Day and guts and ghosts

Flygohr
Flygohr
Oct 22 · 2 min read
Old self portrait

Someone said that this is not my day.
Not even my week. Or my month. My year.
Someone said that this is not even my fucking life.
It’s nice to wake up in the rain, knowing you’re alone in the world.
It is wonderful to get off a train and know, for sure, that nobody is waiting for you.

Like when you realize that there’s no place in your head to think, that it’s all full of shit that you can’t move anymore.
Someone else said that we are too much to love each other, that two cannibals will always end up tearing each other apart.
It’s so easy, to fall down.

And look, it’s so full of shit here that I even need to borrow sentences from the outside.
It’s raining, outside. And it will never stop.
It’s raining crap, it’s raining unknown people, it’s raining bullshit.
And we, who will end up killing ourselves.
And here I am, it’s still me.
The thankless flea that has now entered your head and will remain with us forever. Who is not afraid of being forgotten, because he knows you will not make it.

And again, it’s easy.

It’s nice to stand in this rain. Without an umbrella. To feel every drop slip through your hair, and to shudder as it falls down your back. The badly written book. That you should have left on the shelf, which you should never have opened.
It’s nice in here, there’s all that mess and all those words and even cigarettes and dreams. Nothing is missing.
The person you can’t fall in love with.
Maybe I meant the one you shouldn’t fall in love with.

The person that falls and rises again, anyways. He steals, screeches, throws stones in order to see the splashes.
You know, when you notice the distraction it’s too late. It has always been, and always will be, too late. They say this too.
The bitter tears of those who know what it means to jump, the blood of the wounded rains and there are also the dead out there.

And we have ghosts, I know. And I also know that I will be one of them.
But the certainty is so sad. Not satisfying.
But how beautiful the doubt, which instead tortures you to orgasm and then again. Terrible pleasure, guts inside out.

Flygohr

Written by

Male, 24, Italy. Freelance comic book artist and illustrator. Unapologetic troublemaker. Extreme coffee evangelist. Superhero.

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