Quite a lot going on recently – stress related things. For starters, I have become a great spam activator. I never knew I was so brilliant at it. It’s fun, too. So much freaking attention and I’ve always dreaded attention. What a nice experiment. I couldn’t care less right this very moment. Sometimes you can be very selfish just like me. And I am being very selfish right now, too, pretending that I care about all.
There is another reason why I bothered keeping the bloody student online journal alive, but I will not tell. It doesn’t matter anyway. Distraction is always good.
How I have always hated dealing with people, hundreds of different minds at once. Every time you have to build bridges to connect with each other. Do I really look like I have the nerve... It’s just this one time that I do not want to fear the complexities of mass communication. But I do, like a chicken, I’m just ignoring it. What a nice start. What a good start!
For a second I have a genuine smile on my face and the moment the cheekbones get exhausted, I know it’s no longer a smile. You all experience that. Do you ever notice, though, how long you smile for? For instance if someone has made you smile, do you pay attention to how long the smile lasts? I mean up to the point when it fades. And then you ask yourself: Will this person make me smile again?
I’m waiting. I’m waiting. I’m working. I’m moving. I’m ripping my arse off. I’m waiting. The more I think about it, the more I seem to realise that they are all sycophants. It’s nothing new; everyone is like that in one way or the other. The harsh ones are those who ‘forget’ to say thank you.
Sincerely, I can’t wait for the day where I’ll show you my bent fuck-finger. Both of my middle fingers look camp and therefore not to be taken seriously. I just hope no one will ever notice, because I mean what I say with my fuck-finger.
Spring is so close; it’s scaring the shit out of me. Summer is always so long. The great amount of people is the creepiest thing about it. If you have watched ‘Soylent Green’, then you know what I mean – overpopulation. They’ll be everywhere, drinking, talking about nothing but the sun, getting a tan and fuck each other outdoors.
How to put this without everyone calling me a little misanthropic sissy that sees the worst in everything? -Well, if I have a boyfriend from 14th February onwards, then I won’t see things this way.
I’ve reached a point where I’m close to giving someone else a chance even though I know I’d never love them. I’m waiting. I’m waiting. I’m walking. I don’t want to get left behind. I want to collapse on the lawn with everyone, lick on ice cream and sing songs at a camp fire, although I couldn’t care less.
I’ve spent too many years chasing after things that are beyond reach. And they are still what I want and always will be what I want and that’s because I never abandon all hope, even when the ground I walk on turns from solid to soft. At the end of the day it’s always fear that moves you forward; the fear of getting left behind, the fear of becoming useless. I don’t mean useless to the world, but useless to yourself.
I envy those people who are too blind to realise that each of us stands alone. I don’t care how many best friends or how many agony aunts you have out there, you are standing on the top of the world alone. When you are asleep you have no one with you in your head. You feel a certain emotion and you have no one that feels exactly the same. So stop saying “I know how you feel.” Feelings are way too unfathomable, intangible. And once gone, it’s irretrievable. There are no right words for description.
We can still pretend we understand each other to a certain degree. How would we fall in love otherwise?
Sonntag, 30. Januar 2011
Donnerstag, 20. Januar 2011
The inventor I never was and always will be
So far, there have been two songs written about/for me. I feel very, very honoured, even though I cannot understand why those wonderful men did it. I had a mad crush on them both, but the customary result is, whenever Paula has a crush, she either gets rejected or she keeps the secret forever to herself. In this case, both of them know how I felt and I do not deny that I still find them alluring. Alluring is something I can never have.
Perhaps this is the reason why I wish life was a music video. There is a story evident in almost each music video. There are people who act and there is a song in the background which the people in the video don’t usually hear. It’s similar to a “Stummfilm” à la Chaplin. Music and singing voices are so much more beautiful than spoken language. The drums are your heartbeat, the guitar your flow of emotions, the bass your mind, the singing voice your breath.
In the end we all just want control and a comforting hug and pretend that everything is ok.
There are two stories on my desk – Angela Carter and Chekhov, both called ‘The Kiss’. For some reason I don’t want to read them. I haven’t been able to concentrate on books for days. Today my attention span is like that of a little child’s. I’m obtuse like a piece of wood. Kiss that piece of wood and bring it back to life.
