On Turku

in a club resting within a city built in between seven hills a man takes all the space possible to spread the range of his drunken dance, holding a bottle of hoegaarden in one hand as not a soul minds the spills on the wooden floor. while filtering the pounding waves into moving my body our eyes keep on meeting. in the past hours I've already come to realize that what we have and others tonight are ignorant about is an embodied acceptance of who and what we are.

we are not afraid to call a spade a spade.

his weird mix of vulnerability and passionate embracing of everything and everyone creates a wave of confusion around, making teeth grind in the darkness. capricious and placid at the same time he possesses a skinny and tall figure made real through years of submitting to the strains brought by celebrating the end of the world. the summer of death goes on forever he promises, and I laugh.

in the morning sun five people lay on a huge couch, with two of us still in some barely awaken state. having tried to wrap my stoned mind around a stereotype, an archetype, a type of a being with poor success, I'm left to enjoy the silence as my right hand dances together with the hand of his. I know there must be something with us old alcoholics and our sense of touch. maybe it's the violence we've done to the perception of our senses, which provides respect towards them arising from that very abuse. or maybe it's the understanding we've picked up from all dear tied to post punk.

the hands go on their respectful ways all morning, embracing me with a feel of how I am on the outside as everything inside is lucid and blissful in all its meaninglessness. we are here, we are nowhere, as marked by the symbol of eternity.

an open heart is too precious and rare to corrupt, having its dominion mastered by a number of us who have what it takes to marry king alcohol. no apologies, no reason, no assumptions, and so we create reality moment by moment in respect to honesty, knowing that only our consciousnesses produce meaning and thus can also decide not to.

nothing is inherent.

later I return to the city of hell in a weary state, having a forest whisper a triple digit which speaks in behalf of discernment of the spirits, both good and evil. that whisper rings true as the people begin rolling into the city center around one am just because f-land won the ice hockey world championship.

for a reason based on pure and simple bullshit the masses go on spreading mayhem in the form of piss, fireworks, spilled drinks, screams, car horns and their drunken hideous bodies. as the nation and its priorities are spat on my face my hands long for a day when the majority of us has realized their capabilities in reality creation fully. with my deer-like tired eyes I hold my open wound of a heart on a plate, and as always, it lures out the true nature of others.

in vino veritas, motherfucker.