Micolus the Colossus

Alright, so it’s a little late this time, but that doesn’t make too much of a difference, eh?

I must say, I’m quite spent at the moment, but I’ll try my best. The song is performed by prog legends Yes and it can be found on their very first album, released in 1969. It is incredibly soft, some might even consider it “cheesy”. Yet this somehow gives the song a sort of juvenile charm. I don’t know whether Jon is completely serious with it or not, but that’s how it seems. If so, I can only congratulate him for being so blissfully ignorant. So basically, the song reminds me of my childhood, but also of my Doublethoughts; the same way I feel whenever I’m watching a Disney movie or drinking hot chocolate. It is pure beauty.

 

The song is all the more beautiful nowadays.

 

“Sweetness”

 

Candidates: Room- War / Dave Mathews & Tim Reynolds- Two Step / The Beatles – Til there was you

 

 

"I'm so glaad it's today, and you're heeeere" doo do dooh

Ye, so I've been up to some writin


A World of Your Own

Little Bob Lewis was nine years old. He was also about to experience his first day alone in the house.

 

The Lewis seniors had decided on embarking on one of those excruciatingly long walks, which only old and restless parents seemed to enjoy, and thought it a great opportunity to leave Bob alone for a while. The father, an executive for the post company, thought it was already long overdue and that the boy must “learn to take responsibility for his actions” and that it was to be a good lesson for him.  For two whole years had he suggested the idea, and the mother, a good and caring housewife, finally gave in. However, it was not without doubt or hesitation she did so; Bob was all she had had ever since Father’s promotion and she had developed a sort of craving to nurture and take care of him. Recently, however, and much to her concern, Bob did not seem to enjoy his mother’s company anymore; he would much rather visit friends or watch TV, than spending time with her. But Father was right, the kid was nine and so he was ready to face the world, alone this time.

 

After what seemed like hours of Mother hugging and kissing him and his father shaking his hand, his eyes moist from pride and joy, little Bob was finally by himself, and oh what a time he would have. Inspired by his cartoon idols on the telly, he ran into the kitchen, dancing and shouting hysterically. A dizzying ecstasy grabbed hold of his psyche as he forced open the refrigerator doors, and indulged in the sweet tastes inside. He found all sorts of new things in there, but one thing in particular caught his interest: A four layer chocolate cake, each layer more chocolaty than the other. Needless to say, his stomach would ache severely that night.

 

As soon as he recovered from his giant orgy he ran, without cleaning the countless chunks of chocolate littered across the kitchen, and without even closing the refrigerator doors, into the living room to watch TV. Just as he was about to hit the green button on the remote, the telephone rang. His mother’s voice echoed through his head: “Remember, don’t pick up the phone unless it’s me or Papa on the other line, alright?” He remembered.

 

-          Hello!

 

Bob remained silent.

 

-          Hello, Bob, are you there? Can you hear me? Bob!

 

He flinched slightly when she used his name, but was not yet ready to reply. Although he knew Mother would never hurt him physically, he always felt uneasy whenever she raised her voice and so he would often use his hands as two tiny shields between them. He did fear her, yes, but more so did he fear the society of which she was the ruler. Consequently Bob, instead of answering his mother’s call, crossed his fingers and prayed to God that she would just vanish.

 

-          Bob, I can hear you breathing! Why won’t you answer me? Are you up to no-good business again, Bob? Are you?

 

She would probably have gone on like that for several minutes, had he not repeatedly smashed the wireless phone against the wall. He breathed heavily; never before had he openly defied the will of his parents. His heart beat ferociously and showed no signs of ever slowing down. He was free; free to do whatever his beautiful mind was capable of imagining. The TV itself seemed to be smiling at him, as he browsed the channels his Father never used let him watch.

 

***

Little Bob was not so little anymore. He had lost count of the years but the grey stripes in his decreasing set of hair, and the wrinkles beneath his eyes and cheeks indicated that he was well over forty. Not once had he seen his parents ever since that fatal day, when they had left for that walk, and he often wondered where they were. Although, he constantly reassured himself that they were of no importance anymore, and that thoughts about them and their whereabouts were thoughts wasted.

