lunes, 7 de noviembre de 2016

Vaepna Lengsel

Indeed, the title of a song by Black Metal band Vreid, spawn of Windir, the longing for weapons (or of weapons... anyway don't take this into account, I don't know Norwegian, I just try to figure it out by myself).

Why so? Beside the fact that I'm getting in darker and moodier music as time goes by... Honestly, I think it's because I sort of counted several strikes this weekend, on several levels. But it's not things that people have done or said to me, it's me counting strikes on life and the way it handles things.

You may expect at a certain age things to roll one way or another, not completely disfavorable if you live in a Western country and belong to the on-the-way-to-extinction middle-class. However, at a certain point in time you say "fuck it, let's bet everything"... and then dear oh life has some thick, dry and splintered wooden dildo to shove thrice in a row, fast enough to leave you wondering what the hell just happened to your beautiful star.
And I insist, it does not even imply that it's bad in itself what happens... just... I don't know... weird, unfair,... that altogether.

Then you get to the next point, you start wondering "did I do right?" "Was this the lever I should not have pulled?" And everything you have ever said, done thought of doing but later dismissed, think you ought to be doing,... about a certain thing/aspect suddenly pops into your mind.
Then you stop (maybe even give a loud cry to your own brain so it takes it easy on you).

Then there is silence... and you try to shake that off... but it sticks like moss on a rock...

I'm so tired of all which I am and was expected to become (not be); of all the shit that's often raining on my roof senslessly, tired of falsehood and doubleplay, tired of having to play the fucking games of lower minds in order to handle their own shitty existences.

This weekend brought the chance to call several strikes on life:
Friday, strike one. It was a bold move, destined to fail, but ended with a second plan. Friday night, double strike after three Newcastle Browns and a conversation with and Englishman on the toilet (in the WC room, you nasty bastards). But those two were hard to handle at first, I though I had gotten the worst part and needed a shot of Jägermeister.
Then I realized it wasn't that much, I didn't even really care for any of them. But still it got the upper hand...
Saturday morning, strike four. And definitely on unexpected grounds. Good things I've got one hell of a team I'd go to hell and back with.
Sunday night, strike five. This one for me was like "Really, dude, really?"

Good thing I've got one amazing brother who can help me sometimes keep my head cool  when I burst in flames cursing life. But as I told him: Fucking games. I hate these games.


I do miss Norway this Summer, the mild rain on the heather, mildly cloudy starry skies while we were drinking, and everything in silence, listenning only to Disturbed's Sound of Silence cover, while lying on the wet, muddy grass wearing Viking Age reenactment clothing. I felt so alive... I still do, but there was something else there, something pure and primal...