mandag den 30. marts 2015

Du du du du du du du du du du du du du du dududududududududu

Jeg vader i cement, der er ettusindogtoogtyve mennesker uden for min dør der stiller krav til mig og skriver mails og beskeder på facebook, de vil alle sammen alt muligt (I don't give a shit), der er aldrig nogen der kan lide dig for den du er - det er selvfølgelig løgn, men jeg er træt af alle mulige kroppe der vil. Så lad mig dog for helvede være i fred, så hold dog op med at eksistere i en radius af 2-20 meter omkring mig. Alting koger, mine ben giver efter under mig, sidder fast. Jeg hverken kan eller . Hold nu op.

 photo GqBUzzA_zps03bvac7f.gif

søndag den 29. marts 2015

"There is a thin semantic line seperating weird and beatiful, and that line is covered in jellyfish."

fredag den 20. marts 2015

We tell stories about ourselves, we make narratives in which we make sense. The most dangerous people I've known were the ones who lived stories of being inherently good. They make things fit.

Call them out on their plot. 

onsdag den 18. marts 2015

Stopper midt i en sætning for at sove, livstrætheden tiltager, feber

Til i morgen klokken 08.00 skal jeg have skrevet et slags abstract, minimum en problemformulering for min eksamensopgave Samtidslitteratur: Depression, men jeg kan ikke. Ha ha ha. Jeg er for deprimeret. Meta, min ven, meta er vejen frem. Jeg er for træt, for syg, for ligeglad for "de ting der plejede at betyde noget for mig gør et ikke længere", bullshit, perspektivet har ændret sig en smule det er alt og jeg tænker oftere og oftere, hvorfor bruge tid på andet end det absolut sublime? Kan dø når som helst, hvad så? Hvad nu?

Approa ching night, in thought, I sit and write 
some son  nets Shake spear e an 

shakesperean sonnets instead of preparing for classes.

× / × / × / × / × / (x4x3) abab cdcd efef
× / × / × / × / × / (x2) gg

To look upon thine face is to stand at the edge of day, the last beams of light beforehand so glorious and plentiful flickering before

the nightfall ever nearer and know fair well that this beauty is at once more excellent than any that was looked upon in full sun and also closer to death approaching. It is not for eyes like mine and yet I must grasp that sight and hold it within my meaty walls of heart or surely go mad. We shall wither, strands of straw and specks of dust but we may look at horizon eternal and smile.

To look upon the disc that is thy face
to stand at edge of waning day

is no thing than to stand at edge of day

to stand at edge 


how touched it is 
 

''last of light
the last of light beforehand glorious.

mandag den 16. marts 2015

Inside Hamlet post-larp depression/high

What happens at Elsinore stays at Elsinore, so I can't tell you much, but it was true, beautful and tragic. Hamlet's mother married his uncle and Ophelia died, I forgot myself for a moment and the world ended.

My character kit: stethoscope, gloves, medicine, stockings, innocence

- Does crying count when it happens after the larp?
- It does.

torsdag den 12. marts 2015

Et lys er gået ud

Terry Pratchett døde i dag. Han har altid stået for mig som et menneske der faktisk ville kunne tillade sig sådan noget, at forlade verden, fordi den er blevet rigere af at han levede.

“No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away...”
- Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man.

Paul Kidby