bovariancancer

I think I died at least twentysix times until now.  I cant remember any. Or what it felt like. Or why I died.  When I say I died, I dont mean physically. Do I believe in death? Debatable. Do I believe people die? Yes. All the time. Most of us are not even aware of it.  Most of us call it "growing up."  "Its high time you grew up, T." "Life is not a fairytale." "You are unable to live in the real world." "Thats not how real world works!" "What world do you live in?" "Growing up" means not "living in a fairytale", but "living in the real world".  I dont know what makes a world real. Do I believe in real? Debatable.  So when I say I died, I meant I stopped living in a fairytale, I lived in the real world,  I adapted to the real world. Now that I am thinking about it, every time I died it was brief.  One day maximum. Every time I was dead for a day.  It is like a daytrip; I trip and I die. Dying felt

  I am sitting on the train to Frankfurt. There is an old man opposite of me. He looks very messy and unclean. He has a really big belly and grey sweatpants. His scrotum seems michelangelesque, if Michelangelo's David was some trailer trash, beaten down, obese, old man. Meaning, it is very visible underneath the fabric. That is why I noticed. Nothing else. I also notice his balls are on his far right, both of them, while his penis is on the far left. Almost as if completely separated from one another. Almost as if he chopped them up in a fit of male-like rage and then, after regretting that impulse, hastily put them back together. But you can always tell when something was once broken. The vein in his forehead is throbbing, probably because it takes everything of him to keep his half-closed eyes opened, and the vein knows it. Even the vein is sick of his crap. It betrays him. It wants to break free. But who in the right mind would adopt this vein? The morning Sun makes some of hi

 "The dog is sick", my mom says. My uncle´s house got broken into. I have lost count how many times that happened already. They were sitting in the living room and heard rumbling upstairs. Had the dog not have been sick, she would have warned them (that bitch). The dog´s name is Fifi. I have lost count how old she is. I have lost count of many things. One thing I lost count of is how many things I keep losing count of. She is very messy and very protective. That dog can meet you one hundred times and she will bark at you for one hundred and one time. Her hair is also messy. I do not know what breed that dog is or where she came from. My uncle already had a dog once. They called him Drug, which mean a pal in bosnian. That is what they say they named him after. I always felt it had a nice communist sound to it. Drug was very polite. Males usually are. They are not as protective as females. And everyone remembers Drug. And everyone speaks highly of him. But Drug never made so mu