tirsdag den 16. juni 2015

Suicides 1-3

And I shall wear a long dress which will swosh around my legs in the water. I shall fashion a mask made of leather and rubbed in cow fat which I will in time pull close to my face and tighten with straps under my hair. I shall bring a metal chain and walk out on the bridge a clouded summer's day. I shall look out into the horizon and hum a silent melody, sitting down on the edge, putting my feet in the water, feeling the stream caress my calves before putting on my mask and leaning forward. I hope my hair will look beautiful in the silence below.

It is 10.30 in the morning this day as I pedal over the inner city bridge. I am mostly alone in the streets as people are working. The sun is shining hard but this day it does not make my eyes hurt so much. I consider it for a good while, all the way up hill, a little longer than it takes me to get to the middle. I lean my bicycle on the railings, I take off my backpack before climbing up, purposely without looking around, then I swiftly and forcefully throw myself over.

The street by my house often makes me nervous. All those cars between me and the cigarettes and maybe today will be the day I'll not make it. I imagine the blood and brains smeared all over the front window of the car that passes me. The mess. I want to crawl inside your skin and lie there like a dead thing slowly coming back to life.

The essence is walking on the verge, dare open your eyes in dream and continue in spite. No one is making us stay.