 

Through the years he had found many great activities. Although the first months mostly consisted of him running amok in the house, screaming and playing, he would soon settle down to engage in activities far more productive and intellectually straining. He started reading books for example. One by one he devoured his father’s old library until every written word inside the house had been read, analyzed and revised. There were other, more creative projects as well, such as building a new king sized bed for himself, made out of parts from his parents’ old one, or breaking down the walls so as to create one vast room instead  of many small ones.

 

However, there was one thing Bob had never done during his time in his fortress: He had never been outside. And whenever he proposed the idea to himself (he had developed a habit of having long and complex dialogues with himself), he would always respond by stating the fact that he was free here, and that he was contented, and he was right. Nothing in the outside world tempted him even the slightest, all that was needed for a great and interesting life could be found right here, in his beautiful mansion.

 

Bob’s latest mission was inspired mainly by his father’s old physics book he had found deep within the basement. A tiny fly had made its way into the house, through one of the many cracks in the walls, and followed him around for several minutes. At first, he was rather annoyed by the little insect but then, as he observed it further, he became rather fascinated with its ability to fly, so he decided to discover what made it possible for it to do so. He searched frenetically through the aged papers to find anything that might give him directions, all the while keeping the fly in sight. Finally, he found a formula that could help him on his path; however, he would have to capture the fly, to be able to study it more accurately.

 

Spontaneously and without warning, he flung his arm into the fly’s general direction, which, terrified by the sudden attack, rushed out through the same hole it had come from just minutes earlier. Bob was devastated; this was the first time he had had trouble finishing a project, and he cursed himself for picking something as unpredictable as an insect to study. He rose quickly from his comfortable chair in what used to be his father’s study room, and hurried towards the door; he was going to catch that damned fly at any price. The door squealed as it was forced out of its long slumber and Bob was now facing the world which he loathed and dreaded the most; the world he had fled that decisive day some thirty years ago.

 

The outside world looked nothing like he had remembered; the suburban households, the beautiful cars, the frolicking children, all were now replaced with a great veil of intrinsic darkness, stretching out into infinity. Two giant bug eyes were staring at him from the black horizon. They were greater than anything he had ever seen or heard of and his fascination was endless.

 

-          So, Bob, you finally decided to come out?

 

The voice was incredibly deep and was chanted, rather than spoken, by what seemed to be several invisible mouths scattered across the dark void.

 

-          I came here to finish a project! I came here to find out why and how you fly!

 

Bob tried to mask the fear in his voice, but he had the strangest feeling that those eyes saw more than just the superficial.

 

A cascade of disturbing sounds emerged from the different corners of the abyss, and together they formed a grand symphony of pain and grief. Women screamed in desperation and disbelief, men broke down before the truth of their fates and children wept as their worlds were taken away from them; their very own, peaceful homes.

 

-          Do you see, how much there is to see? Can you feel how much there is to feel? Can you, child, CAN YOU?

 

The voices echoed with tremendous might, and the wailings slowly faded away. The eyes too, disintegrated and the world was given color once more. Out of nowhere, appeared those suburban houses of his childhood, together with those lovely streets and those beautiful cars, he had always hoped to drive one day. The last thirty years became like something out of a weird dream, and he could not believe what he had experienced in that dark twisted world of his. Bob Lewis stepped out of his childhood fortress and crossed that threshold for the last time. He cried as his old shivering touched the wrinkles in his face, for he realized now, finally, that he had not earned them.

 

m.a.o

Assassinating the president of the United States of America? I'm in!

What if there were no laws, eh, or norms? (Now of course this is a hypothetical question, since it'd be impossible for a society of more than one human being to exist without a certain degree of compromise) Perhaps I should rephrase the question; what if I did not or could not see the consequences of my acts? What if I would not stop myself from living out my deepest fantasies?

I would've killed, I can tell you that. Oh yes, I would've gone into manic states of pure insanity, ripping and tearing the flesh out of those who've wronged me. But maybe Raskolnikov could tell me a thing or two about that.

There is nothing more excrutiating than the wait before a trial.

I would just like, for once, to stick by my creed and actually keep teh cool.

Never mind what they think, right?

wrong

Snow, falling gently like white fluffy caramels of beauty.

No.

I would rather describe it as a giant cluster of cold and moist raining ferociously upon the insignificant people below. Ah, but I do respect the winter. I stand in solemn silence calmly watching the world I’ve grown to love and adore die before me, the only thing keeping me alive being the knowledge that it will once again rise, more beautiful than ever. But alas, it is a long wait.