I wish there was someone to keep my back warm. There’s something wrong with my duvet. There’s something wrong with that white face on the pin wall. The coil springs digging into my back makes me feel pain in my dreams. Many tell me that only men sleep on their stomachs whereas women sleep on the sides. I don’t breathe well on the side and if I sleep on my back, I get scared that every time I open my eyes a creature is going to fall from the ceiling.
I don’t like me and my cowardice. Despite knowing that life is short, I’m always impatient and under pressure most of the time. I don’t understand this impatience, though, as it doesn’t make the slightest sense. Love makes me impatient, but at the same time, it scares the hell out of me, not to mention, irritates me. I’m keeping it to myself, even though the curiosity feels like an itch in the heart chamber.
I wish I could change this into a story and invent the dialogue myself. Then I’ll make him say what I want to hear. I’ll make it sound like in ‘Hills like white elephants’ – indirect is always best and sweetest. I wish all people would rephrase their self-pity by using some metaphor or start a fight à la Bukowski style. There are many people who do not realise that they are standing on their own and I admire those, I envy those. If I were like them, I wouldn’t need the writing. Maybe I could be a banker or a social worker. Maybe I would like people more.
Nowadays when people ask me what I wanted to be when I was small, I answer “I wanted to become an inventor.” And usually they smile and say “But you are.”
They have no clue. I wanted to invent mirrors that make you look pretty. I wanted to invent potions that make you grow taller. I wanted to invent contact lenses that make my eyes blue or green (someone stole my idea, but after reading ‘The bluest eye’, I changed my mind). And I wanted to build a copy of Wells’ time machine so I could travel to the mid seventies and fall in love with John Lydon.
And they say “But you still are an inventor.”
They have no FUCKING clue. Wishful thinking has nothing to do with invention. It’s playing hide and seek with illusion and reality. And if you can’t distinguish the two, you are fucked. Here is a hint: The prettier one is illusion. Sometimes your wishful thinking reflects your worst intentions, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s just a waving figure in silhouette reminding you of who you are. Control is all, despite any dark forebodings looming over you. This doesn’t concern anyone, except you.
Sure I always wanted to re-invent myself the way I wanted to be. I don’t really want to talk about free will and existentialism, though. But do you really think you can be who you want to be? Healthy people don’t change after snapping with their fingers. Who you are is beyond your control. Biology makes you. Psychology makes you. I am not addressing in/determinism, either, I’m just saying: don’t change, don’t change for anyone, because it’s not going to work, no matter how much you love that person. If they don’t like the way you are, there’ll be someone else out there who’ll love you more than anything.
I admit it now. They are right. I’ve been reinventing myself on paper all my life. I’ve been redesigning my life on paper for about 15 years. I’ve been denouncing the real world’s process for forcing me to accept the way it works, as if I had no choice. And no, I have no choice.
The alternative world can only be found on a blank page over which I rule.
Perhaps this is the reason why I wish life was a music video. There is a story evident in almost each music video. There are people who act and there is a song in the background which the people in the video don’t usually hear. It’s similar to a “Stummfilm” à la Chaplin. Music and singing voices are so much more beautiful than spoken language. The drums are your heartbeat, the guitar your flow of emotions, the bass your mind, the singing voice your breath.
In the end we all just want control and a comforting hug and pretend that everything is ok.
There are two stories on my desk – Angela Carter and Chekhov, both called ‘The Kiss’. For some reason I don’t want to read them. I haven’t been able to concentrate on books for days. Today my attention span is like that of a little child’s. I’m obtuse like a piece of wood. Kiss that piece of wood and bring it back to life.
I wish there was someone to keep my back warm. There’s something wrong with my duvet. There’s something wrong with that white face on the pin wall. The coil springs digging into my back makes me feel pain in my dreams. Many tell me that only men sleep on their stomachs whereas women sleep on the sides. I don’t breathe well on the side and if I sleep on my back, I get scared that every time I open my eyes a creature is going to fall from the ceiling.
I don’t like me and my cowardice. Despite knowing that life is short, I’m always impatient and under pressure most of the time. I don’t understand this impatience, though, as it doesn’t make the slightest sense. Love makes me impatient, but at the same time, it scares the hell out of me, not to mention, irritates me. I’m keeping it to myself, even though the curiosity feels like an itch in the heart chamber.
