Trouble Every Day (incomplete I think)

I will tell you all my secrets, but I will lie about other things. A big fuck-you to all analysts already. Enjoy your time evaluating a contradictory stance that will bring you no further than where you are now. But it is the secrets that you want anyway.
First off I have to make you believe in fairy tales; fairy tales which you never believed in as a child. But you believed that hiding mother’s free range eggs underneath a blanket would give you dozens of baby chicks to look after. Though, the eggs never hatched and never did you bother opening the first box of your life.
It doesn’t open by itself.
The first fairy tale you believe in is self-awareness. I was fifteen when I discovered the values of honesty and what it meant to be me.
But life was going backwards. The future was a distant memory.

I remember Janine’s sixteenth birthday. I arrived at hers in the afternoon to help decorating the cellar. She had a huge party cellar. It was the place where I got extremely drunk on my seventeenth birthday; I won’t ever forget the power of peer pressure. Janine was now sixteen just like me.
“It looks gross when you and Daniel snog,” I said.
“Are you saying this because you haven’t had your first kiss, yet?”
I carried on putting beer bottles into the fridge. The louder the bottles bang against each other, the better.
“The fridge is overloaded. We need ice for tonight,” I said.
“We have snow outside, don’t we?”
The temperature outside was -1°C. Janine’s birthday was a day before the shortest day of the year – that was how I always remembered it. Her blond hair used to be longer and thicker in Year 10. Ever since Year 8 started, they had become thinner and looked like dirty blond.
I opened a bag of crisps.
“You should give Linus a chance,” she said.
I put the bag of crisps back on the table. The smell of cheese and onion made me ill. “And why do you think I should?”
“Come on, he only talks about you! I thought you like big brown eyes.”
I like green eyes.
The party started at eight. The cellar was filled by the time it was ten. Linus was trying his best to ignore me whereas I was trying to ignore everyone. The beer tasted bitter; it always had. It was them who liked my rosy cheeks and the way my eyes narrowed into slits. I left the half full bottle at the bar and grabbed my coat. I went up the stairs to the backyard where I lit myself a cigarette and sat on the bench nearby the half frozen pond.
I was nineteen when I smoked my first cigarette – three years ago.
I heard the cellar door open and close, leaving the drunken laughs and shouts behind. Footsteps were coming up the stairs.
“You must be crazy,” said Linus “it’s frigging cold out here.”
He sat down next to me with a smile.
“Are you not having fun?” I asked.
“I am. It seems you aren’t.”
I noticed that the shimmers were gone, although the moon was still clear.
“I’m tired.”
“Snap out of it. Have another beer or some Vodka.”
I looked at him, marvelling at his brown eyes. If only they were green. The cold was making him shake like aspen leaf.
“I just quit drinking.”
“You’re joking!”
“No, I’m not,” I said.
“Have you changed from a Punk to a fucking Straight Edge?”
Something inside me snapped. “Will you stop categorising me?”
“I’m just saying...”
“Saying what?”
“You’re only fun when drunk.”
I smiled and lit another cigarette. I looked at my watch and saw that the numbers were reversed. One o’clock. The moon was cool. I was watching the reflection of the water shimmering against the wooden fence. The movements signalled inconsistency and unpredictability, which were a sheer symptom of life’s mental instability.
“Do you remember me getting shitfaced on a glass of pure Korn on my seventeenth birthday?”
He laughs. “So you’re envisioning your own future in which you’re still getting drunk?”
“I’m jealous of you all” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“You are all moving on so well.”
I finally grabbed for my black box which was lying under the bench. Linus was mumbling words that no longer had meanings to me. As I opened the box, I found myself in bed with both hands clasped.

