Words that make no sense, words that have to be obeyed. Fear. Where’s individuality? In the numbers, in the tattoos, in the bold heads that only reflectlonely souls that look no more than for themselves. Love? Maybe just anger. But later when you think more carefully, that anger is only fear. In its pure expression, trying to be expressed. Lonelymusical instruments that play a melancholic song. The soundtrack of life. Chords. Black, spaced and lined Do-Re- Mi’s taking us to Auschwitz. The sound of the metal bicycle chains, mailbox, letters,notification of misery.
Suicidal nation. “I Soothe my conscience now with the thought that it is better for hard words to be on paper than that Mummy should carry them in her heart” someone saidvarious lifes ago. I did. Times change, life does too, hurts but it is the real truth. Blisters on my hands are just because I live, I love. I am. I believe, believed, make believe, trust. Rough.Hopefully these “hard words” creep in any soul or mind. I just want them to dig down and deep in any heart. A heart, what I beg you to have, what I begged THEM to have.