I wish I could change this into a story and invent the dialogue myself. Then I’ll make him say what I want to hear. I’ll make it sound like in ‘Hills like white elephants’ – indirect is always best and sweetest. I wish all people would rephrase their self-pity by using some metaphor or start a fight à la Bukowski style. There are many people who do not realise that they are standing on their own and I admire those, I envy those. If I were like them, I wouldn’t need the writing. Maybe I could be a banker or a social worker. Maybe I would like people more.
Nowadays when people ask me what I wanted to be when I was small, I answer “I wanted to become an inventor.” And usually they smile and say “But you are.”
They have no clue. I wanted to invent mirrors that make you look pretty. I wanted to invent potions that make you grow taller. I wanted to invent contact lenses that make my eyes blue or green (someone stole my idea, but after reading ‘The bluest eye’, I changed my mind). And I wanted to build a copy of Wells’ time machine so I could travel to the mid seventies and fall in love with John Lydon.
And they say “But you still are an inventor.”
They have no FUCKING clue. Wishful thinking has nothing to do with invention. It’s playing hide and seek with illusion and reality. And if you can’t distinguish the two, you are fucked. Here is a hint: The prettier one is illusion. Sometimes your wishful thinking reflects your worst intentions, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s just a waving figure in silhouette reminding you of who you are. Control is all, despite any dark forebodings looming over you. This doesn’t concern anyone, except you.
Sure I always wanted to re-invent myself the way I wanted to be. I don’t really want to talk about free will and existentialism, though. But do you really think you can be who you want to be? Healthy people don’t change after snapping with their fingers. Who you are is beyond your control. Biology makes you. Psychology makes you. I am not addressing in/determinism, either, I’m just saying: don’t change, don’t change for anyone, because it’s not going to work, no matter how much you love that person. If they don’t like the way you are, there’ll be someone else out there who’ll love you more than anything.
I admit it now. They are right. I’ve been reinventing myself on paper all my life. I’ve been redesigning my life on paper for about 15 years. I’ve been denouncing the real world’s process for forcing me to accept the way it works, as if I had no choice. And no, I have no choice.
The alternative world can only be found on a blank page over which I rule.
Mittwoch, 19. Januar 2011
My present room
Writing exercise - seminar / 19.01.2011
My room in halls of residence is big. I have the biggest and quietest one in this hallway. I’m also lucky that I don’t face the main road, but I can still hear the sirens outside. Last week I heard a loud crash. The whole floor vibrated. It sounded like a robot fell from the sky. I’ve been having the windows closed, so I can focus on the three most important things: my laptop, my desk lamp and my music. When it gets too much, I just lie down on my bed for a while until it hurts – as I can feel the coil springs dig into my ribs. It’s quiet now, despite the fighting cats outside. Virginia Woolf writes about ‘one’s own room’ – and this is my own room, an effigy of my privacy and creativity, but also loneliness. It feels like I’m married to my own head. Where am I really? In my room? In my head? Or in a story? What’s outside again? I start sticking irrational sentences on the wall, so that my room talks to me. I put up posters on the wall; posters showing twisted art by Giger and Bacon. The devil, disfigured faces and reptilian humanoids. And a to-do-list right in front of me that says: “Write!”
My room in halls of residence is big. I have the biggest and quietest one in this hallway. I’m also lucky that I don’t face the main road, but I can still hear the sirens outside. Last week I heard a loud crash. The whole floor vibrated. It sounded like a robot fell from the sky. I’ve been having the windows closed, so I can focus on the three most important things: my laptop, my desk lamp and my music. When it gets too much, I just lie down on my bed for a while until it hurts – as I can feel the coil springs dig into my ribs. It’s quiet now, despite the fighting cats outside. Virginia Woolf writes about ‘one’s own room’ – and this is my own room, an effigy of my privacy and creativity, but also loneliness. It feels like I’m married to my own head. Where am I really? In my room? In my head? Or in a story? What’s outside again? I start sticking irrational sentences on the wall, so that my room talks to me. I put up posters on the wall; posters showing twisted art by Giger and Bacon. The devil, disfigured faces and reptilian humanoids. And a to-do-list right in front of me that says: “Write!”
