The Meaning of Death and Judgement

In the darkness that surrounds us when we are all alone with ourselves, there is only silence. All the mirrors are black, and whatever voices we may seem to hear are but echoes from the past long turned to ashes. We call them memories, yet that which we remember is not that which came to pass, but only a conglomerate of fractions put together according to our wishes. Sometimes we find comfort in the lies we keep telling ourselves time and again till we almost believe them ourselves. More often than not, however, those of use with a strong conscience will be haunted by the past and deliberate falsehoods for the rest of their lives. They may not always surface, it is easy to forget momentarily, but in the end, they will catch up with us again. The bitterest of moments are those in which we consciously realize how often we have failed the truth, and thus both others and ourselves to an equal degree. And though it may not matter in the grand scheme of things, as we shall perish from this existence for all eternity after a considerably short amount of time that we measure both by that which surrounds us and the manner we feel inside, it does matter for exactly this amount of time.
Death is the end of all things, but not all things are death. Religions and metaphysics in a broader sense draw the wrong conclusion from this in that they claim to provide comfort in providing hope of an afterlife, meaning that death is meaningless and life will continue for ever more. They are wrong in this conclusion, as death is not a threat but the absolution from sins against others and ourselves alike, which they maintain only life can provide. But if there were eternal life, there would never be an end to sin, there would be no end to mistakes and lies. Our burden dissolves into nothingness with the consciousness carrying it. With this, the necessity of a judge falls as well, and thus, no gods are required. By the time we die, if we have lived at all, that is, we have been judged a million times, and only a consciousness capable of exceeding arrogance and extreme self-importance would aspire to eternal judgement.

Dear reader,

This weblog has had its fair share of phases of total inactivity, and again it has not seen anything posted by its author, that is by me, in a long while because I have not been doing well. Of course I am not going into any detail here. The question is simply whether I even wish to continue maintaining this weblog, since I have always felt that my thoughts are at best only of minor interest to its readers. But then again, this may only be my subjective, selective perception heavily influenced by my recurrent depression. As of now, I have not reached any final conclusion as to the matter.
What little creativity I could manage has gone into musical compositions; apart from this, I have not written a single word of creative work. I feel both emotionally and intellectually exhausted, devoid of sense and purpose. I cannot think of anything else to say right now.

So long,



In a thousand years from now,
they won’t remember us,
who strive to spy
behind the curtain;
who look at everything
and will its purpose
to serve us.

In a thousand years from now,
no trace will remain of us,
who strive to rule
over existence;
who look at everything
and will its purpose
to belong to us.

In a thousand years from now,
I shall be forgotten,
who strove to spy
behind the curtain;
who looked at everything
and willed its purpose
to serve you.


I think I am ready to leave now,
to leave nothing behind,
to leave nothing but
the pale taste of failure
in the mouth of the world,
the shadow of a shade
in the blink of an eye.

I think I am ready to leave now,
to leave no one behind,
to leave no one but
this pale image of myself
in the mirror of the world,
the nightmare of a dream
in the wake of its sleep.

I know I am ready to leave now,
to leave it all behind,
to leave nothing but
the pale question of Where?
in the mouth of the road,
the dust of the sands
in the dead of the night.

When Musicians Converse

So I actually left this house for a change after all these months of depression, helplessness, and no creativity whatsoever so as to travel to Cologne and see Lisa Hannigan perform live at Studio 672. While it was good to leave the house for a while, the place could not have been smaller and more awkwardly crowded. Standing shoulder to shoulder with dozens of strangers sweating like hound dogs in tiny spaces with nowhere to move is usually the kind of situation I try to avoid, but there I stood, and I thought to myself, ’What the hell, let’s get this over with.’ My feet hurt a little, yet all in all it was worth while. A different band than all these years accompanied Lisa, yet the performance was lovely – only the local sound system could have been better. After the concert there actually was an opportunity to meet and talk to Lisa, so I waited until everyone save me had left and thanked Lisa for motivating me to start playing the guitar again, which I had quit altogether for a couple of years since the music kept reminding me of someone of whom I no longer wished to think. This little conversation between two musicians revealed that this down-to-earth woman actually has much more interesting and intelligent things to say than in any given interview with her. The latter have always made her look a little stupid and empty-headed, although that may be my impression alone. I suppose it depends upon your specific statements and questions. Fret not, dear readers, though, I am not going to waste everyone’s time by reproducing the entire conversation here – suffice it to say it was a private conversation about our personal relationships to music in general and songwriting in particular.


Shattered leaves from sheltered trees
They dry the bloodstains on the ground
To conquer all but seven seas
And kill what makes us safe and sound

I know, I know there is no time
Thus all falls to the river’s flood
For in our first breath lies our crime
Cleansed and washed away like mud

Shattered dreams from sheltered sleep
A memory stinging day and night
To fall apart where widows weep
And vulnerable to the light

I know, I know there is no space
Thus rain will drown our stifled cries
For this will always be the place
Where there’ll be no sun to rise


Hope is such a fickle thing,
It cannot be denied.
Despair allows no bickering,
It cannot be defied.

Over seas of endless storms,
I row my boat alone.
The pain will come in endless forms
To turn dreams into stone.

Hope is such a fickle thing,
It’s driven me insane.
I’ve long run out of songs to sing,
There’s no more blood to drain.