At some point it stopped being my world, I was no longer young and not yet old. The old were strangers, the young disquieting and my peers seemed for the most part occupied elsewhere. There were less and less people to really talk to and I felt extremely isolated, I was learning about loneliness - such a bitter lesson.
On meeting people I usually felt either inferior or superior, very seldom equal and in tune. Life was sad and often pointless. I gravitated from sadness to exultation and back without finding balance or rest. I was reduced to striving for a modicum of physical comfort while mental ease eluded me and despair deluded me. I looked around to see a world I experienced as perverted. And I was part of the perversion. Tit for tat and kings for queens. I was no king and had no queen. I wrote my songs, they meant so little. I looked at life and found it brittle. What health I had left was shattered. What love I had had I lost along the way. I'm nearing forty and I can't find my way home. I have never really been home, I wouldn't recognize it. So late in the day I wonder what my purpose could possibly be. One should be happy against all odds, but I never managed. How can I right the wrongs that chained my existence to the pillar and the post of time ? I need love badly but will seemingly remain unable to receive or give it. And I drink, in order to sleep, but sleep brings no release as in dreams I am confronted again and again with my own superfluousness. And if any hope is left, it is the hope of death, the slumber of the elements. Black surcease, release from failure. But even that is now denied. This is the threadmill of turmoil. There is no way out and there is no way in.
1988
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