Winter has begun. The trees have suffered for too long and the plug has finally been pulled. They sleep now, the trees, and they are contented in their unconscious coma. However, I am not, for fate has other plans for mankind; other, more grand plans. We must endure both scorching heat as well as icing cold. We must learn, so as to better understand death and the cycles of time.

It seems, I do not understand death, not yet at least, for I cannot love winter as I love summer. I cannot enjoy the deterioration of nature and the slow decay of life. I can only appreciate life, and somehow, that is comforting to know.

I am not yet lost

I am not yet a man

I am not yet illuminated

The battle of the dark moon was won, eventually, and the weekend was joyous. Animals, animals, animals. What can I say? It is, just as these past days have been, perfection incarnate; perfection, born out of anguish; joy out of pain and so on and so forth. This album, Animals, have reached that peak twice during its stay in my mind.

Once, walking home through those dark small town streets three in the morning, wasted as fuck. I righteously felt that it was time for some hard core Pink Floyd action, and thus it all began. Coincidentally, I happened to pick one of the best albums of all time, Animals. I had, also coincidentally, just read Animal Farm by George Orwell, which the album practically is about, with songs such as “Dogs”, “Sheep” and “Pigs”.

Fate had fun that night, it seemed, for a weird, never before seen creature appeared in front of me, running and dancing by my side. Crazy shiat! Also a hedgehog stood by a staircase, struggling frenetically to climb those wretched symbols of oppression and authoritarian force. Wut.

And now, a year later, in the room of warmth and empathy, lost together in time. Three times, did the tunes of that wonderful album ring through our ears. And just as she said, Dogs, truly is the summit of the summit.

Woof Woof.

I try to write what I feel, but the more I focus, the more pretentious it ends up becoming. Maybe that's because I really don't have anything in particular to talk about right now. Or ever, for that matter. I mean, I suppose I could take some random news and comment on it, but that all seems futile and far from what this is: a place for thought and ventilation.

Perfection is best left uncontemplated and unexplained. This weekend can be described as perfect. Why? Because it wasn't perfect; it had its ups and downs and it was rough a rough ride all together; sort of like a great movie or an "exciting" activity.

For it is indeed in the lows that we find the true essence of the highs.

The leaves are ageing, their once so proud and colorful shapes turning dry and brown, torn off from their mothers in the violent wind. Icy breezes creep across the dying lands and all that have lived, receed back into their comforting homes.

All except us. Fuck, I hate it when it's cold. I've always found complaining about the weather to be a rather childish thing to do, (hypocritical as always) because in all honesty, it's pure hubris. Even expressing one's subjective feeling towards a certain weather, be it rain, cold or warmth, is to propose one's wish to seize control over it..

I am quite positive that I'm rambling, and I'm sorry.

In art class today, we were supposed to paint a picture conveying a certain emotion. I got really into it, making a blur of watery colors (it was pretty bad, but fun to do nevertheless). A sentence, however, made me lose focus and wake up from my Doorsesque haze:

"Emotions? What emotions are there? I don't have emotions"

The hilarious part is that those were the exact words he used.

hilarious, or incredibly sad...

Hello, he said in a low, almost whispering, tone so as to not offend whomever he was adressing.
Hello? I apologize. The man chuckled nervously and wished upon the Gods of dementia.

I must say, I am calmer now, more stabilized, and harmony is slowly returning to my soul. However, I'm exhausted from all that rage and contempt and so I believe this too, will fall in the endless lines of futile blog posts of self pity. Patheticity? Well...

Yup, so fresh air, music and food really did the trick I suppose; I have done nothing since came home but planning the morrow and reading about revolutions, all of which FAILED AND TURNED INTO BLOOD FILLED DESPOTISMS.

My fear is slowly coming through; the golden letters written on the great walls of the Doma Dorma are falling apart, bit by bit, letter after letter, blowing in the wind, eternally forgotten.

"Keep the cool", eh.

Goddamnit! We must keep it, for the sake of all. For the sake of -you-

The first civil war MUST be kept away, at all costs

bye loves!

yo blog, how's it hanging.

