Writings from a Nihilist with a Good Imagination

A collection of words inspired by that which can never be named.

Original poetry, prose, thoughts, and songs.

Also: Visual Art, My Collection

Hey folks,

Just wanted to let anyone who’s listening know that I’m probably gonna be deserting this blog for the for the foreseeable future. I didn’t want to delete it because I’ve put a lot of energy into building this collection of words, thoughts, ideas, etc. But I’ve been doing a little spiritual house cleaning and come to the decision to refocus my life more around music, and part of that decision has come to involve the creation of a new blog that will basically be dedicated to my life and experiences in relation to the band Life (which consists of me and my good friends Rob and Surge) and my own solo endeavors which I call mandala eyes. So, if you’re interested at all in continuing to follow what I do with my life and time, I’d be really happy to have you follow my new tumblog over here: http://lifelikevibrations.tumblr.com. Otherwise, farewell for now, take care, enjoy the archives I’ve amassed here, or feel welcome to let me fade peacefully into the background of silence that encompasses you.

Take care,

Sven

2 months ago

This isn’t poetry. Why do I feel so hateful so often? In certain moods or situations, the smallest thing will push me just one tick in the wrong direction and all of a sudden I feel completely cold-hearted, selfish, defensive, unhappy, full of hate and contempt for anything that seems to disagree with me in any slight way. And it’s plenty common for me to hate myself. I don’t beat myself up thinking I’ve performed some action that was horribly wrong; I just find myself in this ungraspable state of confusion and undirected anger and hate, this state I feel unable to understand, and so I start directing the anger and hate at myself for feeling the feeling in the first place. I’ll look at myself with absolute lovelessness, just purely unhappy about everything I am and everything I’m doing, not only because I feel responsible for causing myself this impossible experience, but also because of the stupidly obvious meaninglessness of all that I do and the ridiculousness of my continuing to do it. Why am I trying to live this life, to make it into this or that? Why do I even attempt to conduct beauty or meaning when it could never lead to anything but utter meaninglessness? But over all, I wonder why I feel this hate in the first place, where does it come from, why does it come to me. Why is it so seldom that I succeed in finding any useful outlet for this kind of emotion. And of course, why do I ask these, or any, questions, anyway.

2 months ago - 1

Sometimes I feel like I don’t have
a voice of my own
I owe it all to everyone I have and haven’t met
every cell that makes up my body
Every atom that makes up a molecule
every electron swarming inside the valves
and electrifying my guitar
The whole world is my voice
And I am the voice
of the whole world.

3 months ago - 1

Sleep

You are my beginning and my end
You are my dotted line
You might be my mother or my friend
What do I need this time?
You are the bottom of my ocean
I am the desert sand
You could kindly kil me in one motion
You could take my hand
You could radiate from the center
of a lover’s eye
You might be a flame, you could be gentle
What’ll it be this time?
It’s my lie

This is the beginning and the end
This is all ways
You can build a shelter from the sun
Die in the shade
This is a snake, this is a ladder
Don’t memorize your lines
I think you know they don’t matter
Might as well take the ride
It’s time
Oh my
Oh my my
Don’t be shy
It’s all right
Don’t cry
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes
Shut those eyes

8 months ago - 8

The past is a fiction we create to justify the present.

8 months ago - 17

A book without pages
Amnesiac youth
Graffiti on tombstones
An infinite loop

8 months ago - 8
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

I’ve got stars in my eyes cause I stare at the sun
I try to count ‘em, but I can’t get past one
I see all the lines, they’ve been there all the time
Separating bodies, connecting our minds
And every new day, yeah, it happens the same
The winds may be changing, but I still remain
I’ve got things on my mind, but I don’t have much else
I tend to get lonely when I’m by myself

And it’s seeming like that’s all the time
and all that I see’s just the glare in my eyes
Oh, the light, it breaks
into colors that paint all my sins
And now what was wrong is just a blank page to draw on again

I don’t even have the words to say I’m languageless
My hands and my teeth, they’re all the same to me
It seems like so long I’m curled up on this bed these days
Asleep in the sun, dreaming endlessly

I don’t know I’m the either
I don’t know I am both
I don’t know what’s the most
I don’t know what I don’t know

So when you’re sitting still with me
Underneath this oakwood tree
Gazing at the mountains
instead of climbing up them
You’ll step right through that empty space
you once thought was a door
Your picture won’t be framed anymore

You’re in this script, you’re in this scene
You’re playing out a role with me
Our stage is just infinity
The only place you ever sleep
So sleep, so sleep
But you know the sun might wake you
in the morning



[The audio here is a rough demo, provided as a context for reading and understanding the poetry of the lyrics. It is not a finished/polished product.]

9 months ago - 14

Sometimes, the way you speak, I can feel entire lifetimes in each word.

9 months ago - 15

I’ve been walking in the dead of night
and these superimposed images seem right
I search myself for some kind of truth
and hope my pen fabricates some proof

He’s been talking in the dead of night
Implications galore make me want a knife
I search the girl for something wrong
and keep finding myself

10 months ago - 11
I plan to be forgotten when I’m gone… Siddhartha Falls through the Ice. The cold water envelopes his body. He is in a yeti’s womb. The sensation of needles and ice burns prevents him from asking, “What is the meaning of this?” He cannot think. He can only be. He is a SPIRITUAL POLAR BEAR. His friend Govinda sits by the fire and tells stories to the logs, their only consolation as they burn. He reads to them out of love and pity, so that their lives may be somehow enjoyable or meaningful as they hurry to their deaths. BUT he needs the light of the fire to see the words, needs their warmth so that he may live to tell the tale. While he sits in the orb of light cast by the flames, all else is made DARK by comparison: his sight is limited to the pages on which his stories dwell, and the logs as they burn to ash. He has no inkling as to Siddhartha’s plunge; he is mute beneath the ice, languageless in his inverted rapture. He is a stranger to the wordy worlds Govinda loves so well, because he is inside a story of his own, a story whose only language is pain, whose only punctuation is the pinprick of ice, whose only movement is the struggle toward the surface… … … . .

I plan to be forgotten when I’m gone…

Siddhartha Falls through the Ice. The cold water envelopes his body.
He is in a yeti’s womb.
The sensation of needles and ice burns prevents him from asking, “What is the meaning of this?” He cannot think. He can only be. He is a
SPIRITUAL
POLAR
BEAR.
His friend Govinda sits by the fire and tells stories to the logs, their only consolation as they burn. He reads to them out of love and pity, so that their lives may be somehow enjoyable or meaningful as they hurry to their deaths. BUT he needs the light of the fire to see the words, needs their warmth so that he may live to tell the tale. While he sits in the orb of light cast by the flames, all else is made DARK by comparison: his sight is limited to the pages on which his stories dwell, and the logs as they burn to ash. He has no inkling as to Siddhartha’s plunge; he is mute beneath the ice, languageless in his inverted rapture. He is a stranger to the wordy worlds Govinda loves so well, because he is inside a story of his own, a story whose only language is pain, whose only punctuation is the pinprick of ice, whose only movement is the struggle toward the surface… … … . .

10 months ago - 30

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