I am not interested in my own thoughts anymore
The Machine does it for me
I just lie there
contemplating these four flies at the ceiling
one of them is doing a peculiar quadrical dance
fly’s quadrille
never seen anything like that before
not that I care about the flies
not that I care about anything
People!
Trying to press my head into my hands
to consolidate, to close the circle
to calm down those algorythms
Mother
she is there too, in my head
and my lover Judas with Jezebel.
Meaningless lying on the floor in the dark room in the middle of strange Manhattan, far away from home and my roots. Meaningless lying on this mattress in the dark room, under a high ceiling, in the empty air of unknown galaxy, silent universe. If I was living in a village , surrounded by a familiar bunch of villagers, with whom I would wake up at the morning and look at the twinkering stars at evening, listening to the crickets on the little bench during the evening summer, that would be better , I think. But those things are impossible. My voice is dying inside of my mind, somewhere. In my chest. A silent transcription of my demotivated mind. It’s stuffy. The monotonous sound of the air conditioner exemplifies this weirdness and hollowness of my existence. I know, talking about existence is not in the fashion. Lying is in the fashion. And smiling. But the energy in me imploded and I am a dying one. It is so monotonous that I will die and lie in the cementery – what does it change if I say anything or nothing. And the life goes, goes with it’s whole unimportance. The politics. The carriers. The people. Especially the politics. I just can’t get excited anymore. It’s the way I am constructed. I wanted to play a flute and piano when I was a kid, but it was a long time ago. I loved many people and many things. But here, it just feels like nothing belongs to me, nothing, not even my mind. Nothing. I have lost opinion on everything. What is the point of having an opinion, anyway? Somebody will have a contrary one and will cancel yours out. And so on and so on. Everything, my whole surroundings seem so strange and boring. Cannot connect to this furniture, to this food, to anything. Sometimes only a quick hatred erupts, just to make me even more exhausted and disgusted. Days pass, and pass, and pass in irrelevant universe on Upper West Side.
My mother is so middle class and I’m her quirky baby
she holds a calculator on her laps calculating diengi
I tell her that I’m bored and sad
but she is getting angry
and tells me eat your soup cause soup is good
but am not feeling hungry
I ask her what’s the point of life
she says no one knows
and asks me about homework of geometry
she takes me to the kitchen table
to calculate the cone size, but I obviously hate this
I ask her about universe and stars
and then we start to argue
she calls me feeble-minded and I call her prosaic
but suddenly I see the cone comes from the page
and swirls in the air just in front of her
I do love geometry now
but now she thinks I’m crazy
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