a place so dark

It’s a place so dark you can’t see with your eyes wide open

It’s a place so far in you can’t feel with groping fingers

A private, secret city of lost thoughts that sink deeper

Each day into the growing darkness as it trickles further below

They turn black, like sea-bed corals where the sun don’t shine

So that when they will rise I won’t know it’s them

Just a cold uncomfortable shadow out of the inner metropolis I avoid

Twist yourself out of their grip; it helps them grip tighter

Enclose you with what you enclose within

Because the walls of a bottle of poison will melt someday

I know that

Yet I cannot pour it out

The black liquid is too far in to touch with the fingers

Too dark to see in the darkness

And I don’t know what I’m dealing with

Although all along I know it’s just me

But maybe that’s exactly why it’s like that

A universe without infinite inner corners is too short

But sometimes they make me feel

The whole business has been too much hard work

Too much hard work to set up this

This Nothing.




I have seen

Even if you believe you are right, you are broken in ways you don’t know

You need fixing, but if I were to tell you so

You’d get mad at me and think I need fixing

I don’t deny

Everyone’s broken in many ways, some of them know they have a loose bolt or two

But they can never imagine how broken they really are

How many chipped edges and flat tires and dying engines they carry within

That they deny such diseases is part of the disease

I have seen; I know.


It’s an ecosystem — they always fascinate me.

Faults that need company to be conspicuous

For the individual will always believe

It’s someone else who needs fixing

Each cell knows with heart and soul the surrounding eight are in disrepair

The species knows — without each individual knowing —

The community is one big pile of junk

The repairmen need fixing, they are the most irreparable part,

And so on.


But wait, the species knows the perfect cure for this dangerous situation:

Put your tools back in your pockets, men

Let’s pretend everyone’s fixed

Incompatibilities will henceforth mean that we’re just different

Let’s put back the tools and make merry

And no one’s to say a word about this again.


The Walls

Sometimes it feels good to feel so useless.

Not this time.

There are shimmering, transparent walls in each group of over two. I can see them clearly, like in school. Those who deny the existence of such a thing are the ones most active in maintaining its existence. They won’t listen, they won’t see, they don’t want to know or question or change these beautiful walls rippling between every two persons, like a heat haze on an asphalt road in midday, but much more difficult to see, for they exist not in the stimuli of the eye, but in their interpreter, the mind.

I know you are steadily losing any idea you might have started to have as to what I’m talking about. Tell you what, gather five associates (you can call them friends if you want — I’m not sure what the word means) and talk. If you cannot feel the walls, you are like the rest of the people. Like all the ones in the world who build the rippling walls amongst sunny conversation and never know they are there.

What defines these walls? Well, they are selectively permeable. They let the more common atoms pass and block the more personal, different, unique ones. They slice a conversing group into pretty little islands of being, whence three words make it to the other islands and three hundred rot on the solitary sands. That is their only characteristic, their only definition, their only symptom, their only mark, their only property, their only effect.

Next time you see groups of many, keep an eye out.