Death Is Drunk Outside My Window And Keeps Me Up At Nights

I tried curing my fear of death some years ago and ended up writing a story about the actual physical manifestation of the Grim Reaper coming to my birthday party. He was an excellent guest but his smalltalk was forced.

The thing about writing is that it sneaks up on you like a sly motherfucker.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know I was terribly scared of the concept of death, oh… I know that. The words coming out were much more precise though. I subconsiously cocooned myself around morbid memorabilia, curious gadgets and creepy accessories just so I could be better acquainted! I shit you not, all of that just streamed through my writing, I wasn’t even thinking about it. And you can casually throw a glance around my house and my most prized possessions and that much is clear.

Yet I’ve always been peculiar even as a child, before knowing about death and that it can actually happen to mortals, even to people you know. I was practically in love with mummies and the funerary practices in ancient Egypt. Up until that point, it was just childish curiosity.
Now, things get harder the older you get. I’m not afraid of my own death. It’s mostly a terrifying feeling of knowing that the people around me will die eventually and I’ll be there to selfishly bear the brute force of the hit. Because I’ve already done that once and honestly it took a lot out of me, since my coping mechanism is shutting down and pretending that everything is okay. Feeling numb is scary.

Well, I’m not that numb anymore, despite the fact that my face begs to differ… but I’ve come a long way. Everything is better now and I’m honestly in a very good place after working on myself for a couple of years.

But really, it’s all waiting to happen all over again, isn’t it? Why is the natural process of life so damaging if it’s supposed to happen anyway? Shouldn’t we as humans have evovled into accepting things easier and faster? I wish there was a way to celebrate passing through *insert your preferred representation of moving on to a different realm after death*, having a laugh and remembering the good old times and that’s it.
But that’s not it. We are shaped and carved by these momentous events, such as they are and frankly, I didn’t sign up for this.

I see a lot of lost potential in cases like this, I feel robbed and haunted by what-could-have-beens. And it’s just not with the people close to me, it’s with everyone I admire. There could have been much more… and in a selfish way, there could have been more for me to have learned.

Death is a universal idea, a timeless currency that makes the world go round but how long does it take for our universe to resume into normalcy?

The Small Things

There was a day many years ago when I realized that I wasn’t the only one preoccupied by things that the grand majority didn’t care about. My mother would comment on how involved people would get over movies and music and pictures, while I on the other hand would play a game of challenging myself to find more of just that.

I know it’s extremely utopian to believe the entertainment industry but I cared more about people in books than people in real life. Nothing could really match up to what music made me feel or what a painting could tell me.
There was a small nook in my room where I stratigically placed my cd-player and would sit there, getting into it. It was interesting to hear people creating sounds (and words to accompany it) that cared intensely about things. It was remarkable that musicians seemingly didn’t give a fuck about what others thought and said “Fuck it, I’ll write a song about ducks”.
I respect the insignificance, I might even value it more when someone is passionate about what makes them tick. There’s a great divide that seperates me from people (and I’m not saying that they’re in the wrong), it might be that I give a fuck about too much because I take everything into consideration before dismissing it. Add the fact that my face’s permanent state is “try me bitch” and you’ve got yourself quite a paradox happening. I care too much while appearing not to care.

The meaning behind fixating on the details makes for a grand bigger picture, doesn’t it? Can you feel happiness when you’ve never felt content? Would you like the movie if you hated the actors? Is it possible for a song to move you if there’s one instrument out of tune?

The Mighty Root That Couldn’t

I’ve grown and so have you but someday I must stop writing about agriculture

You see, the place that birthed me was nothing but the ground

And I found solace and friends and dead pets

In the dirt

Lacing my fingernails

Sometimes I wonder about Sylvester the cat, my turtle resting in a matchbox

Their bones combined and lost through time

Nothing really mattered, not even matter

Perhaps they stayed intact

The Golden Age of “Get Me Out Of Here”

It’s hard to ignore this recurring theme of complete apathy and follow-the-leader trend among us. Simply standing by a bus stop has turned into a pseudo-apocalyptic scene where humanoids are oblivious to anything around them, enchanted by handheld devices. I was the only one today that noticed a man wave madly as the bus passed by (he knew no one on the bus, just wanted to wave for a bit).


You may or may not know that I’ve been unshackled by smartphones for almost a year now and the transition was difficult at start. Frantic moments were spent trying to entertain myself because my brain couldn’t funtion without having a direct link to the Cloud. I’ll be the first to praise technology but I don’t find that my life is defined by virtual profiles and liking an edgy photograph.

There’s a mixture of pity and minimum concern for people who’ve never noticed that any information around you is probably the first and last time you’ll see it in such state. I don’t know, does it really matter?

Becoming disenchanted and gradually angry at the world keeps on keeping on as the years go by, perhaps even wasting my time writing this is me conforming to the ever-ending argument of where this reality is leading up to, a wireless generation of sterile zombies or perpetual purists that can’t change…


Perhaps I should start by stating that everything your eyes stumble upon on this sad excuse of catharsis is pure garbage. Garbage as you know is info/data/whatever that’s been digested until there’s nothing left to it, it has finally reached its simplest form. The mind has already absorbed the good parts and ultimate clarity has been achieved… or at least that’s how I think it works.


That’s all. No point in sounding any more pretentious.