Whiling away the hours at Tate

I feel like a tramp in rags, I feel like 20 years older, probably because I haven’t slept for days. I’ve been hallucinating a little bit, too.

I see so much skin. Everything’s much too close.

My headache is stretching my sense of perception beyond clarity. Sitting in the midst of the Munch exhibition makes me want to go to Norway straight away.

There is no time for rest. There never was.

That’s what I tell my body all the time and now it seems to be revolting against me by tightening the muscles in my limbs.

But special people will make you stop for a while and rest anyway. And you’re surprised you’re suddenly more at ease.

I’m staring at the portrait named “Ashes” illustrating a woman in the middle of the woods. She’s touching her head in despair with both hands, as though having done something unforgivable. On the left is a man in black hiding away his head as if weeping or regretting his deeds.

Am I doing something wrong or am I going to do something wrong?

I’m too tired to think and too tired to care. All I know is that I am not a victim.

And for now, that’s all I need to know. Other than that I’m as empty as a shell, but you cannot crack it? Why not?

Why not…

I wanna set my brain free, I don’t care about the heart.

A lot of feelings are absent anyway, which has its good and bad sides, the bad is that I’m watching certain beauty crumble away and I don’t seem to care too much, not like I used to.

I believe I still feel the same way, but not on the same level.

At present I miss no one and yet I want everyone.

And I will have them.

Cos by the time they want me, I won’t want them.

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