23 32

What a fine and dandy morning this is to rush to the bus station at 3:50. AM. The sky is just perfectly balanced between shades of light and darkness. If I could translate this vision in words – no matter what language – I’ll be a poet, although I’ve seen a man who, after writing poems for 15 years couldn’t find a metaphor for the starry night. 

 

A pale replica of the original.

So I’ll stick to listening music and violating the laws of literature -or everything for that matter - in this blog. Although in the last couple of days I wasn’t really inspired with the music I chose it seems that today’s pick fits like a glove to the general mood. The first song – actually an intro – is fittingly entitled “The lights of dawn” and it evolves just as I pick up speed. Then the next song se-saws in my ear, it starts up nicely but by the time the melodic guitar solo crawls out my mind is already away. The title of it is 25 although they got fancy about it and called it a quarter of a century. I’m thinking: only 25, phew, that's nothing, even I lived more than that. I never liked 25 for an age anyway. I much preferred 32 and not because Jesus lived that many years on Earth. I never cared much about him and anyway, no one knows when he was born or in which year he died and whether he even existed for real or not. As I am writing this, a woman sits right next to me, a woman who every morning together with four other shiny happy people discuses about religion at 4 a clock in the morning on this back and forth bouncing night ship. I guess it's never to early for bullshit. I wonder what they would think about this statement.

I was interested in this 32 as an age because of a real God. A man who actually did get to live to this fine age, he even had a party at a coffee shop all by himself-himself. He never lived to see the follow up party at 33; he got run over by a freight train while he was on its way home to cut his wrists. But history granted him the "honour" of a suicide, labelling this train accident as a self inflicted death. Well it was only natural to say that, after all, he wasn't labelled insane for nothing. They changed that verdict posthumously –just like all the recognition, he received this consolation after his death as well, that is really helpful – from insane to BPD, borderline personality disorder.

Do you normal people honestly think that having a borderline disorder is better than being insane? Having an absent father and a hard working mother who either loves you to death or chokes you to death and you can't decide between the two so you altercate unknowingly between them for the whole of your life. You are offended by every bad opinion and always hunger after every good word but you can't cope with appraisal and always search for the hidden reason behind it: what is his game? What does she gain from saying that? I don't know about you but I'll take insanity over this borderline thing anytime, I’d rather chat with Napoleon while being tended by folks all dressed in white and after I'll beat the shit out of Einstein have a solitary party in a rubber room in my favourite straitjacket.

Not that I ever dared to compare myself to this man – well, except the insanity maybe – as he is inimitable. I mean, I opened my arms in a cross shape, hanged my head low like I was looking for something on the ground and there you were, everyone noticed the resemblance to the god of the poor and stupid. I had a long, matted hair as well to make the picture complete and for a couple of months I had a beard too. I would never manage to show any distinctive resemblance to the poet though; even if I would grow a moustache. I don't write poems but the posts I write are nothing like they should be. He's writing was – and is – the standard for me as I do consider him the most gifted man of words ever. There, now you can shake spears at me.

As a child I always thought 32 years would be plenty for me as well to realise my masterpiece. I must admit that now I don't feel the same as I haven't even achieved what should be given de facto at this age: being considered an adult. Not that I crave the acknowledgement but still, I would like to know what is that I lack? What should I do? Talk with gravity about boring daily routines, shake hands with all my body, always brag about every little puny achievement of mine like a new shirt or a serious fart. Treat my wife as shit in front of others then fuck her good for consolation when no one watches? Or even in front of others in this perky 21st century? Act as I know everything, every question and every answer? Having a did it all attitude? Hunting in Africa? Done that! Or was that Found raising for African wild life preservation? Well of course I meant that, what a barbarian is hunting animals in our days? You can hunt real people now in 3D.

Or maybe it's because the hair, the attitude, the music. I'll never forget how, a couple of weeks before my wedding, a woman said that now, with all this fuss about the wedding you'll surely cut your hair. And before I managed to reply she followed up this bright statement by saying that after the wedding I'll be considered a grown man so I must cut it. Naturally I obliged to the rules,...my rules that is, and left my hair as it was, maybe that's when I lost the manhood that marriage gave me. Isn’t that a bitch? Everyone is so sure that this is just a phase, I am going to outgrow this foolishness they say,  even if I am well in my fourth decade and I've already outgrown all my clothes, my childhood ideas, my shoes and even my hometown now. The reason they are so confident: they've all outgrown they foolishness and started breeding like rabbits and forgot everything that doesn't involve making more money. And this confidence, this condescending attitude is the only thing that really annoys me. From time to time someone pops the question: when are you going to leave it all behind, be a grown up? I humbly answer: never. Then they don't say anything but display a smile that makes my blood boil. It's the smile of Napoleon when they warned him not to fuck with Russia. It's the smile of Hitler when they hinted that he shouldn't fuck with Russia. This will be the smile of God when the angels will beg him to leave Russia out on Judgement Day.

Why should I leave it behind? I sure as hell don't feel like it. It's not a question of age, age got nothing to do with it. It doesn't stop me from fullfilling my duties nor it makes me knocking from door to door preaching the one true faith. But let's get back to the song as my mind wondered and I slipped through the whole album - twice - and trough most of London as well. Travelling on the wings of music I might say but only to be in tone with the "forever metal" line from the song. Clichés are dumb but they sure sound nice. It's time to wrap up, possibly with another clische. I may have lived more than 25 years but my own memories strech back just about that much so I should be happy with it; another song about me. Not that it matters, not that anything makes sense at this hour as you may have noticed by now, if not...well...than I'm not a lost case. Enjoy the song!

25 from Diabolus Dei on Vimeo.