Life and death.
Words that we use.
A human life.
And dead body.
A plant, an animal, a creature.
Nature.
Human experience.
Experiencing dying, near death, loss, watching death/dying.
Saving life, killing.
It’s not so precious when you’re suffering constantly, don’t save me!
When I’m trying to survive I need the option to die.
But there’s no “right way to die”.
When it’s your time then you’ll leave.
Maybe that’s the only “right way”.
And maybe I won’t leave the way I would like.
I can only see it as an option which it is.
But I don’t think you should just act in crisis.
That’s not the time.
But it happens, just like other deaths that feel useless.
But it’s a journey that ends.

I’m late but I need to take my time.
Nothing goes smoothly.
Because I’m late and because of needing time.
Time to take it easy today.
Not pressuring myself even though I’m not getting where I want to be.
Trying to accept that…

I want much more.
I want to be at a messy party.
Small black dress, dark smudgy eyelids, stones on my neck, wild hair and face.
I’m not that “it-girl” that everybody follows because of her artsy aesthetic.
Perfectly captured, dusky old scene, old looking places.
Young, skinny, bold, dreamy eyes, stained lips smile.

Playing the right music.
Playing in some apartments with silly unmatched objects inside.
Always “out of it”.
Always seeming unbothered.
Or passionately craving, emotionally unstable.

Am I too late?
Am I too bothered, captured by the grasps of this world?
Too much to untangle…
I can have my moments of freedom.
But to get there I’m too late a lot.
I need time.
But I’m late already, always.

As I am standing by the river there’s a flower. Floating.
Such a dark flower pretty.
One of its kind.
Drops lay down upon its surface.
It is drowning but afloat.
It is dying.

Eventually.
But I’m following it’s journey for today.
For tonight.
As I think about our lives that we have lived. I’m still here but you have crossed.
Over to another river.

But I still see you and feel you, energy coming.
Because those rivers they can cross.
And I’m floating.
Crossing too.
But I’m still here.
Watching.
The river, the flower and feeling.
Pain and agony and love.

And maybe one day there’s a flower growing.
Again.
I will lay my body down and cry.
A new life.
The next kind.
The river reflects the sun.
Alive as a river is a flower so new.
So old and broken.

So sad and so alive, so warm and so wise.
Because of watching and growing.
Drowning and dying.
Floating and crossing.
Forever.
You, me and everything.
Like a running river.
Or sleeping like a flower.
Floating.

💜🪷🥀💧

Trying to block out the pain, the noise, the restlessness.
With love.

Love, compassion and trust.
I have been resentful towards all the struggles.
But what does that bring to anyone or myself?
Although it’s very hard to let go of this feeling.

When I try to live but it’s been so rough and it still feels like that.
And I get distracted all the time from what I really want.
To do, to be, to send out.
I wish it was all over when it keeps not working.

And also because I know all about what it’s been like in the past.
What it felt like.
How I’ve been dead for years.

Because of true suffering and not sleeping.
Not getting myself together.
Not having the right environment.
No peace.

Always fighting.
With a bed.
With noise.
Discomfort.
Pain.
Thoughts.

That brain, it’s torture.
That brain that I tried to **** while feeling dead.

And I close my eyes and say: shhh.
Let me be free.
Or I sing or drink.
I sink into darkness.
Darkness that’s peaceful.

While still fighting.
Knowing about the fight.
It never leaves me fully.
Only when this brain dies.
And I will bring this knowledge to a place where it’s save.
Where I’m save.

Where I’m not dead.
But in love.
In love and free.

Death is always there.
I love you for it.
Show yourself please
so I can be there too.
Maybe I am you.

But you’re better than the beer.
The music that’ll be everywhere.
With you.
And me.
Within.

I cry cause you’re there but I can’t see.
My tears are so useless and blurry.
Over and over.
I will not be able to live.

I can’t love like you.
Like I really want.
Feel it.
In love.
I’m in love with death since I’m not able to live.

Since I’m not really able to love, be in love.
With anything but music and death.
***** and good friends.
But not life, not alive.
I hate it.

And as much I hate life I love death, more and more.
Close my eyes.
I hate being alive.
Still.
Death is always there.

I don’t think I can get through this.
Not another way, time, especially night.
Saw my brain in 1,2,3,4,5.
Saw me in half.
I don’t know.
Call me selfish, break my shell, break my body.
It’s stuck anyway, and it’s been that way since birth.
I know there are ways to set it free.
Many times they don’t work.

You’re not real, are you?
Yet my lips I kept soft, just for you.
The pain of life’s too great.
And we cannot be even if you were for real.
But when you appear into my dreams they are so intensely pure, so good.
You trigger all the good parts deep inside me.

Yet I cannot sing freely when you’re there in person.
It’s too much.
I choke.
In all the feelings and all of those tunes.

You play on your piano.
I forget the world, I try everything to block out everything.
Everything but your tunes.
And your voice.