(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

3 comments so far

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