hear me out, Virginia: nocturnal stream of consciousness
Actually, I shouldn't be doing that. Turning my inside out. Did that too many times before. As if anybody cared, but me.
A drunkard's passing by my window, lilting this awkward hymne whatsoever. At least, he's enjoying himself.
Impressions of an ordinary day. Been to a lecture about American graffitti. Quite interesting. I guess we're all sucking up our literature prof. You get five points just for showing up at the lecture. Grrreat. Now gimme my points!
It rained a lot. I like rain that doesn't last for more than a day. Makes you feel all freshed up, as though your mind's been set on reverse. Start from scratch. Been there, done that.
Once again those hilarious thoughts. The gardener. In the middle of Latin, what do I think of? Some nude guy planting seeds and singing along to Thom Yorke. We actually met sometime last year. At least, he's claiming that we did. I don't remember properly. Too much booze in my veins back then. However, now he's showing some interest. I'm feeling all flattered. And I know already nothing won't come off. Despite the biblical name and the sexy voice. He's just not my type. Full stop. But still, would be great to fuck for a change. Or get fucked, for that matter. On the other hand, he's Cancerian. Those guys can't handle me. But is that really important? I wish I were the sexdate-guy. I really do. Fact is, I'm not. Tried so many times. Every single time, I just felt like a complete and utter prostitute. The only thing missing was some money on the night desk. Really. Like the holiday-fuckers me and Steven were years ago. That was funny, but still what remained is the emptiness, the solitude that only gets worse when being together with the wrong person.
I wish I could cease to yearn for being with the 'one.' I remember myself three years ago when I was in total tune with myself. I was singleton. I was me. I was a fucking writer. Berlin & I. And I was goddamn good. I didn't long for anybody. I was having this sweet affair with my own being. Actually, I was engaged with myself. This contract. Legally binding. Now I feel like divorced, trying to pick up the parts that were once me. Some of the parts would be nice. I miss the days of 2005. The Strom, the very best pub ever. The Woodstock feeling. Punks passing on Tequila. Ideas. Stories. Right after work. The Strom. Music. People. Artists. Dissidents. People-off-the-regular-track. I loved every single minute of it.
Sounds corny and pitiful, don't it? Lamenting about my second adolescence. I guess, all I can do is get that fucking semester behind me and finish off my play - once and for all. I think, I'll turn it an absurd play. Breakdown of communication. Love, recycled. Like a gay version of Albee. Jelinek on speed. Sarah Kane, revisited. I'll do that, doubtless. And I'll fucking blow up the gay bar at the end. No matter whether they like it. Henry won't come in producing anyway. Much less directing. So the question is: what am I actually worrying about? A hardline Shakespearian disliking the premise of my play? As if he could relate to what I'm portraying on paper. He should keep writing 'Down With Love,' and I'm gonna stick with 'Fleischmarkt 4.38.' That's a cheerful thought. I think, I'll carry on. Let bygones be bygones. Alright.
A drunkard's passing by my window, lilting this awkward hymne whatsoever. At least, he's enjoying himself.
Impressions of an ordinary day. Been to a lecture about American graffitti. Quite interesting. I guess we're all sucking up our literature prof. You get five points just for showing up at the lecture. Grrreat. Now gimme my points!
It rained a lot. I like rain that doesn't last for more than a day. Makes you feel all freshed up, as though your mind's been set on reverse. Start from scratch. Been there, done that.
Once again those hilarious thoughts. The gardener. In the middle of Latin, what do I think of? Some nude guy planting seeds and singing along to Thom Yorke. We actually met sometime last year. At least, he's claiming that we did. I don't remember properly. Too much booze in my veins back then. However, now he's showing some interest. I'm feeling all flattered. And I know already nothing won't come off. Despite the biblical name and the sexy voice. He's just not my type. Full stop. But still, would be great to fuck for a change. Or get fucked, for that matter. On the other hand, he's Cancerian. Those guys can't handle me. But is that really important? I wish I were the sexdate-guy. I really do. Fact is, I'm not. Tried so many times. Every single time, I just felt like a complete and utter prostitute. The only thing missing was some money on the night desk. Really. Like the holiday-fuckers me and Steven were years ago. That was funny, but still what remained is the emptiness, the solitude that only gets worse when being together with the wrong person.
I wish I could cease to yearn for being with the 'one.' I remember myself three years ago when I was in total tune with myself. I was singleton. I was me. I was a fucking writer. Berlin & I. And I was goddamn good. I didn't long for anybody. I was having this sweet affair with my own being. Actually, I was engaged with myself. This contract. Legally binding. Now I feel like divorced, trying to pick up the parts that were once me. Some of the parts would be nice. I miss the days of 2005. The Strom, the very best pub ever. The Woodstock feeling. Punks passing on Tequila. Ideas. Stories. Right after work. The Strom. Music. People. Artists. Dissidents. People-off-the-regular-track. I loved every single minute of it.
Sounds corny and pitiful, don't it? Lamenting about my second adolescence. I guess, all I can do is get that fucking semester behind me and finish off my play - once and for all. I think, I'll turn it an absurd play. Breakdown of communication. Love, recycled. Like a gay version of Albee. Jelinek on speed. Sarah Kane, revisited. I'll do that, doubtless. And I'll fucking blow up the gay bar at the end. No matter whether they like it. Henry won't come in producing anyway. Much less directing. So the question is: what am I actually worrying about? A hardline Shakespearian disliking the premise of my play? As if he could relate to what I'm portraying on paper. He should keep writing 'Down With Love,' and I'm gonna stick with 'Fleischmarkt 4.38.' That's a cheerful thought. I think, I'll carry on. Let bygones be bygones. Alright.
karma_police - 4. Jun, 23:17
