Now I am jealous of myself, when I was just getting better and before I realized, that these days “canceled” and something new has started: I almost only sleep now. To see, as my physical resistances dwindle, scares me. I hate it, me with this sinking into the “Disorder” to watch. This sleep comes over me at times of the day, in which I just a few weeks ago in my squeezed little “Form of top form” shot a bit of videos, Listened to music, was present. Out of nowhere (not to know, what I'm dying of! Indeed!), zieht es mich hinab in einen zähen, concrete sleep, from awakening, how: Shovel cement blocks from the body. Is this done, I'm chased by imperatives: have to get the few important jobs over with, like food, Drink, Crush medication, Make hygiene, Washing up; all of that pretty quickly and erratically, because I have no strength, to persevere in the activities. I lost the gold: my adrenaline surges!!!! For weeks, maybe they lasted for months, I may have celebrated small pseudo parties thanks to physical compensation miracles. It is: like looking into an empty well. That sleep, I sink into, like in a tough pitch barrel, with light, the screen on his stomach; it is accompanied by confused dreams and neurological symptoms. Symptoms and dreams spread together into biting hallucinations. Body parts fall asleep, (probably real) My stomach area falls asleep (real), Heart area falls asleep (real), Poor fall asleep (real), Lips fall asleep (real) and I'm in mortal danger (real or not real!?), I'm dying (real or hallucination? real?!) and “must come out urgently” from this cement hole between sinking and waking. Minutes, maybe hours pass me by, Now the time has come: i am even missing my own life! Miss it, To keep records, about the foreign and near, who I am, lose control. Like the cancer patients in their last weeks, if they just lie there and don't notice anything (I know these stories from my mother, the nurse, the stories of the dying, that she spread out at the dining table always scared me as a child.) But that's the way it is, that I have no idea, how many transformations and personal party exits I have to say goodbye to, how many personality layers, Until I no longer rebel and abandon myself forever to the night, a suspended one, so to speak, limp curtain. That then death will take me, without, that I bite and bite, howl with fear and regret; all of this is unthinkable for me. It is unthinkable; because I—- as I write in my quarantine— if I still can—-could not naturally satisfy the need for life, unthinkable, because I do not “finished” bin, was not full— but laid out—-still have the pen in hand, with which I trace the outline of my desire, Bulges. Because this biography is now one “Belief” hat. But still no face. Playing dead syndrome is not easy for a control freak. There is no measurable one “Tumor” or comparison options, that give you an idea, where you stand between life and death. There is no doctor, who tells you: this is fatal and you have between three and eight months left. The hallucinations, experienced in severe condition, can be real, but somehow they remain a great hallucination, in which one hallucinates as the affected body: the delusion, to suffer from an illness and to die, those on paper (WHO) exists, but not out there. The delusion, you could miss your own death, and ultimately cannot prove it, that you are actually dead.
Klaus Kinski considered himself immortal, but then a comparatively small wave of foam collapsed over him at the sea. Perhaps he thought he was immortal, because until that last moment he felt so terribly full and grandiose? Or succumbed to a hallucination?
(11.5.21)