Victim of choice

16. February 2015 af Maria Guldager

Doing a hundred things

without thinking of either

with direction breathing down my neck

where did determination go

my restlessness is disguising as hunger

Noticing my breath

I can’t feel my chest

since nothing special is about to happen

no jumping heart is letting me know how to feel

the terror of knowing

the neutral mind reflecting in my hall of mirrors

I listen to the sound of coming home

being the person who just came home



inclined to doubt if this is where I want to be

scrolling through my relations

or the used-to-bees

like a baby in the carriage leaning forward

on the verge of falling out

noticing the lack of opportunities

for becoming someone else

I cry out primitively and this mother-person responds

like she has the slightest ownership over me!

like she knows, understands, feels my pain

I get used to her, we don’t understand one another,

but we blend into one, we fall

into the same pile of actions, motions, we go through it hand in hand

the silent knowhow is how we survive, it is who be have become

one machine, concerned mostly about  food and how to digest it

we are thoughtless like animals, knowing

what is next

crying, laughing, reaching out, throwing the ball

back and forth

like a broken clock

Sometimes I wake up and remember who I am

and I speak as loud as I can

but no one can hear me, the doctor, the friend, the books

they don’t hear me saying

as I have said before:

I didn’t choose to become me!

and yet I choose to be the self I became

without the spread of fear-driven involvement compiled by the release of a steady fate

I would not have embraced the modifications

which suggests the importance of day-to-day life

The one I am is the one I choose to become

and yet I did not choose to become

and my choice of becoming the self now expressed resembles the vague influence anyone has

on becoming a work of art

Coated in culture I say what I say with palms towards the sky

because it’s all I will ever be able to reach

Dipped in a bowl of disconcerted childhood I might not say

what I should say

as the adult I say I am, in garment

required to portray a person who goes along with it

Extracted from the aroma of past tense

I don’t become what I could have

I could have excelled

however, I will underachieve in every aspect of life associated with my person

in sheer defiance of being anyone in the first place

I say that to myself

while abusing my person to achieve love

Don’t feel hunger anymore

maybe the hunger is still there, just hidden

under the failures of the attempts to stay in what I want

to be, to demonstrate, to say,

to say it so clearly

that someone understands, responds to exactly what I have become:

I am an undiscovered planet that no one has set foot on yet

ignorance cast shadows so dark a tone

a darkness not expressed physically but spiritually

I rotate with every season

the moving round and round changes the bridges from earth to earth

changes between people, the strength is between people, the bridges, the earths, the generations, the deteriorations, the progressions

in the behaviour observed in cultures

I ask: what are they doing and why and where are the bridges and why do they not touch me, dig into me, figure me out

I then become the universe in which no one can speak

my emotional blizzard struck hard

and no tongue knows what to do with itself anymore

words chanted in the atmosphere hold no real power anymore, my threats tread their meanings down

peoples’ loaded tongues have no where to cross, no bridge, no hope, no family, nothing but cold water

as I have uprooted my self

let my bridges collapse in my storms of doubt

the changes stand alone, nothing appears to bind them together in meaningful concepts anymore

and out of sheer defiance I work hard to avoid

myself and all their silent words

I strive to become what I want to happen to humanity

but I’m born with hunger

the hunger  gave in to food

enslaved by the same measure,

a sentence for the misfortune of being human,

by which my bread stays bread, the water water

I judge myself

only to loose track of myself

I am no where to be found

people talk again, knowingly

all they do is affecting others

To deceive myself on the silent days, I sleep

with the countries, even the unconfirmed, the emerging nations

and their voices of faith

I assure them they have a place in me

if they know how to built

they keep the sun brightened and the woman reassured of today

as they read my every side, as they, without experiencing my wave of euphoria, sleep with me, as they read they absorb my sleep, read to preserve what passes through them, the light, the purpose, thoughts that comes from looking out of the window, glass surrounded by curtains

only to then delude me into the world of pain, into a low of waiting around for their recognition, a nest full of incompletion

You will be visible, I tell myself chasing the overcoming, I move

while they walk in concrete, for the love of money, walk into stagnation, so locked inside of consciousness

I peel their skin as their infatuation dries

and realise they don’t belong, to any distinct district at all, the countries are blinded

by the rising sun and its streamers of unashamed fire

I love mornings

as much as anxious nights in an anonymous mass of hours in the line waiting for results.