You know what I realized today? I realized that I fucking have to get out of this sinister prison of anxiety and mental decay, that's what I realized. I cannot bear to see those pathetic fucking eyes staring at me all the time wondering what the fuck is wrong.

what's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong, I'm choking in my own home, that's what the fuck is wrong.

completely fucking spent. wasted. pathetic

I remember when I last felt this way, it was long before the bloggish era; before the Maturation. Maybe this hellfire within me has always been there, coming through in times of hubris and desperation. I opened the vault and alot of fucking shit poured out.

Look at me, fuck here, shit there, I'm turning into a young teenage girl again. I'll have to figure something out, pretty damn quickly, else all I fought for will be lost.

STOP TALKING



Tomorrow. That's all I have to say. Tomorrow.

sleep

A shitty fu-hucking day indeed

 

My soul is empty

My mind is dry

Nothing remains

But you and I

 

Survive the draught

Endure the heat

Go in, be safe

Retreat, retreat

 

The words are hollow

The words are dead

The thoughts are gone

All have fled

 

Nothing is nothing

Nothing is all

Dead men wonder

Dead men fall

 

The scream is drowned

Left to die

Nothing remains

But you and I

 

Walking home through the cold streets of Dormium from an extremely long and mind numbing day at school, I felt my thick fat hair glued to my forehead starting to make things rather unbearable. The hollow anonimousities passing me by didn't even bother acknowledging my existence anymore, their lives being complete shit swarms of stress and business.

I didn't acknowledge them either, of course, for their significance is none in my world, other than working some farfetched bueracracy, which won't even need them in a couple of years. How am I suppose to empathize with such creatures? Creatures, who only serve as obstacles, both physically and philosophically; who priorize fucking conditioning candy over freedom; creatures, who do not even fathom the concept of empathy in itself.

Sounding like a school massacre.

Those who cannot love, should not love, nor should they pretend, nor should they live...

Perhaps I'm overreacting, and so I will refrain from making further comments on what should and what shouldn't be, but regardless of which, my anger remains true; a scorching fire keeping me alive from the inside...

So I just got home, 14:30, Goddamnit all to hell. Back from brown rise, my heart will go on, and a two hour session of mental prostitution. Normally, I would probably let it slide and just write a few short but witty cynical remarks, but things are different now. Things are better, and so the trivia becomes hell.

Things stabilize, unfortunately. This morning was out of this world.

I got into the shower in order to correct the hair issue only to find myself in an epic battle with a small fly. It wasn't until after a while of splashing small bursts of scolding hot water at my defenceless enemy, while watching it struggle to spread its wings, that I realized what it was that I was in fact doing. It made me laugh.

Think about it though, a giant creature of cosmic proportions is, while pondering life's questions, carelessly torturing and toying with you. Why? Because he has the POWER. He owns your life, and your only chance of survival is if he is in a great fucking mood.

I had had a shitty fucking day; the fly died.

I didn't feel sorry for it; I figured, that's the natural way of things, although secretly acknowledging the fact that there is no such thing as "natural". There is only satisfying the moral harmony within oneself, and guess what, a fly doesn't evoke empathy within me, for I do not see it as a part of my tribe.

Nor do I see the hollows in the streets as parts of my tribe.

Fuck?

adieu

Perfection is indeed temporary, and it can never be achieved easily or without struggle. Perfection is born out of anguish and pain, out of love and lust. A slice of bread will never be perfect, or a spoonful yoghurt, but put them together and they will form a meal (a delicious one at that). A meal can be perfect. Just like this song.

But only for a brief moment.

The Soft Parade. I remember feeling a bit skeptical towards The Doors' music after the masterpiece that is Waiting for the Sun (1968), but surely I must have been delusional (said in a Brittish manner). This song, The Soft Parade, marks the end of the album with the same name.

And what a magnificent way to end an album.

It starts off with a Jim speech. God I love Jim speeches. God I love Jim Morrison.

"YOU CANNOT PETITION THE LAAAWRD WITH PRAAAYAR"

..and then it falls into the most beautiful yet simplistic piece of ART ever created by man. Erase that, by the way, he's not a mortal man...

