There is more to come

There’s more to come where I came from. When hordes of people, and especially the muses and wonders in your very own head, start telling you that there is something totally wrong with you, you have to start taking it serious. I admit that ‘totally’ was not the word they used, but I like drama more than the next one. You will see me do that a lot: exaggerating the point for the sake of the argument.

You might as well not be that insecure child you used to be when you were growing up. Maybe you are a filthy speck on the otherwise spotless world. Maybe you really are a swine amongst gods and this entire soul searching trip you’re on is just a proof, a demonstration of a tasteless, inelegant ignorance. Well today, finally for some mysterious and wonderful reason, I could no longer exclude those possibilities. I was hoping to postpone that finality for some more years, until I was stronger and brighter, but what the hell. I take everything as it comes, so why not this.

My building blocks have been dismantled and shuffled like an old deck. I had been living in a protective fabrication of my wit. Haha. It was so funny while it lasted, but it was even funnier now that I glanced at it in the mirror. It ran like wild horses trying to recapture the magic, but I just made like the wind.

All of this sort of happened over the first 15 minutes of my lunch break, while I walked over to Subway (veggie delight, extra cheese). I mused over it while crossing the streets, doing my pondering/staring at the pavement thing. And it affected me, deeply. But then I saw the perfect smile of the friend I was meeting there, and all those thoughts vanished. I felt like a very little boy again and I loved my muses and wonders more than ever.

And again I had more evidence that this life is nothing more than a charade where most of us try to guess the meaning of meaningless feelings.

The lighter

What a few hollow words can do? I threw them together and ended up here… and it didn’t seem to do anyone any good. It just confused people. It confuses people. Because words spoken, are words lost. And thoughts lost. Soul and sense lost.

I’ve given up so much of my senses that it frightens me at times. But I feel all that much the lighter. Like I’ve thrown off huge piles of excess baggage that were slowing me down. And that’s what it always seems to boil down to. Letting go. Infested with principle and dedications. Crawling and breeding inside me like roaches in a rotting shutter.

How willing and delighted I would be to give you the keys. But these things can not be told or instructed. They have to be lived and experienced. The blanks can only be filled out by what you fail to express in your ways. Or what I fail to mention or stick to my words.

If I let myself be lured into the arrogance of trying to convey the irrevocable, I stare at myself from the other side. I see me as you, looking at me and blaming me, as me, for not being clear on the subject. I feel, being you, that I expected more from you, as in me.

I can only let you down as much as I don’t want to.

The ephemeral makes turbulent love to the eternal

There is something hideously horrid about the whole house.
The long lines of waits;
queuing behind yourself and the last time you lurched around
with the same intent,
the same personal providence.

The heaps of perfectly thoughtful questions at the door.
The rooms that always stay disabled and empty,
no matter how high stuff, that you keep dragging along,
gets stacked in them.

How can you stand it? How can you deal with those halls of things to be tackled any longer?

Wouldn’t it be a true relief to see it all fall apart. To feel it burst.
To close half the doors and ignore most of the open ones left. Or all of them.
To close down ambition altogether.

Things want to be meaningless and open.
Things don’t want to be clear or sizeable. Nor manageable.
Meaning is a spur of the moment commitment. Behind the meaning of meaning lingers the absence of question. Asleep and perfect.
Almost like an absolution of doubts. The more relative state.
A delicate but stern decision on a glorious and vivid and hallow day.
Like an irreversible lever you pull down, amazed at the ease in which it falls.
The lever wants to jump down, it almost flips over all on its own.
Your mere fragment of a thought of moving it plunges it nether.

Dreams of past mistakes follow you around for a while.
With filthy smiles of white teeth.
All teeth. All the time.
The grief of inconsideration or not being considered.
The fear of forgetting lost moments or becoming one.
The pain of not having invested all of your best in those special precious seconds.
The pungent loss. The thievery. Your defilement.
What we wouldn’t do for second chances.
How it leaves us dangling with all the friends of remorse and regret.
And how close friends they could be by another name. From another place.
If only to do it better or close to right the next time over.
As if you will ever divine the long anticipated. There is no chance in hell.

Flutter and flirt with time.
Dive into the essentials of what is happening as it is happening.
The more you are willing to compress and inject in some random space of time, the more mass it will have.
The more body, the longer the memory. The deeper engraved the lines are.
Only depth will flash by once the sparrow gulps you down whole.

Flood your self, your soul and the miracles will lash out at you.
As they have at many before you.
As they keep coming to me, as I invest all of myself,
submerged, seemingly careless and freed from distant wants.

Take it all in with your dry eyes. Wide, crazed and bewildered.
Cut your eyelids if you must, but never again close your eyes or the dreams are sure to fade.
If by now, you feel a slight panic of losing momentum.
Don’t trip. It will last.

If you don’t feel anything, thats fine too.

Soyez le bienvenue

hello,

I am Irsin Kast.
You are most welcome.

These writings are unlimited by the real things that might hold me back when I would talk to you in person. When we would speak in real life.

I found out that I am not a true fan of real life. There is no imagination in real life. And imagination is the thing that keeps me motivated. The awkward things make me comfortable, more than the normal flow. I have no point to make, since I believe there is no point in the classical sense of the word. We interpret things from an angle that has proven itself completely irrelevant.

I am no exception but I acknowledge my futile position and I embrace the beauty of it. The real feelings of life are ‘in between’ life. On the outskirts of reason. Beyond the desires of matter and light. Dwelling these white places is where I feel more alive than elsewhere. You are most welcome to stroll along. But don’t look for content here. There is only white empty space and a hand full of dark dust to take your place.