Donnerstag, 13. Januar 2011
Footsteps and compasses
I see shimmers and blurs on the wall. I hear cracks and jitters from my speakers. All these ordinary things that you normally do not pay attention to when knowing that there are more important things. But right this very moment nothing is important to me, except the screen, the desk lamp and that trapped thought at the back of my head. I have one hundred sets of keys. I don’t think I have ever looked that dumbfounded in my life. I’m thinking of going to bed. I’d just end up stealing pretty key rings anyway and pretend I’ve spent a fortune on birthday presents.
Last Sunday when I was at Greenwich Park, chasing evil grey squirrels, I realized how stupid I looked. In general. It wasn’t because I was dressed in black, wearing my hood that resembled the grim reaper’s. It wasn’t because the cold had made my eyes water. I saw families. Kids and dogs. Elderly couples. Joggers. And more couples. More happy dogs and kids. I hated them all. There were also other girls who were alone, walking through the park. Most of them were either on the phone or had a clear idea of where they were heading to. I had no clue where I was at all. Suddenly I was up a hill, then back down and up again. My whole perception disintegrated into thin air and there were only my feet following footsteps into the unknown. Compasses are obsolete. When my senses came back, I began to give each beautiful tree a name.
For the last two weeks I’ve been setting my alarm for 7am to go to gym at about 8am. I find this is a good way to cut the nightmares short. There were more zombies, more shadows and mass extinction. No matter how you’re going to interpret this, I have to link these nightmares with my inborn impatience. Once I’ve done my job, the zombies will turn into humans, the shadows into light and the rest will come with survival guides. Once I’ve achieved that I will show you all my delicate fuck-finger and I’ll disappear someplace so I won’t ever have to see you again.
Sometimes I wish I could give up on my philosophy right away. Other people’s philosophy ‘treat people the way you want to be treated’ is the most preposterous thing that could ever cross anyone’s mind. Every third person comes up with this nonsense, which is why I have to stick with mine ‘treat people the way they deserve to be treated’; it allows you to retaliate. It gets boring gradually, though. I’d prefer not to treat anyone in any way.
Number 9 looks so human, so adventurous and so strong. The head looks so heavy, but it’s still standing…ready to walk anywhere.
Last Sunday when I was at Greenwich Park, chasing evil grey squirrels, I realized how stupid I looked. In general. It wasn’t because I was dressed in black, wearing my hood that resembled the grim reaper’s. It wasn’t because the cold had made my eyes water. I saw families. Kids and dogs. Elderly couples. Joggers. And more couples. More happy dogs and kids. I hated them all. There were also other girls who were alone, walking through the park. Most of them were either on the phone or had a clear idea of where they were heading to. I had no clue where I was at all. Suddenly I was up a hill, then back down and up again. My whole perception disintegrated into thin air and there were only my feet following footsteps into the unknown. Compasses are obsolete. When my senses came back, I began to give each beautiful tree a name.
For the last two weeks I’ve been setting my alarm for 7am to go to gym at about 8am. I find this is a good way to cut the nightmares short. There were more zombies, more shadows and mass extinction. No matter how you’re going to interpret this, I have to link these nightmares with my inborn impatience. Once I’ve done my job, the zombies will turn into humans, the shadows into light and the rest will come with survival guides. Once I’ve achieved that I will show you all my delicate fuck-finger and I’ll disappear someplace so I won’t ever have to see you again.
Sometimes I wish I could give up on my philosophy right away. Other people’s philosophy ‘treat people the way you want to be treated’ is the most preposterous thing that could ever cross anyone’s mind. Every third person comes up with this nonsense, which is why I have to stick with mine ‘treat people the way they deserve to be treated’; it allows you to retaliate. It gets boring gradually, though. I’d prefer not to treat anyone in any way.
Number 9 looks so human, so adventurous and so strong. The head looks so heavy, but it’s still standing…ready to walk anywhere.
Mittwoch, 5. Januar 2011
Chronic delirium
And all of a sudden it doesn’t matter anymore. Ambiguity is my January friend. Where are you rabbit, pack your bags and hop hop! I have had enough of the tiger. Stripy cats smell like gutter, more in need of anger management than I. Fucking conceited creatures.
