Me, myself & Max Martin

Keeping the strangeness of the hours. And recuperating. After a very exhausting, dehydrating and muscle-binding yesterday of pretty delayed but eventually fulfilling entertainment (the latter in an extremely good way, of course) with a very nonsensical bed-time and a strange idea of wanting to get up at an absurd hour of way too early morning (typically me, although it never works, nor does it work out), I ended up with a somewhat lopsided and malfunctioning day routine. It didn't fully recover until late this evening, when I eventually managed to get my head back into place and start working again. That's right. Haven't actually done anything sensible since...Tuesday, must be, so it was probably for the best, but despite the fact that today was spent mostly at the university, going through lectures and enjoying a great lunch hour with some old friends (English gals! Whey!) I still didn't manage to reason properly; meaning, my memory and logic and speech organs just wouldn't cooperate with me - properly - and I couldn't find the appropriate, necessary words for anything. At all. Consequently, me got rather upset about the whole situation, and even more annoyed when it didn't improve, and I tried to heal (and revive) my thus far irresponsive body with massive amounts of black coffee. And, later, cookies. Didn't go too well; I just started getting dizzy and unclear. Not exactly sensible, either. Only thing I could think was...Pink. Strange as it might seem. But, after an intense session of reconvalenescence including forceful curriculum-related reading and following tasks of practising, writing loads of (slightly) non-coherent stuff - even if proving that my fingers could still produce typewritten sentences - plus a great big dosis of post-traumatic stress treatment consisting of Pink Floyd on the stereo (gotta be something contextual), net surfing, phone calls and cooking, I am somehow restored to my normal health. With normal mental functions...functioning. And usual limb capability. Capacity. I think. Words forming (themselves) and making sense. Seemingly. Not quite, no, but I'm getting there. Ever so slowly. Just gotta turn off that Jugband Blues-noise.

"Solidarity in solitude" - for the thieves.
A sort of song, by Scaramouche, the otherwise po(t)et soul, as inspired by recent, on-going, seemingly ever-lasting events. I don't know what they are, what they'll be, what they might become, or where they'll leave me. This is slightly commonplace and just a bit Max Martin-like, which is something I still dread, but I kinda like it. Regardless. Although, etc etc. Got to sing it too, from time to time. And one can't always be so very diffuse. No, I do like it. Really. "Hope you like it too, hihi."

there is no comfort in the truth
nor in never knowing quite for sure
what the morning after brings

there's no sense in understanding
I don't know why I don't give up
why I keep letting it go on

there's no 'always' in forever
nor is there any other way around
never clear who'll come to rescue

there's no meaning in the basic
unorthodox reflections falling short
of the more original and fundamental forms

there aren't any you and me in 'we'
nor is there any dualism in a couple
or amongst the rest that we forget

there's no unision in two-some
nor are there any certainties with 'us'
wherever we may roam, we roam alone

there's nothing so eternal as a flickering flame
nor does movement ever stop becoming static
whoever holds my hand may be my man
whoever holds my hand be my own man
whoever holds my hand might be my man