it's a kind of torture

we live in the age of distraction
 in the deep ends of knowledge,
 less and less people pay for visits

they think it's all for free, scanning the shallow waters looking for reflections they can retweet

i'm not smitten by this, only bitten
its venom has my veins in a grip and it hurts to sit still, to find a certain peace

to be serene enough for complete absorbtion
it stings me into motion, always hungry for action

i'm an advanced dog and need lots of stimulation

but how come i think so far into the future references that when i read or experience something, the only thing occupying my mind is how i'll tell tall tales about this shit that's happening now, later on?
this is a form of insanity, i'm certain
the need to amaze people has become an illness
and my restless being absorb that channel, the vibrations and those disgusting habits of feeling important.

whenever i read something, all i think about is when, how and if i'll get use for it in future situations. what the fuck is going on.
"remember to remind me about this reference, put it to use, coming across as smart is way more important than actually being .. smart"

fuck the age of reply..

simple scetches of old cliches

freedom; to lose your mind

'alle dokker menneska som ska så mye'

no, you're probably not uninspired. you're just too tired to be creative.

to be the first at something, is to flirt with new species.

space has it, it's yours to fill.

verse verse verse riff
flip
re
pe
at


fold, undo
create
construct
go do
commando

mean meanings, perfect rice

in a world with no epiffanys
blank planets, wet eyes. twist in souls, gumwrappers all over

you made glue out of something, i made nothing out of a lot.

corners are there for a reason

'på skola blir man bare strigla og stappa full av stigma'

still blank? why wonder.

meet and greet me, i am a raging hypocrite.

blown in from the west,
used an empty shell as an entrance

forget about me soon, shallow reflections will carry nothing worth longing for
please place your wishes at another doorstep

no need for change as i see no need for great adventure
just pass me the salt in an effort to make me die faster

relief and release, saw on another button, make the shirt seem fitter than what's hidden underneath
train on fake smiles and bring out the garbage

say to yourself that passing time is like passing out

i'm only here to make you uncomfortable

if i lick my own ear my face looks like a swan, does it not.

toss old toiletpaper in the sink, watch it flow across streams of fresh water. let it sink, soon to embrace an empty future of no relief.
glue yourself together and find a mirror, truth has ceased and salt is no longer salty enough.
i wish for an ability to concentrate
but sorcery is yet not for me
find a coathanger, you're here for the long run
collide the greens with yellow, endig up is the goal.

listen to the same song on repeat, be an exrtaverted inhabitant
the grip is yours to lose,
swimming across vast oceans of scumbags

i imagine a wet ladder to be somewhat close to a distraction

headlines

imagine a world without headlines. it would be like a room with no distractions. no fractions. you would have to consume the entire text before summing it up by yourself, before making your own little headline to remember things by.
i would love to make a newspaper with only good news and no headlines whatsoever. headlines ruined my mind. it has ruined an entire generation.

a picture of the fish that lacks water, my brain being the lake.

I am this close to giving in. Returning myself to the foodchain. To become wormfood.

There's no telling what to believe in anymore, it seems that a burning passion for something only makes you weaker, more prone to depression, more difficult to deal with, harder to understand and keep track of. From this day on, I'll always watch myself from the outside, shut away my passion and enthusiasm, my energy and glow to avoid getting hurt.
At least I'll keep my cool. Wasting away sounds so much better in mute.

No talent, no belief. No feeling of self-worth. Slowly rotting, shedding pounds by cutting ones limbs off. The purpose of it all has just gone clean out of me, broke and broken. Constantly on the way to nowhere. A whole bunch of nothing and an ache that doesn't leave, not for one simple, merciful second. No. All is not well. Havoc. Everything just appears wrong to me. For me. Reduced to cells, we'll not drink the water.

was something i actually published somewhere else, but i noticed that depression does not speak well with outsiders. when you're so far down you feel like you've got nothing to lose, well, you could  try and imagine how much that must hurt.

so sad that the possibility of running away from oneself is not actual. you can't.

i dream of waking up..