A place for a


I wish I could feel my pain

When you just want to cry and hope let go one day, but your nervous system, even after all those years, is still on high alert, and you can’t even start to allow yourself to feel … and you realize you are lightyears away from healing … and too far away from it to even allow yourself to feel the devastation about how far away from it you are.

And you see life pass you by, seeing all the things you could have, could enjoy, could love. And you see that you cannot stop time. That you cannot take a time out until you’re fixed and then jump right back in. That you are forced to watch as life passes you by, and forced to listen to people telling you “well why don’t you go participate”, but you know that even if you did force yourself to participate, you would feel nothing. It would be as if a deaf person listened to Procol Harum [insert any other music that snobs think is great].

And not only do you see life pass you by. You sit on a lifetime of lost joy and pain that you cannot process. And it only keeps stacking up and getting worse. To the point that you do not even dare to admit that joy exists anymore, because it would drive you insane.

And just as you sit there and contemplate these things and feel the ever so slight hint of acceptance creeping into the moment, the inner watchdog shouts out loud and throws you back into unconsciousness, non-existence, into your nervous system’s routine of suppressing you and pretending you don’t exist.

And then you appear careless and aloof. As if nothing fazes you. But it’s not you who appears so, then. It’s that nervous system. Your nervous system is aloof and careless. Because the nervous system has learned that it mustn’t be anything more than that. So everything that is more than that, the nervous system denies.

And here the nervous system concludes the post with a cruel “Fuck life”, with another involuntary rejection of all that is desired, while the half-dead, half-alive self that mustn’t exist, doesn’t exist, can’t exist, silently weeps for half a second in the background, before it gets shut down and forgotten by the nervous system – like so many times before.


Music for the end of the world

I sit in my little flat mired with waste and look outside the window. Dark clouds block out almost all sunlight. Demons chase through streets, devouring souls and tearing bodies apart; it happens before my eyes. The dark god of this world puts on a show for me. How does it feel to be the last living person in a dead world? It feels peaceful, inevitable. From nothingness we came and into nothingness we return. A mild sorrow fills my heart as the planet approaches a black hole in the sky. I look forward to being consumed by it. I look forward to my annihilation.

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I do want to live

Two years ago I almost died in the mountains. Yet I was too estranged from myself to learn the real lesson behind it. I was keen on going through pain to be a man. The more it hurt, the better. I felt ashamed, when my body almost collapsed under the stress, when my limbs jittered and my soul cried out.

I thought my body’s outcry was a sign of inadequacy. A real man would not even grunt in the face of death.

All the while I missed the real lesson of pain and why it makes men. It is not the abyss that is a man’s home. It is the abyss that a man crosses to reach home.

Otherwise, all pain is just a prelude to even more pain and the body shuts down in protest. It righteously asks: What for? Why are you torturing me? What have I done? What will I gain?

It is not a man who is not challenged or terrified by anything. It is a man who learned that some things deserve being terrified of. The lesson of pain is not a heightened sense of pride. It is humility, for you know the pain could have crushed you and all you love, if not for a coincidence. If not for god’s will, so to speak.

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James Bond: Spectre and Hollywood’s denial of death

I watched James Bond: Spectre yesterday. The intro was lovely, a nice tribute to death, madness and fear. It reminded me of my psychedelic trips a bit, with the tentacles and arrangements of eyes. Quite intense. The song in the intro unfortunately was very weird and seemed to lack the typical Bond chords. Probably an overly eager wish to innovate. Well, so what.

About a week back, I saw the movie 13 Assassins, which left me mesmerized. So did the movie Ghost Dog. Both share one commonality: They look forward to death, each in his own way. Samurai Shinzaemon in 13 Assassins smiles in existential joy as the cruel result of torture of the corrupt lord Naritsugu is revealed. He in no way fears death; quite the opposite: He is glad to finally face an opportunity to die honorably, in the battle against a worthy monster. This is not accompanied by orchestral soundtracks, no, it is just laid out as what it is. The honest warrior likes his enemy, because he needs him. Despising the enemy is to despise fighting itself.

A kind of maturity that can not be expected from Hollywood.

James Bond Spectre is not a bad film per se. It is actually quite fun. But I will use it as an example of a pattern that I notice in Hollywood. It is the crude reliance on the audience’s ingrained fear and alienation from death. This creates dread and puts the viewer into a mode of dissociation, waiting for the terror to stop, yearning for that final release when the evil boss is killed. There is no room for the hero to fail; it would be emotionally unacceptable for the audience.

The self-pity and alienation from death is only underscored by the orchestral score of today’s movies, as it is in the score of James Bond: Spectre. Whenever the hero is in danger, sad music makes sure that you understand that death is shameful and unacceptable. As is failure.

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Carl Gustav Jung on Christianity

Today, I took a first look at the magnificent Red Book by psychologist Carl Gustav Jung. In an introduction to his person, I found myself astonished by a description of his childhood experience with the church. It reflects my own feelings and intuitions about Christianity to a frightening degree.

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Lonely alps: How I almost died in the mountains – Part 2

Standing on the ledge above the abyss and contemplating the frightening jump over to a path that is quite possibly a dead-end, I realize that I am losing control over my limbs. The sudden rain, the cold and the deepening darkness immerse my adventurous ego in nonbelief. My rational mind protests – claiming to be worthy of adventure – while my emotions embark to a place of panic. I feel lost and pathetically alone. Yet I can not tell whether my impending death has destroyed my happiness or simply a pretense over a sentiment I had been carrying for a long while.

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Lonely alps: How I almost died in the mountains – Part 1

Three hours of exhaustive ascent. I stand tall and erect, my breast protruded and head held high in pride; my head is shaven and with a jeans, jeans jacket and a simple shirt underneath I arrogantly claim the rule of the world. I look down from the Montscheinspitze, a summit of the Karwendel range in Austria, three thousand feet above the place where I kicked off. The sun lingers 2 remaining hours high above the comb of the surrounding mountains and, supported by a slightest fog, strikes light rays down into the valley.

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