Even though I don’t do alcohol or anything of that sort, I think I suffer from chronic delirium; unable to think and speak clearly, all I can do is write with my peculiar and clumsy style that embraces German, British and American English. Mental confusion is an earth-thing. If a mass of people – if all of them feel the exact same thing, whilst you are in the middle causing an unnatural flow, then you know you are the only sane living creature among them. The rest doesn’t matter. Think about yourself for a change. The mental confusion you feel is healthy and normal. You are not the problem, it’s the people. I don’t believe in anything which they call “universal” when people are apparently feeling the exact same thing. If every single person on this earth was able to think for him/herself, then the word “universal” wouldn’t even exist. Well, at least you are not like them. I wonder what if spoken or written language didn’t exist to connect the millions of us, then what? We will all draw pictures together, fuck and go to sleep. What would happen with all those emotions which we all need to dump? How can we even comprehend or shape ourselves? Pick flowers or break glass? How will we know what means what?
Being human is a wonderful thing as long as you disagree with everything, especially with things that are not you. Moliere values honesty just as much, but he says that honesty needs to be delivered with tact. I suppose this is to indicate that you should respect your fellow people.
It sounds like charity to me – Bible related. Don’t get me wrong, I respect people who clean toilets and I pay them. Though I hate to pay them, but I can’t help respecting them for doing their job for which they get paid! Especially those who are even able to put up a sincere smile on their face and say ‘thank you’. What are you thanking me for! I hate your job and by the way I wet the floor, because I wasn’t aiming right. (I squat by the way; I don’t sit on public toilets.)
How can it be put down into words when a little gnome is running circles around your head? I think he’s trying to create a vortex, but he is weak, I think first he will puke before he manages anything. He is cute though, only too unfit to make me go crazy.
That train in my dream came back for me even though I had missed it. I don’t know ofwho the driver was. But it’s not often that I feel thankful in my dreams, especially for a train driver. Bus driver stops for you every now and then, but has it ever happened anywhere in the world that an engine driver stops and comes back for you? I was close to despair during the first half of that dream, in the second part I was full of hope. When I woke up I was thinking of flying turtles.
I have changed my other blog’s title to ‘The march of the suicide pigs’. Seriously, it’s about time to view things from a different angle. Why would a pig fall from a roof, Mr. Greene, if not wanting to commit suicide? You never know whether an animal is aware of its destiny. Not when you believe in karma anyway.
I refuse, I refuse to feel anything at all. Feelings…my heart has the tendency to flirt with the blood in my veins. Sometimes it pumps so much blood that I begin to blush in my face and at the same time I feel ants is tickling me inside my stomach. How can an automaton feel such sensation?
Maybe it’s time to reboot my low-functioning inner system, before I crash or freeze. I’m not made for this.
What fool am I anyway to allow my curiosity seep through like that?
Wasn’t Ellen a complete idiot in that video? She is still looking for her orgasm which I hid well in one of her favourite Depeche Mode songs. I’m such a sadist sometimes.
How can I hide someone’s orgasm? This is one of the few things that an incompetent writer can do.
My life number is 9, therefore, I’m a niner. In my opinion, all niners have to make use of the number 9. You can move mountains with this number, if you want. It’s the highest of all digits. You can even cross oceans with this number and break all boundaries if you have the guts.
I owe this number a lot. It will forever be a part of me. It’s now 22:59 – how wonderful is this?
Sleep and giggle. Find the orgasm in the right song.
Even though I don’t do alcohol or anything of that sort, I think I suffer from chronic delirium; unable to think and speak clearly, all I can do is write with my peculiar and clumsy style that embraces German, British and American English. Mental confusion is an earth-thing. If a mass of people – if all of them feel the exact same thing, whilst you are in the middle causing an unnatural flow, then you know you are the only sane living creature among them. The rest doesn’t matter. Think about yourself for a change. The mental confusion you feel is healthy and normal. You are not the problem, it’s the people. I don’t believe in anything which they call “universal” when people are apparently feeling the exact same thing. If every single person on this earth was able to think for him/herself, then the word “universal” wouldn’t even exist. Well, at least you are not like them. I wonder what if spoken or written language didn’t exist to connect the millions of us, then what? We will all draw pictures together, fuck and go to sleep. What would happen with all those emotions which we all need to dump? How can we even comprehend or shape ourselves? Pick flowers or break glass? How will we know what means what?
