octopus

at some point life converts itself into constant fear
fear of dying, fear of learning that somebody died
you knew that death existed all around you,
you had developed coping mechanisms of not taking it 
literally, 
of switching your thoughts ingeniously

to something else, it was easy enough at some point,
it's not easy anymore -
is it because biologically and statistically
you feel closer to death yourself?
more coping mechanisms of a different kind
will spring to life, you think,
to squelch yet another offensive,
but, as in a good Atomic Roster song, 
"death walks behind you" - 
at one point I have been thinking that my
writing "death" all the time in my notebooks, 
listening to death metal and what not,
was a part of that same coping mechanism, 
as a way to accustom myself to that constant
looming shadow that haunts every person,
and is a part of global mysticism that
unites us by definition
and divides us all the same
(death is a parting, a forced farewell,
sodom's "'till death do us unite",
paradise lost' "faith divides us, death unites us",
in death we are all equal,
and yeah, some quality shit this way)

I have confessed time and time again that
when I write in English, it helps me feel
less confessional.
(I did it again - I want to confess yet I don't want to feel like I am confessing)
(have I ever told you that I strongly dislike the capital 'I'?)
(has it something to do with the fact that I began THIS

 confessional with "you"?)
when i choose to write in english, it happens
half-heartedly, almost as a prank,
an experiment, like submerging myself into the sea
to see how it might feel.

I have a feeling now that I am rereading one of my letters
from a long time ago, maybe twenty years ago. A letter
by a different person that happens to share the same past
with me. Sometimes I feel sorry or angry at that person, 

sometimes I feel kind of proud at some interesting poetry
in some specific turn of thought, but most of the times I feel
ashamed - which is a shame that has two sharp edges, 
one edge are some things that I do not agree with now, or that seem
childish and extremely naive to my current "ME", and the other
edge is the feeling that I start crossing
some border of inappropriateness when 
reading a material belonging to someone who isn't me (SWIM),
which is kind of psychologically strange, as legally, that person

is really ME, so neither I am eligible for spending time in jail, 
nor God gonna prick me with a burning prod for all eternity.

I have this feeling possibly because I chose to write in English.
A case where a foreign language might work
as a kind of a shield from oneself.
Is it?
And when does this endless babble signifies ME, or is just some
kind of remnant debris from a Noah's Ark of myself?

I have many feelings.
I have many feelers.
Sometimes I feel as if I got drunk on myself.
Too much of myself making me dizzy.
Not necessarily in a bad sense.
Yeah?
Maybe.
Playing with myself.
Enjoying that inverted companionship,
introvert relationship,
with the different facets of myself
- look! I forgot about death.
For a while.
As long as I don't get too excited
that I forget to keep breathing.
(breathe out, breathe in, as in Kate Bush "Breathing")