Solitude
What I search is what I don’t know, when I find it I will not know I did, because I wouldn’t know I was searching for it.
I feel this … void , not knowing how to fill it.
Fill it with what ?
I’ve tried to fill it with a thing I think you call love, although I think everyone has their own idea of love.
In that sense everyone is deranged, everyone is weird.
I have never had pleasure in loving someone, or in being loved.
These so called “lovers” fill it with air, air they take with them when they leave, when the truth finds his way to my mind.
It’s hard work, filling this void with something permanent, although it feels as if I’m not doing anything.
Standing still in my own mind, everybody around me is moving in any direction as I stand still and gaze upon the decisions they make so fast, how they build their lives.
As if they don’t have to think, or just not like me…
stone after stone they build this cosy nest they like and in which they’re happy.
In which they think they’re happy until they stand still for just one silly moment and see how empty existence actually is.
This is my constant state of being, this standing still and waiting, searching for my purpose in live, or for something or someone to come along and make me forget I was standing still.
People passing by, so called friends moving on, questions of purpose and destination.
My fantasy shattered by reality and influences.
My cause yet to be found, hope of arrival and confirmation.
Floating on fantasy with no foot on the ground, freak or weirdo ?
Why not to find someone, why be scared of this road, these travels of life ?
Sometimes i think i found it, then my skepticism takes over and winds up being right.
Leaving or being left ?
Is that even possible if you live a life of solitude and madness ?
Alone with your mind and fantasy, still angered by the decisiveness of mankind
the people who appear to have found it surrounding one as higher trees.
Scared of the world, rather comforted by an overly active fantasy and almost schizophrenic mind.
Wanting death as much as wanting to live, a knife that cuts everywhere.
Every impulse is numbed by the mind, everything around becoming to much,
not being able to handle sound, touch or anything else considered to be human.
Sitting in a corner one can consider to be ones mind, the light would be man, the walls you make yourself.
The walls would be the borders of your own imagination, the two walls against your back you could form en change into anything you want.
The others are the things you long for but are not to be influenced, not to be changed or formed.
You gaze upon your two walls, your happy world until someone clicks on the light and reminds you of where u actually are, not where you long to be.
Being left alone is no possibility, neither is chasing around the fantastic images of the mind.
Flying a dragon seems as possible to me as being positioned in this created and sickened world of man.
This dragon of mine listens to me and my problems, instantly giving me this feeling of comfort and taking away the implanted trouble and sorrow.
He has grown up with me, in my loneliness and unwanted life.
I never chose to be who i am or where i am, but he stood by my side along the whole journey.
The things he likes are just flying around with great music…
and me as his companion, we enjoy ourselves very much, the two of us.
But lately it feels as if he has found something better to do, frequently leaving me with my sorrow and trouble, condemned to solve and experience pain.
The pain of sudden light in my eyes and not feeling any walls
