Mum, Don’t Read This

Dear Diary,

It’s not easy to do the things you hate. For eight hours a day you don’t exist for money, you hide your ambition and pride to play in the social performance of an employee for money. You don’t need money, but you need money. Yes, it’s bad faith, all those Sartre ideas, but what exactly isn’t bad faith? Was Sartre happy? It’s very privileged to say you don’t need money when a billion people worry about nothing else but tomorrow’s meal. The frustration grows, ambition pushes forward and kills.

I wish I wrote better lines. I wish somebody would read those blogs. I wish I could sing. I wish I stopped pitying myself and I wish it was different.

The moment of pain we recall with a smile. Will my novel get published? I think of bliss. What kind of God takes children away from their parents? Life is unfair, kill yourself or get over it. This isn’t my sentence. I wish it was.

Sketchy, incomplete jottings – that too isn’t main; Goethe. They have their jobs and they wake up in the morning. They have their gods and it gives them hope. They are all depressed and daydream of jumping the bridge but don’t do it, they keep going without belief, they do the things they do because they do them and I envy them.

What is the use of books? So much easier to be a moron. How sublime to be an alcoholic! Does not matter in a hundred years anyway.

I lay on the floor and look at my floor: the mahogany panels, the bits of dog fur, the dust. I listen to songs and talk with my mum and what exactly should I tell her?

i’m sorry.

i try.

what kind of a pathetic creature am i?

i lay in bed

look ahead

and punch the wall

i stay awake

about to break

no sense to it all

heavy tunes

bitter brew

funny clip

poetic bit

Everything has an impact. I know every song of this band. My fingers beat the keyboard with the power of rage, with the hopelessness of a young age, with this social stage. I don’t exist; wishful thinking. Sometimes you dramatise to rid yourself of emotions bereft.

Sing along with the man, imagine myself on the stage, in one of those million looks, with a million people in front of me, but I can’t move.

i had plans for today

they all went away

if there’s a god, he’s a cruel bastard

merciful thou art, take me back to the start

Frustration, meditation, and my four necklaces. They don’t mean anything, nothing does anymore.

What you gonna do? Wait for a revolution? Find a solution? Break the mould to tell the story untold, until you fold and the bold spirit pumps in your blood, hope you don’t get sold, for then you would be trolled, scorned for being controlled, before being itself-

i wanted to cry, but couldn’t squeeze the tears out

still i’ll try, i’ll be knocking about

this shouldn’t be here; soon it’s my birthday

but it doesn’t matter anyway

Published by Dawid Tysowski

[writer]

One thought on “Mum, Don’t Read This

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