Så med den brasklappen tänkte jag ta och lägga upp dom texterna. Jag har en lös idé på att göra en serie av dom men vi får se hur det funkar...
On The Truth
It is just beyond your periferal vision, just over the horizon, behind your yellow spot where your nerves connects to your eye. You can smell it sometimes, taking a long luxuriant sniff early in the morning - cold wet air blowing in from the sea. You can hear it, mumbling from the cracks in plaster of your bedroom wall when your just on the ridge to sleep but not quite done with being awake yet.
Its the most important text you've ever read, yet you don't understand a word of it. That song that you think you heard last night, the best song you've ever heard but now you can't even remember the melody and the text seems locked behind a barrier in your mind. If you could only remember the first few bars of the melody and the whole thing would unravel and unfold. But you can't.
Last night you had a dream. It wasn't spectacular at first, but as it progressed and slipped through your brain from the centre of speech, movement remembrance and childhood memories into the stem of your spine, the high seat of your soul, it made you think, or remember something that you really couldn't handle. You woke up in a fever. You sleepily looked around for a pen and something to write on but found none.
'Shit its three in the morning, I need to sleep - no worry, I'll remember this', you thought to yourself.
And who could forget it? It was the most important thing to remember, it was up there with ideas for world peace, cure for cancer, the memory of that song your now passed away mother used to sing to you as a child. It was, and still is the most pivotal thought that has ever been lodged and then released from your mind.
You wake up and the only thing you can think about is that you don't remember. Its there, the outlines, the fact that you know you thought it through and it was great, its all there, except the thought itself. A lingering memory of something great like the smell of sex in an empty bedroom.
'We all have them', your friends try to reassure you, its like deja vu, a trick of the mind. And for the longest time you try to put that one single thought out of your mind, but it stays. Toying in the back of your brain with memories of faces of relatives you've never met and books that was never written.
Then one day, when the very least of your thoughts are on that idea, you remember. Your brain is working overtime at your job, or your so frustrated with life you want to hurt yourself and others. Or your so alone you can't even think about anything else but human interaction. When your at the end of your rope, the brink of the abyss staring down. Thats when it hits you, thats when the thought comes crawling up like a Nietzschian fairy tale monster and slips into your consciousness.
Nonononononononono, don't break little mind. Sssssshhhhh its allright, its ok. Quiet, hush, don't cry little consciousness. I won't hurt you. Flashback to the years of abuse from your uncle - you don't have one. Sudden memory of the things you did to that cat in the woods behind your house with a stake knife and a pointy stick when you where four - we lived in the city.
Truth comes rumbling in not caring if its your truth or not, for this is not some silly human subjective philosofical truth. Ths is the Truth. There is one, all encompassing, multifacetted and single minded, it is omniscent. One size fits all.
You wake up in a fever, but you don't need that pen and paper. You don't have to worry that you might forget, because this thought will never leave. It will never pass. It is a song stuck in your mind. Kylie Minogue on speed screaming about the horrors that really stalk the world, the snearing faces behind the mask of everyday life. The horrendous brickwall moving slowly with every breath behind the off-white plaster kitchen in your home.
That thing that lies just outside your periferal vision, you shouldn't have turned to stare it down.
That object that was nestled between the sky and the sea in the deep blue of the exact horizon, its here now, you shouldn't have called it.
The thing your yellow spot was made to hide, to keep you sane and functioning, it has slipped from its prison in your eye and now dominates your whole view.
Your boss walks the rows of the office landscape, checking in, just talking, being a pal. Open door policy. Steel grey suit, slim-fit pants to match and a striped royal-blue tie on light blue, white striped, starched shirt. Crisp smile of straightened and bleached teeth.
He doesn't know you can see him, he probably doesn't even know what he is himself.
A beast of Dominance slips through the trenches of anxiety and desperation that is your work place. He whispers hidden threats and pornographic hopes and murderous agendas to those he pass, urging them to work faster lest they would displease him and bring his promises to truth. Suit nothing but a sleek shell, an un-jointed armour of plastic with printed on colour that has no meaning or point. No thought behind the choices of colour except as a camoflage. The crisp smile remains. You blink and try to go back to your sale who is still talking away on the other end of the phone line. Try to ignore the image and hide your knowledge. He turns his head, ever so slowly to stare down the isle, past all others who try to crawl into themselves and their jobs, and straight at you.
He smiles, the plastic armor flexes as he walks towards you between the rows of Ikea-office chairs and low-cost wage slaves. He knows, he knows, he knows that you know. He is half way here. Run.
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