“Do you always believe in God, or do you only believe in Him when you think you’re going to die? Because if you only believe in Him under those circumstances, perhaps you should let Him concentrate on the people who actually love Him…”

They are not really my words, but sometimes, I just get so frustrated and upset at some people, who only pray to God when they want things, to ask for things, to complain about things. It’s a bit like telling everyone how you really love your grandparents, and how wonderful they are and how happy they make you, but you only call them to complain about how miserable you are and ask them to please send you more money.
Also, people who tell other people that they will burn in Hell just because their opinions differ from someone else’s make me feel sick. (If you believe in Hell, it is slightly better, because then at least believe in what you say, but people who are only using the threat of Hell to convert people or threaten them when they disagree make me feel sick.)

But yes, people praying to God only to ask for favours or kindly ask Him to smite people, but never just once stopping to just say “Well, this day has been nice, and it hasn’t rained even once! Thank you God, it was just what I needed!” just feels very… false. Because if you love someone, you call them just to say hello too, right? Or is God some sort of cosmic grandparent you only ask for money?

It’s four thirty-one ante meridiem, and I am terribly tired, feeling very old and bitter.

People who only believe in God when they are in need doesn’t really care about God. They don’t love God. They just want someone else to sort out their fucking mess for them.

People like that depresses me terribly.

(especially when I would just want to pray myself, and really hope someone actually listens…)

/pao – 26 nov 2009 – 04.36


some music is life; it makes your heart beat faster, makes you breathe harder, makes you want to fight or run or think, change things.. it tells you about life.. about all things that are life, reality, teaches you things..

and then, some music isn’t life.. it is only a dream..
it makes you curl up and sleep and dream and float around in nothingness, not doing anything, not living.. just dreaming, waiting..


the music I listen to right now reminds me more of a dream than life..
I am not sure if dreams are what I need right now..
because dreams are to very little use if they are not used..
and right now, I need life..

but life is almost nowhere to be found right now, surrounded by chilly almost-winter.. life has fled, hidden, fallen asleep..

life is dreaming.


the page is empty..
my paws should write or draw..
but the dreams won’t stick to the paper..

they flow away again.

/pao – 22 nov 2009 – 02.33

(edit: adding a part of a terribly silly and hilarious fake-play I am writing. It was suiting…)

The winter is coming, and I do have to sleep.
And so, I fill the sleep with dreams so that
I will have hope and something to long for;
something to fight and carry on for.
Something to help me not die in my sleep
out of starvation and lack of food for my soul.
The Hambre del Alma is singing with such
a lonely and complaining voice –
like the voice of the winter gales! –
and the starvation of the soul is just as real
as the starvation the rabbits feel
in their burrows.


(the cat that…)

I’m quite sure not everyone has read The Cat That Walked By Himself. Those of you who haven’t done so really should. It is a good story.

A while ago when I woke up, I just had a short poem about the cat in my head, and I wrote it down. It was short and silly, but it was complete with rhymes and everything, which is very uncommon for me.

Well, here is the poem;

I am the cat that walks by himself
and all places are alike to me”
no matter if I am in the forest
in the silently singing tree
no matter if I am on the shore
watching the gently rolling sea
even if you want it of me
there is no other place I would rather be
I have no place left I want to see
“all places are alike to me


Currently I’m not writing much here. My semi-secret language blog is taking some of the time, the rest of the time seems to be spent either on sleeping or being in pain. This monday I’ll get drugs again (my doctor fixed a renewed recipie), and after the nineteenth I will get a card for the trains and busses again, and (hopefully) be able to begin to hang around libraries.
Perhaps, with some luck, I might start to be able to do something useful. Something interesting. Something fun.

Am I just biting after the sun?

I used to do things, not caring much about the outcome. I used to draw things because of the fun of drawing. I used to write things just to get it off my chest. To get it out. And now when I look at it… the drawings were better, but the poetry was horrible.
Silly words and retarded grammar.
But still… it feels a lot more honest.

I am no cat who can walk by itself any more. I wish I was.
I wish I could be, once again. I wish I didn’t have to stay.
I cannot stay. I almost feel like I exist again.

My nose deep in books. Sorting through old poems, old drawings, old memories. My nose deep in old books, new books, books with new and old thoughts. Old diaries. New blogs. New music. The recorder in my paws. Music to call back memories. Music connecting to new thoughts.
Tired, numb and dizzy, yet somehow… I feel strangely alive.
Almost free. Almost happy. Mercifully disconnected.
I haven’t taken the painkillers for about a week now. It’s not that it doesn’t hurt. They just ran out, and I couldn’t be bothered to get new ones. Tomorrow there is psychologist. And then hopefully cinnamon rolls with a friend. If she can show up.
And then when I go out and everything, I will pick up painkillers, send a book to a friend with a very confusing letter, and hopefully not pass out in the scary Outside.

Time passes slowly, slowly, and yet at the same time far too swiftly.
I wish I could be a big, heavy stone; too heavy to get caught up in the whirling river of time; lay safe and steady at the bottom, watching time pass, and dream slow and restful dreams.


I really, really, really…
Am I allowed to exist? For real?
I almost believe that I am. I almost believe that I exist.
When I look at my paw, I cannot see through it.
Not as I used to do.

I am solid. I exist. My heart beats in my chest, and I do draw breath.
I am alive. (Again? Or still?)

There is Pao, sometimes I feel vaguely hopeful for the world.
As long as there are questions, the search goes on.
Searching, searching, my nose deep in books…

/pao – 15 nov 2009 – 23.41



(written 7 sep 2009 15.14.. this is a reference to and an evolved thought from even further back, going home with a friend on a train.. an evolution and a shard of a thought…)

We are all strangers on this train. We all share this darkness in the window, we share this journey. Everyone is looking around without seeing. The young woman in front of me fidgets with her hair. We are all sharing this silence. We are still in the silence, even though we are talking. We are all thinking. I sit there with them. With my hopes and dreams, nightmares and fears. With all my pain.
(I bet you feel pain too.)

I am just like them, even if I’m not. I’m not like them, though still one of them. They excluded me early on, and I could never find my way back.

But we are all strangers on this train. We share the background noises. They, me, us, we. We are all being people. We are all thinking.
We are all being. We are all going somewhere through the night. Home? To friends and family? To work? Away? Perhaps in circles, around and around?
Perhaps nowhere.

Out there in the pale light, in the white light, in the orange light that man made lies the broken metal junk that man made. All the hopes and dreams that man made. All the things that man made to separate himself from nature. All the things man made to protect himself from nature. All the things that man took from nature and forgot where it came from.

Look out there. The light that man made, illuminating the big, concrete houses that man built. Hopes and dreams of a better life, away from the caves that man once found. But the apartments are still apart. Gaping holes in a wall of concrete. Gaping caves in a man-made mountain.
Cityline like the jagged line of a mountain range in the distance.

We are all strangers on this train. We are all strangers to each other. Most of us are perhaps even strangers to themselves.
We share this silence that man made. We share these background noises that man made.
For a moment we hide in the light together, hoping that this train will take us somewhere we want to be. For a moment we hide in the warm light from the darkness outside.

Then the train stops and we leave, all walking in our different directions, once again.



There was something else I meant to say, but it got lost.
I was sad, then I got happy, then I got sad again.

In other words, I am still alive.

/pao – 10 nov 09 – 05.06