Anyway so I was talking about perfection and how this song manages to achieve it. First of all, one must realize that even if the meal is created perfectly, and the components are all fresh and tasty, one must have the appetite and the hunger. Although, this epic is an emotional journey in itself, one cannot wish to feel if one has not self endured similar things. I'm rambling, of course. I'm just saying, this song is perfect but it is also temporary, and it will be deserted and forgotten, remaining only as a symbol of used perfection, a peak in the past.

Only one song breaks that rule, but that song is God. Nuff said..not





candidates: Tame Impala: Alter Ego - Rush: Jacob's Ladder - SOAD: Toxicity - Black Sabbath: Neon Knights

And so the empire rises to see the coming of a new day, the people all dancing joyously across the scarlet fields. Over them, watching in silence, floats a sun red and bright. A new day for the people of the empire, a new future. I remain staring out the windows, never really focusing on anything in particular; drifting away into a greater reality, and into the realms of Olympos. Soothing insanity clutches my mind as I try to speak. And in the end, I am where I want to be, despite whatever the past has taught me. That is indeed the beauty of it all.

A new day for the empire. A day of great importance and crazed celebration. Everything that will come to be, will be written down in this Book of the Revolution. And with every word, a tear shall follow, until all is at last washed away into the sands of time. Only the warmth inside remains untouched.

Be happy, young man, be happy and venture forth into lands yet unknown to the Empire. However, you must keep a watchful eye, for it is said that the Hubris of old is inevitable, and that the Empire may fall victim to the same fate as its chaotic predeccessor. Tread lightly, but do not hesitate from crying out your rightful joy. This is the time for unhindered euphoria, go out there, and have fun.

The day has just begun.

adieu, dear dear friends

The Red Dawn showers her beautiful light upon us all

I walked pass an ATM machine today. There was a recently installed CCTV-ish camera on top of it. For our own safety, of course.

It makes me wonder, though, safety from what? Safety from the minorities and criminals. Safety from controversy and open-mindedness. Safety, from ourselves.

Laws form the playground, the frame if you will, in which we're allowed to freely play. Laws are set by the governing entities, which the majority has elected. Laws create a clear and definite space of freedom, equal to all. Oh, what a nice dream.

That's as far from reality as one could possibly get. The only laws we have are there, so that those setting the laws may benefit from them. Even murder is fucking justified, if a state or a giant corporation condones it(war, exploitation etc). There are no laws in our society, at least not by the definition; there are only rules set by wealthy men to prevent the uprising of the weak.

There is only one rule: there are no rules

And so the bullies get on top, and they set the rules. They make their word law, and back it up with brute force and charisma. Fear and oppression, that's what we live in today. Fear for the fictional majority. Fear for the wealthy. Fear for the norm.

Before our modern era, there were wealthy nobles and mad kings setting the rules to their own benefits, backing them up with God. Today, it
is the giant corporations backing their laws up with money. Money: The ticket to freedom and happiness.

Money: The self-created prison of paranoia and anxiety.

The laws will never be set in a just way. Never will we all be chained equally by them, for it is only those with enough determination and greed that may climb to those levels in the social hierarchy.

And greed is seldom seen hand in hand with benevolence.

My home, my temple, my rules. I can put a camera in my home if I wish to. And apparently, the corporations may do the same.

They bought the world
-and we gave it away

Orgy of Ants


I woke up thinking it was Saturday. It was Tuesday. The raindrops fell silently upon the grey asfalt ground outside the window, creating songs sung by marching insects. They were brave beings, the insects, and they threw themselves at the windows standing in their way; their pain was to be heard by man only as a tiny vibration; nothing to ever mind or think about, only a slight disturbance in our beautiful society.

Except for the rain's harmonious drops knocking in the distance, all I ever heard was the whispering of the dark blue sky outside. The stars were slowly disappearing in the wet embrace of the heavenly clouds and the air was moist. Moist and cold. The clock striked six. He had been sure that it was earlier; he had been sure that there was no more working today, or ever. And whatever he had been sure of, or dreamed of, was crushed in an instant by that cynical clock. That cynical clock of apathy and stagnation.

It raced forward, towards the day and the light, towards Tuesday. Blinking sadistically once every minute, 60 times before that horrible tune would ring. He hated that tune more than everything else. That cheery song, played only by the most hollow shades of our society; those who try to imitate our emotion and pain; those whose sole wish is to once again feel the feelings of their pasts and their childhoods. Those who craved love, but sacrificed it for lust. Those who chose power over peace.

