Common-Sense-Provoking Question of the Day

If some people see rap as poetry, what the hell is normal music then?

In-Between

As for the raindrops waterfalling across the area of the window, I try and think of poetical expressions that would aptly describe them.
It’s as if the sand on the beach across the distance has been partially transported to the nightly-lit glass and made to stick on it, scattering around with reluctant dynamism.
This is poetry at its worst, so let’s move on.
I guess I might just write myself to sleep. An activity which has proven effective in the past, worthy of future honours and appraisals, in need of popularity and practice among the people.
A dark, mysterious sea is looking up from the distant horizon but it is all the same, even beyond the horizon, the sea continues for miles on.
Why should I be interested in it when the window which is merely a meter from me is far richer and has more to offer at present?
Raindrops construct elaborate labyrinths of loops across the window pane and the brilliant red glow from the streetlamps paints them and gives them even more character.
Likewise though, they may be beautiful, uniquely structured and charged with energy but the substance is to be found only if we simultaneously perceive them along with the vast, remote landscape on the horizon and build a ‘hologram’ of late-night conceptualizing; if we read between the lines, in other words.
Take these two seemingly separate views and you have a whole new story to tell because of the newly-acquired, comparative perspective.
Our eyes stretch on the horizon as far as it can take us. Fair enough.
But it is pointless when we have missed out on what the close-by view has to offer us.
It is then that this perceptive equilibrium is achieved and we start to look at the world in 3-D.
Sometimes it is necessary to avoid the extremity of the very distant or the very nearby and settle the score in between.

A Bulgarian song of an eponymous title is presented below, translated by me:

Alarm clocks, smog and taxies
Pointlessly, we waste time…it flies.
Pointlessly, past sin is pressing upon us
Hands full of gifts…scarce ones

With hands incised by metal and stone
Give away what you have…on time
Give away success, give away scorn
That’s your sign. Endless. Dateless.

Don’t wait for explained days
It’s wasteful
Stoop over the tenderness
Don’t breathe it away

Love streets, stars, ideas
Love a woman and be with her
But don’t shine too bright a colour
For tenderness is what’s softly killing us

But never mind, never mind….
Kalin Donkov

In Advance and Doomed...

In addition to me being breathtakingly absurd in my writing style, I can’t find any reason for not continuing that way.
What is disturbing, in some way or another, is the fact that a lot of the times, I’ve always been ahead of the people around me. I am not referring to a Übermensch style superiority, though that’s again, not out of the question, but what is most striking is that this, I dare say, precociousness, is largely due to one single, primary reason.

Advancement of your age, of other’s expectations, is always a rewarding being which has a character of its own and it could play such tricks on you.
Often something that I’ve just been taught in class is serenaded by the sudden realization that it is already comprehended from a long time ago, even though it may be in some form or another. What matters is that even before I’ve read something, I’ve grasped it in a sort of ghostly manner which seems to already have been inbuilt somewhere inside.

Just as equally as being a great writer, Victor Hugo was also a brilliant artist whose ‘automatic’ artworks are at least a century ahead of their time. A good hundred years following their creation, great artists like Pollock and Dali would experiment with this very same kind of art.
This is the type of advancement that I am referring to, and there is no other way to go about it but simply marvel at this ahead-of-its-time innovation attributed to the greatest of historical figures.

I often keep quiet about it, and it’s only through my creative output, that it streams out into the open air of public entrust.
If I didn’t keep quiet, I would probably end up being a very resented person in the extreme case of confiding this thinking with the people surrounding me.
Just like a nihilist would see no purpose to life, a real human being would see no problem with the ‘deadly’ sin of pride and thus stab with ultimate force, pushing deeper into the flesh of confusion, thereby destroying it.
And I guess, consequently, it’s natural to assume that once this flesh which comprises confusion, has decayed into a useless stinker, then you, and humanity in general, is heading for a carelessly calm stroll around the park.
Hands in pockets, bible somewhere in the pond, getting ravaged by ducks; reproductive organ cold and sterile as Batman’s eyes and a flag, torn apart by the last drains of synaptic activity in your nervous system.
Name, erased by a background noise and memory, wiped away by the ridiculousness of history. Worst of all, passion is dissected from all sides and has become a Zeppelin vomiting masses of helium.
Suddenly, the park has turned into a room-temperature desert, and you’re still strolling and quietly whistling under your nose, staring at the floor.
Congratulations, you’ve officially become a last man.

Picture for the Day

'Sunday' by Edward Hopper, 1926