Introduction.

I nudged quietly into their private lives, mostly bearing grudges. They acted out entire scenes as I stayed hidden in the walls, not knowing if they were impervious to my burning eyes or if one of them knew I was watching, enjoying my stare, purposefully egging my jealousy. As I nurtured my grudges, they nurtured each other, each nursing the others heart, growing over all the cracks, beautiful love that seemed to blossom from the lowest points. I was there first, I was. But tender souls are easily replaceable. To believe there are more stories behind all the fucking facades is just not enough. One has to know it all. One has to go under the surface and everything comes bloody clear. Not to deep, contrarily. Go too deep and it all is empty, remnants of memories, parents, original beliefs and fascination with shit. You can’t tell the upside from the down.

When you're in water, when you're sinking, when you are aware; you don’t know if you're going up or going down. Everything is clear and empty. Stuck in limbo, anticipation to hit the bottom and feel air on your head. When you dig too deep under the surface, you stay floating in a purgatory, haunted by memories that are so far from your own, your foolishly compromised mind does what it can to adapt. The crumbles of a life forgotten embed themselves comfortably in your sunken head. And you are left with an alien Id raping you.

Dig too deep and the mud will fall right back into the hole.

Days and days just float on by, inconspicuously, in a dreaded monotonous format, leaving nothing for the imagination. Everyday the same routine, a daemon would be silly not to have a look around the empty corridors of an unused mind.





(what remains of what was supposed to be the first chapter of my book.)