I feel old...

So the title refers to a new Wilco song, I suppose, at least that's what I think/want to understand... if you are one of the three or so frequent readers of this blog you should know by now that I'm drunk.


It's not the best song of the album (Art of Almost is) but it's just what got stucked in my head.


So this is again one of those moods I've been into so many times before, so many times everyday but just so fucking tired to share with the keyboard.


You know I know... Iknow I do.


It's that same old pathetic joke (sorry (and forgive me for feeling sorry... and so on))




I thought I was going to write something more "poetic" if you may... but, well yeah maybe i'll try




español por favor:


Siento los años de las letras encima
son pocos, dicen...


Siento el desgaste de las palabras,
el vacío del discurso
el silencio no significante
la nada no poética
la basura del intento
la frustración.


todo eso jodiéndome la vida.
todas las ausencias cayéndome encima...


toda la vida muriéndoseme en los dedos con cada golpe.


sin ningún propósito.






ninguno.

ghosts

the need of feeling something is absurd.
need itself is, 
some might say.


I therefore am absurd.


I want to feel.


so I say to myself I need to feel I'm lonely, cause I think I am (when I'm not).
I'd like to think I'm not this depressing fraudster,
but the voice in my head tells me I am.


It also tells me I want to be saved by doing nothing and that is never going to happen.
cause I like it here.


I like to want something that I don't pursue.
I am beyond self-pity.


I like myself and I hate who I am.
I should stop 
I know this is bullshit
I know
I can't stop, I could but I don't want to.
It's wrong I know, my words are the facade of a ghosts' house


they fill up my chest, my head, my voice.
not friendly ghosts these ones. 
they don't give a damn if I feel or if I want or if I think or if I speak.


they just watch.
that's all it takes
to make me small.


to fade me out.




the voice in my head says it's enough, and the one above it says it wasn't worth it.
that now I really have to stop.

when there's always something there...

to remind me.

and I will never be...
free.

I'm wasted (again). 
And I guess that explains the title of this post and my drunk singing which you my unfortunate reader can not (fortunately) hear.

I wish I could say I'm just on a mission to destroy what's left of me, but I'm really not. I'm just a functional semi-person who

drinks way too much and has to get up to go to work and try to not make a fool of himself and even make an effort because despite everything I still care.

and I try, I do. But I go on and live.

Sometimes I just regret the fact that I do not seem to fit the role of this bad motherfucker who drawns himself into the void.

I really don't know why I care that much...

"I'm just a little person

one person in a sea

of many little people

who are not aware of me..."

I'm just too fucking proud to hate myself.

(I hate it)