The never ending John

                Everything about John so far, every story, every death, every promise of change. Fuck that. You can forget all about it. People don't change. People never change. Put a man in the same situation ten times over, and ten times over he will do the same thing, the same mistake. And maybe he's insane. Because after all, doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome is indeed the act of a crazy man. Or maybe he's just John. Same old, same familiar John. The John that thought he died, and never was so wrong in his existence. The John that hoped he could, the idealist, the hypocrite. He's always there, same place next life. It's almost like every time he dies he rises with the same structure. Just as extraordinary, just as stupid, just as fucked. And another death comes way too late and changes nothing whatsoever. And it's nobody's fault but John's. He tried fooling himself, like everyone does, lurking around concepts and ideas that one feeds to himself in order to feel better about their existence.

                John kept saying to himself, repeating to himself, that the world is fucked, that the past is better, that he's only stuck for now and that he'll get out of it sooner or later. But the truth is, it's all a bunch of self medicated crap that he needed to feed to himself in order to create his comfort zone. John said the world is fucked. Wrong. The world is fine, it always was and it always will be. It's John that has a problem, it's the people who are fucked, and the people that keep fucking, and not in a good way. It always goes like this, like a vicious circle. People fuck John, so John fucks himself up just to feel in the trend, and then of course that John fucks others too, because a screw-up never stays a screw-up without spreading the plague. And he's sorry he's fucked. But he can't help it. Or even that's a lie. Maybe, just maybe there was a point somewhere in time when he could have done something, said something to break the vicious circle. But that moment is long gone, and this is this, and John stays John for now and forever. There's only one death that can set him free, and that's not a death that he's ready to accept.

                There would be no arise of the phoenix, no coming back from that one. And John could never die like that. That's why he must keep going. After all, life remains a bitch. John has to get used to that, just how the world got used to him. No more floating, no more escaping, no more running away. The world is never going to change, and the mind quickly runs out of corners to hide in. And so, the never ending never changing John Doe must hit his head over and over on the brick wall that is reality until he learns that there's no way of breaking it, there's just acceptance and acceptance.

The day John thought he was a poet

You know so well those glittering eyes
That burn your heart like suns from a thousand skies.
They laughed and they cried an made you believe,
But now you're condemned to sit and watch them leave.

You know so well those rose petal lips
Filling your heart with unbearable bliss.
In kisses they crushed you and threw you so high,
But now is the time to kiss them goodbye.

You know so well that silky long hair
Covering her face like a wedding gown's veil.
Stroking your heart all your leashes they tore,
But now in your pain they can comfort you no more.

You know so well that you once had them all
And above all the voice that filled your restless soul.
When you had them together you could feel no pain,
But now you have lost them, you need novacaine.

                                                                   Painkillers,
                                                                         John Doe.

John lost in time

                Funny guy, this so called John Doe. If he could find himself half a brain, he could even be average. Too bad that brains don't grow on trees, and his mind doesn't really have the room to accommodate one at the moment.  It's just too busy getting filled with day to day crap and cynical nonsense to be forgotten after two seconds and then rethought half an hour after. It's a vicious circle actually. But then, it seems to me, the writer, that lately everything about this John is just another vicious circle, another bad joke, like when you make your dog chase his own tail for twenty minutes until he falls asleep.

                Except John never falls asleep. He just falls deeper inside his mind, and sooner or later I'm afraid he won't be able to pull himself back from it. And that shall be the end for him, but not the ending he craves for, so for now he just does his best to throw out a lifeboat every once in a while. But let's get to the point, I wonder if there is any left, or if there ever was from the beginning. One thing we have established by now, one thing that defines him, is his idealism. An idealism that sometimes even goes as far as to rhyme with stupidity. And that's what's making him die. He sees the best in the small things and the worst in all the things, and that might just make him the saddest man on the planet. And if it doesn't, then the fact that he doesn't care about them, not even in the slightest, surely does.

                So, whatever, John is a dreamer, and he doesn't care. Why should he, in the end?  Except that he should. He apparently is a dreamer without his dream, and that's just bad. He lost his one big thing, his one true thing, his last hope of escape. He lost the will to die. Or better said, the craving. Ha still wants it, with all his heart even, but it seems as if his heart is no more. He feels like he can't keep going on this way, hoping for the one, the one big and true love, that will finally put him to peace and then sweep him out of his grave with new and renewed forces.

                Unfortunately, it seems that lately not even hope can keep John going. So he just takes things as they are, and prays in secret. Sometimes, he wishes it would be different, he wishes that all of his demons would somehow become real and take him down, or bring him up. He says he doesn't care, and he is mostly right, but he says it so often that it sometimes become a lie, only because it's already a reflex. He wishes that, for example, he could 'make out' with a girl, just any girl. But that's impossible and he resents the expression with all his being. Like the little fucking dreamer he is, John is unable to go for a girl without any feelings, and that's tearing him up. And it's bringing him peace, at the same time. For a second, a minute, a fraction, John Doe dies a little every time he sees a girl. He falls in love with every instance, with every moment, with every kiss. He falls for a glimpse, for a taste, a touch, even the trace of perfume, a perfume that would normally go unnoticed. Like I said before, it's the little things.     But it's only for a second, the time it takes the air to get in the lungs, the eyes to blink with a vague impression of a nervous twitch, an instant in which two lips fall apart, two glances cross each other, two awkward smiles meet in perfect courtesy. And a love story is written in that second, and trapped forever like on a piece of paper, and then the world goes back to its pace, and the second is lost between countless other excruciating seconds, and then the paper burns down, and John Doe comes back to life. And then for hundreds of thousands of seconds, he goes back to surviving, he throws out another lifeboat, and desperately tries to remember what it was like to be dead. What it was like to be free.