Who do you write like?
Nettes Spielchen, aber doofes Spielchen, denn es wohnen viele Seelen in meiner Brust. (Via Gedankenträger ihr Gezwitscher)
Drei englische Blogposts von mir durch den Analyzer gejagt. Erstmal den hier vom 27. Oktober 2003:
„It was raining. I was somewhere in the West End, my movie was about to start, and I was lost. Standing outside of a parking garage, fighting with the magazine that held the address to the movie theater I was looking for and the pages of my map that kept turning over as soon as the wind hit them, I was getting wet. Really wet. It got worse every minute. I was running out of time. I desperately watched the papery mess in my hand when suddenly I heard a voice coming out of the dark entrance of the garage: “What are you looking for?”
I turned around to see a homeless man sitting there. He had covered a small piece of concrete with newspapers on which he sat and stared. At me, at the rain, at my magazine that began to sag under the weight of the water pouring down on it.
“Leicester Place”, I said a little unwillingly but already waiting for his response.
“You need to go back to where you came from. Wrong direction. Look out for a street to your right.”
He spoke in a low voice already and it nearly died away completely the longer he talked. In the end it was merely a whisper. I looked at my map and realized in a second that he was right. I took out my wallet and fumbled for some coins to thank him but he had already turned away from me, muttering to himself: “See, I can be useful.”
I was about to say “I never doubted that” but I knew it wasn’t the truth.“
Kann ich mit leben. Aber was passiert, wenn ich einen Deprieintrag mit dem bösen F-Wort durch den Analyzer jage? Den hier zum Beispiel vom 31. Dezember 2002 (da war ich aber sehr schlecht gelaunt):
„Oh … pain … you again.
Sometimes life just seems to be a reflection. On a drink, on my tears, on a slippery surface I am sliding on downwards.
And whenever I want to hold on to something, life retreats. Again. The reflection disappears. And there is nothing left.
Something has to make this stop someday.
Someone has to make this stop someday.
While I keep on falling
deeper
down
into the dark
I reach out. But my hands find nothing.
Life has failed me again.
Why keep reaching out?
Why bother?Hört das denn nie auf?
Wenigstens ist dieses Jahr heute rum. Gut so. Hau ab. Can’t wait for the fucking next one. And, please, don’t tell me everything is going to be different. Cause it won’t. Because if I don’t change, nothing else will change. And right now, I don’t have the strength to change. So leave me alone. You were always perfect in doing just that.“
Hau sörpreising. Zum Schluss noch den hier vom 19. Oktober 2002:
„There’s no place I feel safe. Except for every movie theater in the world.
It’s a comforting feeling when the lights go down. People change from talking in their normal volume to whispering. Everything seems to stop for a moment. And in this small fraction of time my expectation grows beyond everything I ever imagined.
I want the world.
And here it comes: The first sound, the first image, the first scene that sets the tone of the movie. A whole universe unfolds before my eyes. Within a second I am far away. I am a princess. I am a policeman. I am a dream. Everything me is gone. Everything me is past. Everything me is new.
And suddenly everything me is perfect.
I belong here. Because I don’t belong anywhere else.“
Gna.
I WRITE LIKE ME! Mimimimimiiii!