For my own sanity’s sake I must go berserk

tear down my past

with the capacity still in me

that my past didn’t manage to put into a permanent stage of sincere trust

in failure and disturbance, I go berserk

the hunger is raging

the food leaves me to lie around in pieces, in bricks someone somewhere someday will built with

built me up, build me into a castle of someone’s mind


let me consist of the day

the personified spirit meets

the woman, the woman, the creature of divinity

The day is like the woman:

behaving only in predictable cycles

though set in its ways, foreseeable only to trained experts

she is special in every moment, ageless and yet a bit weary, in love and yet a bit challenged by her whims, in lack, in hope, in advancement,

wearing a mood with so many colours, even the experts can’t decipher

if it is a counter move or an easy breeze from within

she might not feel her heart all the time

but the blood reminds her of her enormous task

in the cold water of the day

I have never been very good at being depressed

God knows I’ve tried

But it takes commitment


I have to stick with a certain line of thought,

I uselessly try to combat every tempting development

the sound I hear, the intimidation of my body twitching, is the choir singing: I lack talent,

the images of a stranger proliferate, it permeates my wakefulness, the unstopping break of day

alienated from what I was supposed to be

I can go weeks as depressed, I keep things the way they are, I keep out of things, I permit no subjectivity

that fleeting glance of the divine is what bends my falsifying inaction

Some days all I really do is to watch the water pour put of my eyes

until a long-necked flower with its sweet perfume pulls me by the future,

I am released

in a fusion with with everyone else

the spirit in their fume

grips me and nails my corners secrets to the public wall, make them crawl over floors, dragging with them my real face,

that no shyness has ever been a good guard of

a full-strong fragrance is blurring my self-made amnesia and achieves to get a hold of time,

I kneel and hush my mind, time is here, time is identified, located and now entering my loneliness,

the holes are unmistakable, the mistakes is in

my madness over the repetition

which has shrunk just enough to make me sense

what it means to recite, to owe ones existence, to

adapt and be loved

I eat rashly and cover my people in words they are not meant to understand

the excitements eats me

eats the meaning

I just came home, I’ve said without caring too much about what home is,

is supposed to be

Start thinking

stop thinking

surrender to circumstance

is the only thing I am sure not ever to do


no sound can get through the rhythm of every-day-life-to-which- I -come-home

and where do you come in

in the imperfect picture of my limping faith

in through the door of the day, the woman, that I

in my sense of security

left half open


if not make your own through to me

if you need to built a bridge

so be it.

