently cannot climb out of.
I so cannot find my place in this world right now that I jump into such things I don't have the knowledge or the patience or the passion for. I bought a photoapparat but I haven't used it since. I wanted to be a photographer but just right in the moment I payed for the Flexaret I gave all my enthusiasm to the lady with my money. I realized that even though I have good eyes for all beauty or shoking I still don't find the will in my finger to turn the shutter or whatnot on the machine. It just disappeared and even though it'll look good on my shelf 5 years from now, still what was the purpose behind that action? Expecting salvation from something I already wanted to do years ago and at that time I lost my enthusiasm just as I did now?
Being here is lesson I never wanted to learn yet looks like I needed to experience. If I navigate my memory back on these 5 months to find one single happy moment here I would fail. First of all my brain wouldn't work because that apathy grabs it with iron-hands therefore lazyness seems painless, second of all because even if I ignored that iron hand I wouldn't be able to find a moment like this anyway.
Someone said that the main problem is that we came here with a decision already had been made: we won't love it. Which is not true. I came here with the very safe and effortless decision: Let's not make decisions, just go with the flow. That flow is not really a flow but more like a flood. Taking me here and there but keeping me drowning.
Anyway the reason why I'm writing now even though I have nothing to write about is that someone said I may write good in english. So here it is something I enjoyed writing even though it doesn't really make any sense. Just like my life here so far.