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Thursday, June 29, 2017
the time of 'you': passages, transition
on board of the ferry Helsinki to Travemünde.
sun flooding the deck.
passage on way.
time of transition,
also for me.
next year i stop work.
for years there has been this 'you',
a world of good morning and good night in the internet.
'you' had no space for me,
not in the 'real' world,
a dying dog, a demanding mother, a troubled mind and soul, complaints, problems, worries.
now i catch me still talking to 'you' inside: it is imaginary.
i helped with worries and problems as i could, i could not
unlock your soul and heart.
'you' though real and true stayed without blood,
a person without arms.
and what should grow different because of transition, journeys, a continuation of looking for yourself: there will be always a reason to stay the same. 'you'.
to stir around inside in self and not come with arms open.
i had to leave. sad but free of unrest and no blood running
into a fata morgana, the illusion of water in a desert, sweet for the thirsty pilgrim. repetition of wrong doing and wrong words is destructive, for a 'you' and
a 'me' , and no smiley will
change this.
it will be difficult to not be with 'you' anymore, quiet.
i hear the ship's engine deep rumbling, and my voice will have the same quality, deep in the belly of the whale.
sun flooding the deck.
passage on way.
time of transition,
also for me.
next year i stop work.
for years there has been this 'you',
a world of good morning and good night in the internet.
'you' had no space for me,
not in the 'real' world,
a dying dog, a demanding mother, a troubled mind and soul, complaints, problems, worries.
now i catch me still talking to 'you' inside: it is imaginary.
i helped with worries and problems as i could, i could not
unlock your soul and heart.
'you' though real and true stayed without blood,
a person without arms.
and what should grow different because of transition, journeys, a continuation of looking for yourself: there will be always a reason to stay the same. 'you'.
to stir around inside in self and not come with arms open.
i had to leave. sad but free of unrest and no blood running
into a fata morgana, the illusion of water in a desert, sweet for the thirsty pilgrim. repetition of wrong doing and wrong words is destructive, for a 'you' and
a 'me' , and no smiley will
change this.
it will be difficult to not be with 'you' anymore, quiet.
i hear the ship's engine deep rumbling, and my voice will have the same quality, deep in the belly of the whale.
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