Being human is a wonderful thing as long as you disagree with everything, especially with things that are not you. Moliere values honesty just as much, but he says that honesty needs to be delivered with tact. I suppose this is to indicate that you should respect your fellow people.
It sounds like charity to me – Bible related. Don’t get me wrong, I respect people who clean toilets and I pay them. Though I hate to pay them, but I can’t help respecting them for doing their job for which they get paid! Especially those who are even able to put up a sincere smile on their face and say ‘thank you’. What are you thanking me for! I hate your job and by the way I wet the floor, because I wasn’t aiming right. (I squat by the way; I don’t sit on public toilets.)
How can it be put down into words when a little gnome is running circles around your head? I think he’s trying to create a vortex, but he is weak, I think first he will puke before he manages anything. He is cute though, only too unfit to make me go crazy.
That train in my dream came back for me even though I had missed it. I don’t know ofwho the driver was. But it’s not often that I feel thankful in my dreams, especially for a train driver. Bus driver stops for you every now and then, but has it ever happened anywhere in the world that an engine driver stops and comes back for you? I was close to despair during the first half of that dream, in the second part I was full of hope. When I woke up I was thinking of flying turtles.
I have changed my other blog’s title to ‘The march of the suicide pigs’. Seriously, it’s about time to view things from a different angle. Why would a pig fall from a roof, Mr. Greene, if not wanting to commit suicide? You never know whether an animal is aware of its destiny. Not when you believe in karma anyway.
I refuse, I refuse to feel anything at all. Feelings…my heart has the tendency to flirt with the blood in my veins. Sometimes it pumps so much blood that I begin to blush in my face and at the same time I feel ants is tickling me inside my stomach. How can an automaton feel such sensation?
Maybe it’s time to reboot my low-functioning inner system, before I crash or freeze. I’m not made for this.
What fool am I anyway to allow my curiosity seep through like that?
Wasn’t Ellen a complete idiot in that video? She is still looking for her orgasm which I hid well in one of her favourite Depeche Mode songs. I’m such a sadist sometimes.
How can I hide someone’s orgasm? This is one of the few things that an incompetent writer can do.
My life number is 9, therefore, I’m a niner. In my opinion, all niners have to make use of the number 9. You can move mountains with this number, if you want. It’s the highest of all digits. You can even cross oceans with this number and break all boundaries if you have the guts.
I owe this number a lot. It will forever be a part of me. It’s now 22:59 – how wonderful is this?
Sleep and giggle. Find the orgasm in the right song.
Montag, 3. Januar 2011
The spiral and life
This is a day where your feet are cold
Walking on thin ice with no one to hold
The water in the abyss gazing hungrily
Deep down the hands are waiting merrily
In the spiral to rewind life once again
In the vortex to save the best friend
Way lost with dusty debris in your eyes
A world that collapses with your cries
Where are you
In a place that has ceased to exist
Somewhere the snow queen had left a kiss
Where are you
On a planet with two moons colliding
A realm with two suns confiding
Their everlasting trust
Where is it you are hiding
Walking on thin ice with no one to hold
The water in the abyss gazing hungrily
Deep down the hands are waiting merrily
In the spiral to rewind life once again
In the vortex to save the best friend
Way lost with dusty debris in your eyes
A world that collapses with your cries
Where are you
In a place that has ceased to exist
Somewhere the snow queen had left a kiss
Where are you
On a planet with two moons colliding
A realm with two suns confiding
Their everlasting trust
Where is it you are hiding
Samstag, 1. Januar 2011
The kitten and the alcoholics, sex and drug addicts
He sings about the old familiar sting. Up till now I haven’t forgotten how it feels. Last night’s splinter in my leg was a perfect reminder and also walking past that particular shop even increased my emotional level.
The incompetence of this city got me home way too late. It’s bright now and I don’t even feel tired. I just have this constant need to wear my hood just to prevent myself from throwing biased and prejudiced utterances and accusations at British lifestyle and the Austrian accent and dialect. That close to throwing my mobile phone against the wall even though there were a couple of nice New Year’s wishes.