It would cut through his ears and the very eyes of the human hive would stare deeply into his, searching for any... malfunctions. He didn't really know how much time remained until that wretched ritual, but he didn't mind. He couldn't. Time ceased to exist as he was flung into oblivion, only to wake up after a lifetime of harmony and peace, to the sounds of man conquering man. Power, our God. Power over our selves, and over the Whole.

0700

Fuck. The black and blue was now pale and white. God blew gentle white steam into the room, as the icicles outside began to melt. The leaves had all fallen and were now buried under a vast cushion of white snow. The tune was still ringing throughout the whole scenery, and his awe turned into anger. A burning fire emerged within his soul as all snow became black pools of smudge. Toxic waste oozing in from the window, and black ants falling from the sky. He grabbed his cell phone and looked at it with hatred and contempt. It screamed even louder as the cords within it were being slowly crushed. It screamed until the very end. But alas, it would never blink again.

The man turned around in his bed and moved closer to the wall. Nothing but a velvet pillow accompanied him during his sleep. And he dreamt of love and beauty, untouched by the ants plunging routinedly into the wasteland oceans of reality. Untouched by their ignorance, alone in the universe. Alone, but not lonely.

And so he had been right; it had been Saturday all along, and nothing could have ever changed that.

This was a, in many ways, special week. It was a special week emotionally, as well as musically; I think I've never listened to quite as much music, as I have this particular week, yet no one song springs to mind. I suppose there are a few albums which meant more than others, but that's about it. If the weekly tribute was to be paid to a band, however, it would've been The Beatles taking home the badge and so I suppose I should give the song to them.

I went along with "The Fool on the Hill", on the Magical Mystery Tour record (which, by the way had won Album of the Week, if there were such an event). It encompasses pretty much everything I think is great with The Beatles, and this week. I suppose that's all I can say, really

It will always be like this when the giant names appear; everything has been said a thousand times before, eh, and by someone far more competent too.

Religious people have all through time claimed that their omnipotent master, here referred to as God, is in fact love. God is love, they say. I believe that this very creed,however vapid and over explained, encompasses the whole of the Universal truth. It should not, be "God is Love", however, but rather "Love is God".

In the lines with the general spirit of the industrial zeitgeist, I would agree that God is indeed dead; the belief in an unseen omnipotent power seemed ridiculous to mankind in a world where science and machinery grants us the right to our own destinies. But since man's biggest fear is stagnation, i.e death, we would still have to create some sort of utopian vision in order to "realize" that our current state isn't good enough. Ideologies grew larger and more powerful and revolutions took place all over Europe, and people started replacing God with all sorts of things: Some chose the material way, making money and wealth the priority. Some chose ideology and society.

And a handful, not more, chose love

Love to me is the greatest and most revered thing. It succeeds both wealth and power in force, and both ideology and society in warmth and care. It is the single and most benevolent of all the highs, and it is the unachievable. I am very sure that there are alot, and I do mean alot, out there who agree with my sayings, but I am just as sure that most of you have no idea what I am talking about, because I have fucking seen you live your lives, and they are pathetic.

When I say love, I do not mean the guy and gal holding hands walking down the street, looking all happy with their surgically perfected teeth glistening in the sun. Nor do I fucking mean the cynically smiling couple, playing their wicked game of who is the most dominant one, during that apathetic Sunday dinner. I mean the complete and utter merger of two human souls; the completion of thoughts and the expansion of the mind; the ultimate alliance fighting only to remain where they are, never wishing to achieve the "more". It is of course a Utopian
dream, but that makes it all the more beautiful.

I have seen it all,trust me, and I have felt badly for every poor victim of this delusion that they all share. If marriage truly was the result of infinite love, then less people would go get married than jumping of cliffs, believe me.

I can imagine being a true Christian looking at the moderated and more norm-accomodated members of his church and pulling a trigger. That is how much I loathe the misuse of my God. For in every classroom and on every street, you will see someone who proudly boasts his supposed finding of a true light, and of a partner in love. Even in this case, I suppose ignorance is bliss, and so I must damn these thoughts and just go along with it all, but it truly is impossible to unthink what one has previously thought.

