Cubicle of Existence

The Dying Rat

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 16:03:00 +0000

Das neue Jahr hat begonnen, aber nichts neues scheint gut zu sein. Wenn man sich nicht mehr da befindet, wo alles begann, dann ist man die Stufen heruntergefallen. Verfolgt von hungrigen Katzen, Geister die dein Innersters aufreissen.

Das Innerste ist schon zerrissen. Aber draußen möchte man nicht sein. Selbstverfremdung zum Schutz des Daseins. Braucht man eine Berechtigung? Braucht man eine Berechtigung um sich zu verstecken, um kaputt zu sein?

Mann hat sich selbst vergiftet, lächelt nur noch Illusionen. Da findet man sein Frieden, da hat man nicht verloren.

Blackwell

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 16:38:00 +0000

The features on his face are blank,
And his memory defines moments,
With lies that are no more frank
Than purely invented monuments.
In the chaos within.

In his purpose he tries to find meaning,
To waltz in dust and continue reaching.
Fervent for construct or crowning mold,
The chaos and darkness to hold;
The Blackwell of his soul.

He clouds himself in unreal happiness.
Then a gallant rider he is to the eyes!
In truth he swims in utter madness,
Featureless in his impenetrable disguise!

He tries to see himself in the future
As a harbinger of light.
But he keeps forgetting to nurture
All that is in his might.
In Chaos
Souls Respite.

Asleep

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 07:56:00 +0000

drown yourself.
immerse yourself deep
into this life that is but a dream.
even the gods are afraid of our coming,
that is why they have kept us asleep.

my next mistake.

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 11:04:00 +0000

there is a sickness inside of me. a silence creeping up. there is no use to praying. the hollow inside of me is just too big. death would be becoming. but no option.

the future seems blank. there is no way of looking forward. when i try to see the future all i see is blackness, a black mist. there are no options, no opportunities. besides, well, maybe slavery.
looks like the emptiness inside of me will never get filled. it will be empty for all eternity. every time i breath a bit more comes out. the hole gets bigger and bigger.

the ceiling looks so beautiful in its whiteness. you stare at it and peace overcomes you.
but you cant do it for ever.

my tired eyes can no longer see forward.
my tired nose can no longer breath.
my ears keep hearing paradise,
always a step away.

what is my prison? is it the world i'm in? is it the reality i'm not sure of? the room that confines me? is it my body out of which i can't get out?
is it my brain that controls everything?
is it my brain that controls everything?

which is my prison? which holds my existence. where do i stand. where is my next step. where to will my next thoughts stray, my next deed, my next action, my next mistake.

my next mistake.

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 23:15:00 +0000

The Moth


The moth flaps its wings silently,
trapped in a densely filled train
to no-where.
Densely filled with air
and one-two obeying minds.

It flaps silently on and on,
against shut windows and locked doors,
against the fake suns in the ceiling.

Trapped, being observed serenely
through sad eyes.

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 23:28:00 +0000

It's when you walk through the night, reading a book, philosophizing, listening to the sounds in your ear that thoughts rain down like ashes heavy as a rock, tempting you to write down whatever thoughts pass through your mind. the bliss of sudden poetic enlightenment.

Reading Jack Kerouac as the night dies and the city glimmers with hope. Hope of a better future forgotten in the hands of those who create it. The music drumming in my ears as I walk down forgotten alleys praying not to be discovered by cannibalistic tourists devouring everything in their way. Hopeful but pessimistic. The cig is out, the book hanging over my arm. I'm on my way. Some day I will know eternal bliss, the beauty of the void.

The day dawns in its lazy slowness. Drunkards around me trying to find their way home. Home is where your heart is, they say. But you got to find your heart first. And that ain't easy.
Waiting for the bus now. Waiting for the drunken pranksters, the rich bitches in their Gucci dresses and Italian boots. Following the very paths society tells them to. I philosophy against it, but in my core am the very same. Brainwashed to take part in this dying machine. Despising myself for taking part in this soulless, self-destructive way of life where happiness is always a coins' throw away. At least I realize it.

I hope you'll have a good day.

Berlin, May 31st, 2008

Trainstation Graffiti

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 16:00:00 +0000

Trainstation Graffiti, originally uploaded by velvetplains.

Remote on His Lap

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 11:57:00 +0000

Remote on His Lap,
Light Flickering in a Rap.
Hypnotized and Brainwashed,
The world is Askew.
Believing all they say, In a way
His Happiness is Fake

He Lives Life in a Day,
Without even Dreaming of Perceiving
The Truth Behind the Veil.
His Reality's a Baby's Smile with Malicious Intent,
As Fake as it Gets!

The Box Feeds Him,
And He Obeys.
He Is Just Another One Of Us.

