Into the Sea · nothing makes sense
I don’t care who you are, I don’t care what you do for a living. I generally don’t give a flying fuck about you. If you intend to talk to me you’re going to have to come up with something more interesting than ‘So … what do you do?’ or the ever ubiquitous appearance of ‘What music do you like?’
Yes, sure, questions of that sort can get a conversation started, but — Jesus, man. I don’t need a fucking complete biography to talk to you and you don’t need one from me either. Let’s just goddamn talk. We’ll find out shit about each other as we go along. Where’s the adventurer’s spirit in asking questions and getting answers?
Questions and answers is not what it’s about at all. It’s about how you get to the answers. The shortest distance from A to B is a straight line. No one likes a straight line when you can have a swerving pendulum rocking back and forth like a spirograph creating fractal patterns and meticulously drawn out spirals converging on a center point that makes us feel like we’re falling into the abyss of a moment.
Oh, so you didn’t actually want to have a conversation? You were just chewing the fat while waiting for someone you actually know to pass by? Fuck you. You attempt to come off as personable but you are in fact stealing my goddamn time. I’d rather sit here alone being a deaf-mute than pass idle chatter around like a bacteria-infected bong filled with the headless musings and mewlings of the desperately insecure.
What I do? I’m a rocket scientist and I like music that comes hurtling out of speakers at supersonic speed with the hertz rate of barbed wire — the kind that reduces your ears to flabby appendages made from rotting minced meat.
I’ve forgotten to take my pills these last two days. I understand now to what degree they suppress my moods and thoughts — both the good and the bad. Mostly the bad.
I am filled with anger and resentment and a strong feeling of having been surrendered by my friends. Maybe it was too much to ask of them in the first place. Maybe André was right; we’re not friends, just acquaintances. Like ships passing in the night we’re all headed for our own destinations — sometimes our headings intersect but in the end we all sail our own sea.
Oslo is a concrete wasteland filled with watering holes poisoned with alcohol and relationships that will never be more than a passing fancy. Is there anything left for me there? A job and some friends. A job I find dull and droll. Friends I never talk to.
I only ever saw them when it was time for drinking. They repeat the same jokes, the same quotes, the same stories. Regurgitating life in an attempt to seem substantial, but they are empty shells denying the humdrum of their urban sprawl.
It’s always the same chewing of fat going on. Filling the silence with every minutiae they can think of to avoid sitting there in the gloomy light of a run-down club and for a split second realize the inanity of their interaction and how little they feel comfortable with just existing in one place, together.
Why? Is it all an attempt at escaping real life? The realization that our lives boil down to one part work, one part sleep and an unhealthy dose of getting our minds constantly fucked by ourselves and everyone we come in contact with.
So that’s why we’re here. To eat, sleep, drink, fuck and work for the rest of our lives? This fucking incessant need to always be on the move, always have a purpose — no matter how insignificant or small we are in the big picture.
I pray to a God whom I do not know. It's unclear to me now — is he friend or foe?
I have fallen from grace with that God up above; I’ve lied and I’ve cheated, I’ve never known love.
He came for me once but the grapevine had burned. None would sing for a quiet young bird.
I walked away from that mess — I thought I was free — and that only this God knew my destiny.
And I lobby for heaven day in and day out. But I remain rejected and I’m filled with doubt.
Life isn’t a Great Adventure. It’s a series of random events based on an infinite number of random actions taken by over six billion random humans hurtling through space. Sometimes these actions converge en masse and before you know it there’s a war going on.
The back of her head was a mess. It looked the way dead bodies’ heads look like when they’re dragged out of the ocean in the movies; patches of skin uncovered among raggedy, brown hair. She was making a fuzz over the bottle depositor being full and beeping, quietly harassing the cashier, who was busy scanning groceries. Her two cohorts were hunched over, supporting themselves on the edge of the conveyor belt. Resigned and coming down.
As I was waiting for the cashier to finish scanning my groceries, I caught the tail-end of a heated verbal exchange between the cashier and some guy who had some kind of axe to grind. I don’t know what the rub was, but he was behaving in such a manner that the cashier ended up scolding him.
All the people usually preoccupied with keeping their eyes from meeting someone else’s took notice. There’s nothing like heated discourse between strangers to unite people who’d usually just mind their own business, avoiding glances, going about their day; whatever that entails.
The guy in front of me was busy bagging his groceries, but couldn’t resist muttering
‘Damn foreigners, oughta go back to Pakistan’ under his breath. He was an older man from the north. Indignated, the Persian turned his attention to the old man, serving him a flustered lecture in geography and ethnicity.
I considered raising my voice, telling them both to go fuck themselves. It occured to me that they were bickering children, both ignorant and stupid.
‘Let’s just settle this right now; you’re picking a fight with an underpaid, overworked cashier — as for you… you’re a racist. Luckily, you might find respite in the fact that you’re both idiots.’ I never got that far.
They exchanged words for a few minutes before everything petered out and everyone went back to pretending they were alone in the store.