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Aimless me

6. February 2015 af Maria Guldager

I ran as fast as I could as the wind was getting up, hoping the frustration of the trees around the fiery lake would also blow away my soul, maybe, disperse it in manifold objects, scatter my storm to unmoveable things, at least the things would be safe for my faith is not strong enough to move them but they would be glowing even on the coldest days, scattered as it would be, there is no curtailing the high intensity of my soul, but spread out over the earth it would leave me to living, the faithlessness that follows the restless in every historic era will be less powerful, when I seem to be right in forgone promises I made up as someone makes up me as I run through the disaster of nature, the I’s soul squirming, trying not to be made out, as a present character enshrined in the memoir or is it a narrative if no one is keeping track of the running existence within the chaos, within the torment, a hidden soul is preposterous, the I is trying to find a way to give in without giving up on the story, trying to find someone to talk to, write to, a partner who does not care about the version, the style of the I, whether it lives or dies, whether it consists of soul or the soul has been materialised, so that I am free to write a past tense tragedy and so that the I am free to entertain the drama in which it constantly finds itself for no conceivable reason at all, at least not conceivable for the readers whom we all know have the final word, which word are we talking about, people, readers, persons in the text wants to know what is going on even before the I is settled on anything besides the automatic of being, it is still running, as it was in the beginning but we are too deep in to go back to the descriptive past tense, for the extent of the struggle exceeds the now abandoned scale as I face death or what one could call the fact of loneliness, the fact of an ultimate alone being, only being fed for the momentary hunger, never able to store up, and as I run the music in my ears is mixed with the waves of the lake and I forget where I’m going for everything is sound, the stunning natures’ raging curls and the impressive instruments insistence on a beat, either is outside of me and yet inside, yet they are meaningful to me by the ear that is helpless without the technology of hearing, and I hear the steps under my hasty feet, wonder how they know how to take me, wonder whose steps they are, do they belong to anyone out there, is anyone searching for the road I’m overtaking with such urgency, on display as I scream the loudest my lungs know how to, so that they might be emptied of despair, so that I might spread my subjectivity to unshakeable objects that will not know my name, but will be full of the burst bundle of contrasts, which was me,  so that my subjectivity will aspire to the objectivity surrounding me, starring at me as my gaze is drowning in the lake and my thoughts are left with silence as their captives, because I belong to no one and the ones I however belong to I run from, for who is the I but a running figure, but a unstable pace of ageing youth and who will I aspire to become, since silence is my only teacher and my mistakes are my only books, in which the darkness gets hold of my perception and still running my fastest, I slip and with my ankle aching, I stay grounded, injured by the I and in the I, with no rest I keep down, with a missing sense of which day it is or might be in the future I tear up my hopes as they seem to have lost their steering power and I close my eyes only to open them on the run from a conversation, the heavens of the conversation opened and down fell as much truth as to quiet my own attempts of honesty, and the truth is unattainable except my need of running and running into my self on the track I see reasons on the move, eating what they have, leaving the selfs’ loneliness to the randomness of attributed relations throughout a the span of life, an organised life with dates to run for, in a body belonging to the continuous sound of acceleration, to the ceaseless momentum of keeping up, with occurrences to run towards, incidental, unplanned and by merely confronting confrontation I get a chance of completing the day, walking to wherever I came from, sleep in which ever house I usually do, fundamentally alone, incessantly carrying my lungs filled with despair, once in a while so beautifully overthrown by something from the outside, beyond reason, something that will reveal the grounds, the premise, of me.

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Pinlighedens efterfølger

1. February 2015 af Maria Guldager

At være flov over sig selv er det værste

det værste mennesket ved

det værste ved mennesket.

Man vil gøre nok så meget for at undgå flovheden

Opleves mennesker som enten stædige, griske, utilregnelige, udspekulerede

da er de alle midt i et forsøg på at undgå flovheden.

Overkomme dens fælde, spænde ben for dens tilintetgørende kraft

Selvflovheden, og jeg siger ikke selvforagten, jeg siger flovhed, der er introduktionen til alle de andre selvfordærvende midler,

har ikke modløshed og slattenhed som primære

selvflovheden kan nok udløse sådanne temperaturer, men i sig selv er den en fredsommelig og for andre umærkelig livsstil

den bilder sig altid berettigelse ind, den er empirisk, bedrevidende

for den ved hvordan det foregik

Den selvflove må væmmes over det han sidst skrev

det han sidst sagde

det han formentlig udstrålede

det han oplever at være i stand til at skrive, sige og udstråle

det han på bunden, som følge af sin flovhed, må være

men ikke vil være

han vil ikke være uudholdelig så han medicinerer sig selv

med væmmelse der væder hans selvpinsel

snart udgør hans virkelighed

A  L  T

vil man gøre for undgå den stygge stank af selv

mænge sig uafladeligt med andre eller på anden vis isolere sig selv fra sig selv

er det selvflove menneskes forfejlede forsøg på modgift

Pinagtigt befinder han sig kun

Kun som pinagtig finder han sig i tilværelsen

som han er hængt op i

sprællende stritter han imod, men han sidder fast som kun en cirkulær bevægelse kan det

den selvflove kan ikke gå til og fra, ingen kan uden videre gå til og fra, men den selvflove ikke gå fra, han kan ikke gå til, han spræller på stedet

i forudsigelige runder

siger runderne forude

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