Delirium I

‘Death, be not proud’

‘Death, be not proud’

‘Death, be not proud’


Drip drip drip drip drip, drops of death fall down from the ceiling. I sit still on my chair, in front of my desk. I keep my door locked. I plan not to get out. I plan to write. Notes from Underground. The ghost of Dostoyevsky smiles. How deep down will you go? I’m a skeptic, sir, and a cynic. I intend to hate humankind from the depths of my being. Want to join me? I try to brainstorm. Bits of my brain fall on the paper and soak it. Brain storm, brain rain. How deep down will you go? How deep down will you DROWN? They said pour your soul out on the paper. I poured my soul out on water. I do not swim, sir. Hello? HELLO? Do you hear me? He said I’m a lot like Sylvia Plath. Should I kill myself? ‘Death, be not proud’… Oh, why shouldn’t it? I do not write about him, my pen stops, my pen drips ink. Closer… closer… closer… Closure. I seek for closure. My friend dresses in pink. Try me, she says, what is wrong with you? God is dead, I say. Oh no, not me, Nietzsche, it was him. I just say that God is overrated. Have you met him? Or is it a her? Why did she call her daddy a bastard, this Sylvia Plath? Why do you read so much? Oh yes, my ex was an atheist. I do not write about him. Closure. My friend is getting married. I keep my journal hidden. Why wouldn’t you come to my wedding, he says. Yah, why wouldn’t you go, she asks. How does it feel, that he’s getting married? I don’t know. I just watched On the Road. I don’t find the book anywhere. Why do you read so much? I don’t know… So that the words can dance around me. ‘Man is condemned to be free’. Do you write poetry, kid? Gee, everything you write becomes poetry. My friend plans not to get out of the house after three years. What do you plan to do? I plan to write till my hand falls off. What would you write? Nothing, perhaps. My pen gets lost in water. My pen sinks.

24 February 2014

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