stuck in the needle

The cursor indicates you to play with the waves, but you’re still stuck with the needle in your hand.

It’s just a re-mix. One of many you tried; one of many, which follow. A glimpse of a sample. An audio hint you thought you could attract. The same you feared you will distract. And now, you’re stuck. In the middle of a stereo illusion. In the centre of a tone sensation. With no sense in your thoughts. Not anymore. It’s actually no needed. You just need the needle. And the moment you decide you finally break this beautiful colour-less balloon, you once called womb. A glossy sphere, filled with aromas, filled with tunes and fumes. Come on… Let them enter your pores. That’s what you want. In’it, mate? Take the needle and place it inside the streets you imagine they take you around… and round… and round. It’s not about the “word”. It’s about the frustration you love to re-feel and re-mix and re-use! So, use it! So, dare to catch the cold metal! Here’s my tip: raise your sleeves, wear 2 to 3 rings and get connected with any black hole. The cable can send you the voices you feared you lost. It’s all there. Nothing has been deleted. Let the humming boots hammer your ears and gulp your sonorous blood. It’s just a tiny punishment for all the paresthesia sines you swallowed; for all the paradigmatic signs you ignored.

So, stay tuned… you and your copy-paste channel. Do not re-mix, do not re-use. It’s all done. Long ago…
But, you can re-feel. It’s all ready. Remember the needle and stay frustrated. Break the dance and start shouting. Inside your ears; inside the black holes; inside the vinyl streets and the bloody foreign voices, they used to call you. There was a café opposite the railway station. A low-class café, but it was convenient. An obvious spot you could be obviously, easily spotted inside the jungle it seemed as a paradise. You were anything but yourself. You were a bloody listener, full of bruises on your distorted head’s speakers. But you were able to lough at it. You still are…

You still hold the thread. You still hold your breath. You stay still and count to ten. The needle’s hole is no longer empty. The womb you sewed well and you’re now out of it. You even burst it and you enjoy the sounds of your success, during the first moments of the most gorgeous outburst. A grand unified theory… which was your (own) plot. Can you imagine? Can you still imagine? Well, you won’t be able to, if you stay still… Start moving  your head along the rhythm, at least. Your voice will follow. And then your feet. If not, you’ll stay still …stuck in the middle… with a needle in your hand.

thoughts sewed by
anna stereopoulou ~

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