I forgot my cigarettes again – my Pall Mall menthol, €4,30. Do I look like I want to buy any in this country? – I don’t think so, either.
Maybe I should have listened to my dad and gone to America or Canada in 2002. I probably would have spared myself a lot of trouble. A lot of trouble.
The more I think about it, the clearer it gets that I am only in love with this language and nothing else.
When that Austrian beast tried to kiss me, I rejected and said there was actually someone else. I don’t even know why I’d said that, as there is no one else. It took me a while to realize to whom I’m being loyal if not to myself. But it doesn’t make sense; nothing does, not at the moment anyway.
I only realized who I am not. Last night I realized who I am not. But I know who I would like to be. It’s like Oscar who wished he was Dorian, except he knew he was nothing more than Basil. Just Basil.
I guess my problem is my soberness. I love my reality. I’m just jealous that a drunk “mass” manages to achieve unison and I’m the only one that seems to strike a discordant note in the middle of it. Of course they are all so drunk they don’t even notice it and nonetheless, they think I’m one of them.
Whatever people are nowadays, I always find myself being the complete opposite. I love it this way. The only question is whether they accept me or not. Not that I care.
I am who I thought I was. I am not what I cannot be.
In fiction I can be me and thousands of other things – a damselfly or a bumble-bee, breathe with tracheae and have Hank Chinaski saving me from a spider when I’m caught in the web.
Why can I relate myself to writers who are alcoholics, drug and sex addicts even though none of those characteristics apply to me?
The secret is that I understand them. I understand every single piece of shit that they excrete. I am not like them at all; not one little bit. The only thing that connects me with these writers is just the one technique that we use:
-Ruthless honesty.
Lead me beneath the surface of your skin. Keep me interested. Tell me more about your scar. Keep my ears perked up. I might lick your scar.
We can talk about the weather in my next life when I’m a dog. According to my inexplicable loyalty, I think I had already been a dog in my previous life and you were the kitten that I mauled.
The incompetence of this city got me home way too late. It’s bright now and I don’t even feel tired. I just have this constant need to wear my hood just to prevent myself from throwing biased and prejudiced utterances and accusations at British lifestyle and the Austrian accent and dialect. That close to throwing my mobile phone against the wall even though there were a couple of nice New Year’s wishes.
I forgot my cigarettes again – my Pall Mall menthol, €4,30. Do I look like I want to buy any in this country? – I don’t think so, either.
Maybe I should have listened to my dad and gone to America or Canada in 2002. I probably would have spared myself a lot of trouble. A lot of trouble.
The more I think about it, the clearer it gets that I am only in love with this language and nothing else.
When that Austrian beast tried to kiss me, I rejected and said there was actually someone else. I don’t even know why I’d said that, as there is no one else. It took me a while to realize to whom I’m being loyal if not to myself. But it doesn’t make sense; nothing does, not at the moment anyway.
I only realized who I am not. Last night I realized who I am not. But I know who I would like to be. It’s like Oscar who wished he was Dorian, except he knew he was nothing more than Basil. Just Basil.
I guess my problem is my soberness. I love my reality. I’m just jealous that a drunk “mass” manages to achieve unison and I’m the only one that seems to strike a discordant note in the middle of it. Of course they are all so drunk they don’t even notice it and nonetheless, they think I’m one of them.
Whatever people are nowadays, I always find myself being the complete opposite. I love it this way. The only question is whether they accept me or not. Not that I care.
I am who I thought I was. I am not what I cannot be.
In fiction I can be me and thousands of other things – a damselfly or a bumble-bee, breathe with tracheae and have Hank Chinaski saving me from a spider when I’m caught in the web.
Why can I relate myself to writers who are alcoholics, drug and sex addicts even though none of those characteristics apply to me?
The secret is that I understand them. I understand every single piece of shit that they excrete. I am not like them at all; not one little bit. The only thing that connects me with these writers is just the one technique that we use:
-Ruthless honesty.
Lead me beneath the surface of your skin. Keep me interested. Tell me more about your scar. Keep my ears perked up. I might lick your scar.
We can talk about the weather in my next life when I’m a dog. According to my inexplicable loyalty, I think I had already been a dog in my previous life and you were the kitten that I mauled.
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