Life is only in writing. It wasn´t that what I had hoped or wished but it was that what I had to accept after long years of trying other ways and making experiences in real life. There was nothing outside my papers and pencil. And I had so strong hoped it.
Sitting in a café. There were lots of people, for them life was something real something what happened every day without thinking or planning, it was there glued on their bodies or maybe souls or thoughts I don´t know. I see them talking, I see them acting, planning the next days, finding together, separating, loving, hating. It was a lot I saw, the world offered them the complete palette of life and they took it, didn´t see a problem or thinking that it´s a happening, a wonder, something extraordinary.
There is life inside my head, there is reality and lots of stories but now I fear phantasie and imagination killed reality. There must have been a circle around me nobody wanted to enter, it keeps the distance and separates me from the world all the others live in.
Hey world where are you, is there a chance for me, too, to enter? I´m waiting for a wonder, but never will it happen. I´m waiting, not exactly knowing what for. Life is boring, life kills you when you cannot enter it, when you havn´t the capability to jump in. I´ve tried to enter, by hard I swear, I´ve tried to get in contact but life threw me back, didn´t want me. Is there something strange on me, why is it impossible for me to live in reality like all the others, like nearly the whole world? I hate it to be fixed to live only on a piece of paper, only when I have a pen in my fingers, writing with blood from my failure in life, the pain grows because writing separates you even more.
She was found in a little room at a hotel one morning. Dead. She had killed herself. The few persons who knew her where looking for some explaining paper, because they remember her writing about nearly everything. But there was nothing, not a single hint why she wasn´t able to live any more. She had entered life through the completely unknown door of death.
Sitting in a café. There were lots of people, for them life was something real something what happened every day without thinking or planning, it was there glued on their bodies or maybe souls or thoughts I don´t know. I see them talking, I see them acting, planning the next days, finding together, separating, loving, hating. It was a lot I saw, the world offered them the complete palette of life and they took it, didn´t see a problem or thinking that it´s a happening, a wonder, something extraordinary.
There is life inside my head, there is reality and lots of stories but now I fear phantasie and imagination killed reality. There must have been a circle around me nobody wanted to enter, it keeps the distance and separates me from the world all the others live in.
Hey world where are you, is there a chance for me, too, to enter? I´m waiting for a wonder, but never will it happen. I´m waiting, not exactly knowing what for. Life is boring, life kills you when you cannot enter it, when you havn´t the capability to jump in. I´ve tried to enter, by hard I swear, I´ve tried to get in contact but life threw me back, didn´t want me. Is there something strange on me, why is it impossible for me to live in reality like all the others, like nearly the whole world? I hate it to be fixed to live only on a piece of paper, only when I have a pen in my fingers, writing with blood from my failure in life, the pain grows because writing separates you even more.
She was found in a little room at a hotel one morning. Dead. She had killed herself. The few persons who knew her where looking for some explaining paper, because they remember her writing about nearly everything. But there was nothing, not a single hint why she wasn´t able to live any more. She had entered life through the completely unknown door of death.
Eingestellt von inga Am/um
00:52
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