Dead Flag Blues

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Fri, 28 Dec 2007 17:25:00 +0000

Today I sought inspiration somewhere else. In the music of Godspeed You! Black Emperor. In my opinion, the best band ever to have existed.

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Fri, 21 Dec 2007 18:09:00 +0000

I could walk through the night for hours; it lied peacefully in my heart. I could smell its beauty, taste its wonderful scent; I could feel it in its wholeness. At times my thoughts would stray, and I’d start thinking, wouldn’t it be great to be a vampire, a creature of the night, one that truly appreciates nights’ beauty? But, does he really have a choice? Can he choose the world he wants to live in? The empty streets, the peaceful darkness, the gloomy yellow streetlights, the time of sleep; when everyone can truly be who he wants to be?

Who am I? I hate this question. When you meet someone new, and you start being interrogated, as if you were a criminal. What if I told you I didn’t know? What if I told I had no story to tell? Would you be disappointed? I’m sorry, but I don’t dream, I don’t make up stories, I live reality. A reality that doesn’t exist.

I’m a musician, and my instrument is time. I’m a poet, and my words pray silence.

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 09:37:00 +0000

Thought I should get back to writing. My mind is in a desperate need of some practice. I have been away searching for different realities for far too long now, swimming in the eternal world of ones and zeros. It's time for the simple process of imagination to take place in my own mind again. But I don't think my mind is just ready for such a challenge yet. I've started looking at my old notes again, and a solution came to my mind, what better way to start practicing, than by trying to continue something started long ago? So I've decided to post what I already have of Maelström, and to continue what I once was so proud of writing. It'll be coming in in parts, everyday something new. A good way for me to come to terms with my self again maybe? We will see.

Maelström

It was a wonderful night. It could have been better. Smoke was filling his room, and a [beautiful] full moon shone through the window. There was no need for further words. She had given her everything, given her best.

He was everything and nothing, the whole gamut of human emotion. He was frail and fungible, a fallen hero foreseeing his own demise. His sepulcher was his heart.

He was a deist, the demigod of his own universe. He was a hopeless millenarian, a nihilist, a walking paradox. His own nemesis.

He loved the night. And it unraveled him.

Fúria

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Sun, 12 Aug 2007 14:44:00 +0000

As folhas estão caindo.
No começo lentamente ,
como se estivessem
suspendidas pelo ar,
silencio.

O silencio antes da queda imediata,
a pressão do vento.
E assim se abre o céu,
um espelho.

Refletindo tudo que eu sonho,
tudo que eu odeio.
Estou caindo a dentro
deste espelho.

Uma luz que não emite
claridade no seu centro.
Essa e a cor do meu sofrimento,
das cicatrizes que a rosa me fez.

E as folhas atingem o chão,
o que existia, ja não existe mas.
O sol escurece, um vermelho sangrento.

continuo a minha queda,
o portal se abre,
E as palavras vão se desenvolvendo,
xeque-mate!

Fúria.

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English Translation>

The petals are falling.
Slowly in the beginning,
As if suspended by air.
Silence.

The silence before the imediate fall,
The pressure of the wind.
And the sky opens itself,
A mirror.

Reflecting all my dreams
And all I hate.
Falling into this
Mirror, i am.

A light that doesn't emit clarity
At its center.
This is the color of my suffering,
The scars the rose made.

The petals hit the ground,
Whatever existed, no longer does.
The sun darkens
into a bloody red.

I continue my fall,
The portal is opened.
And the words are evolving.
Check-mate!

Fury.

Square Meter Big Cage

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Wed, 08 Aug 2007 14:57:00 +0000

Smiling towards a world you don't know,
Spying its conspiracy with blind eyes.
A haven of sweet fruits and blue skies;
Scent of roses that reach you slow,
Too slow for you to comprehend
That you are lost with an agitated hand.
Looking for something to hold on to,
That sees.

Dead flesh, bloody vows,
Hiking up the mountain you were told
You had to reach, to come close
To something you can hold,
Feel, taste and cherish:
The knowledge of reality.
An endless desert of questions,
Questions without answers.
Silent voices telling you there is no way out
Of that square meter big cage,
Your defying brain.

noreply@blogger.com (Jürgen Bischoff) — Tue, 07 Aug 2007 15:49:00 +0000

Welcome.

To myself and to anyone who randomly encounters this blog.

After ages of joining and giving up on internet communities I have decided to launch something a bit more personal. A sort of window into the strange universe inside my brain.

The Posts in this blog will be in different languages, depending on the mood I'm in, the people around me, and the texts I pick out of my archive, some of which are in English, others in German and Portuguese. Well I guess thats it for my first post. Know it isn't anything special, but well, it is just a welcome. to you, dear reader, and to me, for entering the huge world of blogs for the first time.