And of course I, being the protagonist of my own God-story, pretentiously enough, wish for that unclimbable mountain to be mine in the end. Just sitting there, passing the days, lost in untime... and in love

adieu, loved ones

[a sith, you say?]

I wasn’t prepared for that amount of awesome, that’s all I can say. There I was, sitting in that beautiful house where memories are born, for the first time listening to Dungen.

Ladies and Gentlemen: Dunyeen!

Anyway so I was taken aback to say the least, as my encumbered soul was relieved from yet another biased thought. I practically lived for the notion that, except for Vreeswijk, there existed no one within the history of mankind able to do ANYTHING good or even decent in Swedish.

And so I was proven wrong. Just likethe  hippity hop.

I am not in any way the one to talk about musical technicalities, and so I skip right onto the awesomeness at hand. Let’s just leave it for now, accepting that it is awesome beyond measure.

The lyrics, though. And the way Gustav sings them. Jesus Christ, I’ve never found naivety so beautiful before, and that’s from a guy who really does find naivety beautiful. It’s not, however, ignorant bliss, but rather a state of double-thought madness. A symbol for dreams and visions, if you will.

Let’s not make this longer than it has to be, Dungen is a great fucking band and they very well deserve their time in the spotlight. Best part is, I’m gonna see ‘em :D

Candidates: The Beatles- GZA- Led Zeppelin- Tame Impala

...I promised I would drown myself in mystic heated wine.

The Red sun arises and the new and enlightened spirit of the Revolution flows through the hearts of every citizen. It is a stable time for the empire and its routine tightens. We imitate our ancestors and try to achieve what we once had: A prospering land of freedom and joy. But we must move forward with caution. Our soldiers stay home to guard the holy heart, while the pioneers are sent out to conquer the surrounding systems. This is the time of the second enterprise. Fighting towards the red sun, sacrificing one's inner harmony and peace, so that we may, in the end, be what our memories preach. I long for that day. I long to sit there quietly, watching the red sun set behind the veils of my imagination.

Deeper than life itself

adieu

please believe me; the river told me

Father

Oh father
Dear father
A soothing sanctuary
Of steel
And force
In your strength we wallow
In your shadow we hide

Father
A watching eye
An open mind
Worshipped
For your negligence
Praised
For your ignorance
Oh father
In your shadow we trust

Tell the world
Father
Tell the world
Of your mistakes
Of your regrets
And father...
Teach us what road to take
What paths to turn
And our untaught ears
Shall drink from your wisdom

Yet you do not realise
Father
That everything you preach
Was preached to you
By the very past
You try avoid once more
In us

Father
Tell us your dreams
And we shall fall deeper
Than you ever did
For in time
The story of your past
Shall be retold
Over and over again

Mother

Beautiful mother
With your angelic hands
And your warm embrace
Protect my eyes
Protect my heart
From the dangers beyond
Lurking in the past

Mother
Dear mother
Share not your past with us
Nor your tomorrow
Mother
You are not one of us
Humans
Who thrive in pain
And in reality

Mother
Kind mother
Tell me oh tell me
That the beast
Is a lie
And that all is well
Tell us of God
And of his children
But mother
Keep us in the dark
Tell us
That you have never needed
And you have never had
A mother
Of your own

Mother
I shall go to sleep now
I am easy
I am ready
To lie down
On those newly cleaned sheets
And on that warm warm pillow
And drift away
To your tales
To your fabled reality

I come back, just like nothing. I step down, just like fucking nothing. And I ask myself, as predicted by the great above: What the fuck, what was that shit worth, anyway.

I hate Tomorrow. I fucking loathe tomorrow; why does it have to be there, fucking everything up?

You see, children, the awareness of the future, is what slows down time and creates anxiety. The constant fucking worrying about the tomorrow, is what takes pleasure from today. And I wonder, really, what the fuck was it all worth? Happiness is just the absence of pain -  and of feelings

Anyway, so back to work for another week or two, depending on how things work out. And I do have a lot of work to do, so it's not going to be a trip in the park. Just knowing how much shit lies ahead before the next break makes me nauseous. But alright, this I've learned: Acquire control over the dance, and steer it into the right direction. Coherent happiness is greater than chaos.

Sometimes

I don't know what the problem is really, everything seems to be going fine. Just that, though, fine...

fine fine fine

fuck fine