Future ( 0 )

His life was over before it even had begun. The man knew that. The smoke descended onto the oak table, which was situated next to his comfortable leather chair. He slowly removed the lit joint from his hand, and placed it neatly on the side of the ashtray. He stood up, and walked towards the window. Outside he saw the usual; The busy streets of downtown Amsterdam, full of lowlifes, thugs, and hey, even normal people. He recalled one of the theater shows he had seen, in which one of the protagonists declared that one should never disturb someone who is looking out of a window, as someone who is looking out of a window is generally busy thinking about important philosophical questions.

Not him, though. All he could think of was some trivial show in his past. That was actually the story of his life; He was good at doing trivial stuff, thinking about trivial stuff, and avoiding anything that might be an opportunity to get out of this limbo that was his life. He was good at watching TV, playing videogames, reading books, smoking weed. If he could do it in his domain, and it didn't change the world around him too much, he liked it.

He walked back to his chair, and picked up an acoustic guitar, leaned against the aforementioned seat. He strummed it. It was a bit out of tune, but he couldn't be bothered to do anything about it. He played one of those songs he always felt so guilty about. Beautiful, dark, gut-wrenching blues.

Why the guilt?

He knew he had no right singing it. The environment he grew up in was quite comfortable, he never had too many problems, his parents never beat him, he didn't have a drinking problem, the woman he loved never died.

As the final notes came out of his guitar, he sighed. Maybe, just maybe, if he had bothered to make something of himself, he would've succeeded.

Maybe.



And maybe

just maybe

she would've stayed with him.

Fear ( 0 )

I'm full of fear. Aren't we all?

Fear itself is often more severe than the occurrence one is afraid of. Often? Close to all the time, really. The constant state of fear in the cold war? Pretty much worse than anything that actually happened, when one looks at the big picture.

So, how about Jack White, huh? My prediction is that his album 'Blunderbluss' will be the album of the year. To me, anyways. I'm in love already, just after hearing the first 2 tracks.

Fear is constant, relentless, and worst of all, often unnecessary. The worst kind must be the fear of love. Or lack of love, to be more specific. Will nobody ever love me? Does the one I love 'love me back'? Will it even last? Will there be an end?

I've just looked back into some files in my computer, and found the piece of shit I had to compile for my Dutch class in my final year. All the books I 'read' for it, something about my own reading-habits, and quite a few analyses of poetry. The book-part was mostly a piece of shit, with a few books in there I didn't even read. 2 Books saved it though, one of them was Nietzsche, because... Well, it's motherfucking Nietzsche! The other one was 'The Discovery Of Heaven' by Harry Mulisch, that's because it was way too long. 936 pages even. Then again, I did read it, and it was a decent book. Anyways, the thing is that I went into the back of the document and found some stuff about myself. Something about me preferring English literature over Dutch literature, something about my love for George Orwell's 1984, and something that interests me even more; A list of books I still wanted to read.
"...And a few books that I reckon are simply essential for my personal development. The books I want to read at this point: The Bible, The Quran, Mein Kampf, Mao's Little Red Book, The Socialist Manifesto, Lolita and Rousseau's The Social Contract."
Guess I've got some reading to do.


---------

Okay, this stuff was not cracking, it was not brilliant writing of any sort.. They were just my thoughts. At least I'm keeping myself busy.

Oh, and I just rediscovered how amazing and lovely this song was yesterday.

Dreams and Aspirations ( 2 )

He stared into the ashtray in front of him, sitting safely on the oak table, charred in the middle, like any overused pub-ashtray should be (he had decided). "She has to go." the voice in his head said. "But you have to keep your priorities straight, John." it continued, quickly. He sought eyecontact with the waiter who always served him, which succeeded. He signaled for another one by holding up his indexfinger, as was common.

He sat next to the window. He always sat next to the window, the second couch of his booth always unused. It was snowing outside, and he continued staring. This time the rusty Chevrolet that was standing in the parkinglot, covered in snow, was his safe haven. As long as he looked at that spot, he wouldn't do anything. He wouldn't hurt a fly. He heard the waiter approach, who gently placed his scotch on the table. The waiter barely awaited any reaction, but it absolutely came from John. In the form of a nod, that was.

John picked up the glass and inspected it, as if to check for explosives. A woman to his left was staring at him with a puzzled face, as if to say "Stop doing that. You are not a part of this society, reject." And he knew it. He felt it. He sipped his scotch, which was found to be safe, and returned to the rusty Chevrolet. "Hey, John, I didn't tell you to take your time, get on it." He obliged and quickly emptied his glass. He stood up, got his coat, and saw the waiter approach. "That'll be 21 dollars and 45 cents please." John produced his wallet and gave the man 25, once again nodding; It was okay, he could keep the change, John had no desire for money anyways. "Thanks a lot, sir, and I reckon I'll see you again tomorrow!" As John started heading for the door, the man remembered something; "Oh, and good luck killing your wife, eh? Mara was it? Ah, marvelous!" John slowly turned around to face the man. "How are you gonna do it? Gun? A good ol' stabbing?" the man cheekily added. "Ah well, I'm sure it will be a blast." he quickly speeded away to another customer.