I was praying.
“Please, dear God, stop making me feel this way. I even talk to you through my diary, can you not hear me? I asked you to speed time up, so I no longer have to face school, so I can be an adult and do what I want. I asked you to make Andy look at me and maybe ask me out. Are you not paying attention to me at all?”
I fell asleep with tears in my eyes.
As I woke up, I immediately wrote down the dream that I had. It was a fairy tale, except it was one about dreams that didn’t come true. A lesson well learnt and I no longer prayed after that. Something inside me had died, but hope outweighed that feeling of dissociation.
During break time in school I was reading The Misanthrope by Molière. Reading was a good change from just standing around in the schoolyard, watching other pupils play. Then I saw a large shadow looming over me and my book. My form teacher Mrs Kelmann was smiling at me.
“Don’t you think you’re a little too young to read this?” she asked.
“No.”
“I don’t think this is suitable for a Year 7 pupil.”
“But it rhymes so beautifully” I said.
She smiled and finally left me alone again. Mrs Kelman had caught me reading Sartre’s The Chips Are Down before – an almost unphilosophical piece. That one she enjoyed, too and didn’t tell me off for reading it, as it was simply a love story about unrequited love. The conclusion I drew from that story was that there were more important things than love. It helped me to understand that in reality I had no feelings for Andy at all.
I looked around me and saw that people were still playing the same games, as if they were a tape on repeat. I realised I was no longer walking on solid ground and that I needed to venture into something drastic. Maybe I should start preparing to become a secret agent, if not, an assassin. And they were still playing the same games.
At home my mother prepared some lunch for me.
“How was school?” she asked.
“Why do you always ask? What do you care?”
She looked angry, but she was a fairly patient person back then.
“I don’t want to hear that tone of yours again. That’s not the way to speak to your mother.”
I looked at the ceramic cup that I made for her when I was still in kindergarten. It said “Best mum”.
“You’re not the best mum in the world. There is no such thing” I said.
I didn’t touch my lunch. She went to the living room with hers and I saw her take a little bite into her sandwich. The peanut butter must have tasted really bad, as she started sobbing.
My friend Katja came to pick me up after lunch time. She was a lively kind of girl who always attempted to lure me into coming outside which I did, although I had no desire to. I still had stories to write which I wanted to finish by midnight.
The sun was shining, so we went for some ice cream. I’d forgotten my sun glasses and therefore hated her looking at my squinting eyes, as if mine weren’t already small enough.
“I don’t understand why you do your homework straight after school” she said.
“What else is there to do?”
“I don’t know! Why not take your dog for a walk or watch Sailor Moon?”
I was swallowing my ice cream so quickly that I got a brain freeze. The pain felt sensational. Katja looked at me in disgust.
“You eat like a monster” she said. I must have robbed her appetite as she was now playing with her ice rather than eating it. I would finish hers if she offered.
“Andy kissed me” she said after which I clenched a fist. She continued “We’ve done petting as well.”
I spooned more ice cream into my mouth and then swallowed everything at once. The sluggish way the ice cream slid down my oesophagus made my entire body freeze. For a moment I felt stiff before the head ache occurred.
“Will you stop it?” She sounded more disgusted than before.
I pressed my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth to warm up. I was full.
“Katja, I lost my virginity at the age of nineteen!”
“Fucking hell, you’re insane!”
She stood up and left me there on my own at the ice cream parlour which was full of elderly couples staring at me as if I was an imbecile. My bloated belly still wanted more, so I started spooning Katja’s half full bowl. There was a medium-sized black box on her seat. In order to quickly have it done with, I grabbed for it and opened it.
I saw myself lying on the sofa in the living room with my hand placed underneath my skirt. I was only about four feet tall.

I was touching myself. In the background I could hear some Disney cartoon music. It was early in the morning and I was sighing, sighing as my hands moved along my little tummy and undeveloped breasts. I must have sighed loudly, as I heard my father saying: “What are you doing!”
He was standing by the door, angry. I immediately stood up but didn’t know what to say. On the screen I saw that Goofy running away from an elephant.
This was another fairy tale; a fairy tale about self-discovery on the sexual plane as well as learning that my current entity was without foundation.
I got ready for school without having had breakfast. I hardly ever had breakfast. Usually I’d wait till school finished and would have some lunch at home. Ever since attending Primary School, I’d been feeling less hungry and less excited about life.
The girls tried to talk with me and I wanted to make friends with them, but something inside me was hindering me in my efforts to utter any word to them.
“Can you not speak?” a girl asked me and stared at my eyes.
I wanted to play with them so badly. Soon it was too late. They had lost interest.
I looked around me in the schoolyard and realised that I wasn’t the only one on my own. There was an Egyptian boy playing alone in the sand, a Russian girl from the parallel glass walking around alone, and there was me. Some kids laughed at me whilst singing the offensive bully song against Chinese people. They also placed their forefingers at the corners of their eyes and pulled back so that their eyes narrowed heavily into slits. Twelve to thirteen years of school. It’ll be over soon.
During the art class I needed the loo very badly. I wanted to just leave the classroom, but I knew Mrs Cube would tell me off. I walked over to her to the front desk and hoped she could read my mind.
“What’s the matter, my dear?”
I wanted her to read my mind. I wanted her to send me outside. I eyed at the door, but she didn’t notice and told me to carry on painting my rainforest before the lesson finished. I sat back down, unable to concentrate. I heard water flowing everywhere. It was raining outside and kids were rinsing their watercolour boxes or washing their hands. A boy was whistling. Whistles always have a huge effect on my bladder; I could feel my bladder vibrate along with his whistles. That was it. I couldn’t hold it any longer. I got a tissue out of my pocket, placed it between my little legs and then I released.
Here I failed Bukowski’s endurance test which I knew I would never forget.
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...
I opened the next black box, but before I could figure out the content I heard several shouts; shouts from my distant memory – back when I was twenty, nineteen, seventeen...I heard voices arguing about the moral of the story.
But in reality there is none. I’m just glad that the eggs never hatched. I’m thinking of the ladybirds that I used to catch and keep in glass jars. I used to catch tadpoles as well. I never bothered piercing holes through the lids, though. I’m glad the eggs never hatched.

Trouble every day

The first time I switched over to online blogging was in 2004. At that stage self pity, uncontrollable spontaneity were evident in the writing. Phases of not capitalising ‘I’ and not capitalising after a full stop. I remember the exact path that I used to walk on, dance on.
Online blogging is revolutionary. When looking at the entries from 2004, I noticed that I never mentioned his name once, whereas I did in my written journals from 2002-2004 – how much I hated him and how he had caused trouble every day – if not in his life than in my mind and body. In my online blog I was (and still am) self-absorbed, oblivious and probably unlikeable. I feel tempted to give you the link, but because in one entry I talk very badly about the elderly, I’d rather not let you know.
When reading the older blog, I realised that there was always something wrong – every day there was something out of order, something that needed fixing, but I just never had the appropriate tool, except music. I used to make music compilations for all sorts of moods. