Sonntag, 9. August 2009

Failing through the Day

The fog is lifting.

Where is it, where is it, I can't see.
Where was it, I cannot hide inbetween.

Dropped a stone in my foot, threw a glas on the floor,
cut a hole in my knee, I am an accident.

My prismatic hyperfocus, seeing everthing at once, but nor really.

In the fog.

Fog you.

Waiting for the end. The endless finish. To start over again. Waiting for the end.

Eyes never open, ears never closed,
heart never hoping, mind overdosed.

Emo-poetry pouring out of the fog, the cure: emo-therapy.
Medications?

Me-dick-tations?

Me?

To understand the blur is to see it, which no one can, that would make the blur clear, cancel it.

So one can understand the blur.

No one can see it.

Only the ones in the fog. Who see nothing else.

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