Outside John inspected his pockets. Of course he'd have no key, he never had one to that car. And he never would, yet the urge to search was always there. He'd have to walk. He walked through the snow, not caring about any of it. Kids across the street were imitating him, taunting him, and even throwing snowballs. He wasn't an impressive guy, he knew that himself. He had better things to do, anyways. "Just keep walking, John, you can do it." Yes, okay.

This was his home. He was sure it was his home, yet he didn't recognize it. The door was open, he could walk right in there. The place was cozy and warm, and he could peak right into the living room. A brightly decorated christmastree was there, covered in red stars and bright lamps. He heard her. "Who's a good little boy?" She made silly noises. He continued to listen. "You are! Yes you are!" He saw her back. She was on the floor, on her knees with an infant in front of her, barely able to stand, seemingly entranced by her face. "Well, little boy, you've grown quite a bit, haven't you?" He approached. "You're almost as big as daddy already!" He stood behind her. She must've sensed it, as she turned halfway around, and looked him straight in the eyes. "There you are! See, Tommy, there's daddy!" He reached into the inside pocket and grabbed the metal object. It gave him a feeling of power, a way to do what had to be done. He was destined to do it. He caressed the trigger with his fingers, and took it out of his coat. "What is that, honey?" she said, no, squealed. "Why are you... Don't point that at me! Please, don't do -"

Bright lights.

"Why does it always stop at the good part?"

White all around. This box he now calls home is completely padded with white pillows. As he stares into the ceiling, lying there in his strayjacket, he's giggling to himself. "I'll never see Mara again, nor my old Chevrolet...

That car was a piece of shit anyways."

GAS ( 4 )

Gear Acquisition Syndrome...

Just when I thought I almost had it beat. I'm close to finishing my pedalboard, and that'd be that... But no.

I have to stumble upon yet another luthier who does awesome work, and drool all over my keyboard.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present you the work of James Trussart.

... And some nice closeups in this vid.

I NEEDS IT.

This is... ( 0 )

us.

(Beautiful photography by Ivan Andreevich)

Whiskey & Wine ( 1 )

Something in Dutch, I reckon it's not any good, but it just gushed out of me.

Het normaal pijnlijke, brute ochtendlicht wat hem deed ontwaken had haar agressie verloren. Hij deed rustig zijn ogen open, en voelde de aanwezigheid. Een grootse, fantastische, en wellicht zelfs magische aanwezigheid. Hij liet zijn hoofd langzaam opzij glijden, en er verscheen een silhouette voor hem. Zijn ogen gingen langs de verschijning; De delicate lijnen van haar benen leken door zijn dekbed heen te schijnen. Hij ging langs de curve van haar dijen, die zonder twijfel overgingen in de glooiende manifestatie die men haar bovenlichaam zou noemen. Het dekbed stopte al snel, en de zijden huid van haar schouder was ontbloot.

Hij rook haar. Maar niet alleen haar. Hij rook de passie, de schoonheid, de waargeworden clichés. Hij kon het simpelweg niet weerstaan, en gaf een tedere kus op haar naakte huid. Ze begon te bewegen, en met een behaaglijke kreun draaide ze zich om. Hij zag een blik waarvan hij wist dat hij hem deelde. Een blik van hopeloze hoop, wat men normaal alleen op de televisie kan aanschouwen; Als er in een documentaire over één of ander Afrikaans land (waarvan men het simpelweg niet kan opbrengen om er genoeg om te geven) weer een moeder met aids opdoemt. Ze leeft al jaren in een vluchtelingenkamp met een capaciteit van 40.000, met 500.000 anderen. Hoogstwaarschijnlijk is ze een verschijning met een dikbebuikte baby op de schouder, en 2 kleinere kinderen naast haar. Ondanks deze omstandigheden is er echter nog wel die blik van hoop, het idee dat haar kinderen het misschien beter zullen hebben, terwijl ze diep van binnen weet dat het niet waarschijnlijk is.

Die blik van hopeloze hoop was aanwezig bij beide; Dit kon toch immers niet echt zijn? Wanneer zou de illusionist de truc uitleggen? Wanneer komt de moeder tot de realisatie dat er simpelweg niets beters bestaat in haar wereld? Waar heb ik dit aan verdiend?

"Ik hou van je."

De woorden dringen zijn oren binnen, en terwijl hij haar aankijkt weet hij het. Zijn blik van hopeloze hoop hoeft niet langer te blijven, want dit is pure realiteit. De truc zal nooit uitgelegd worden, en dat is ook absoluut niet nodig.

"Ik ook van jou."

Godsend ( 0 )

When my feet have given up all hope,

you're the crutches which I need.

And when my mind has lost sight of everything,

you've got the eyes to connect to me...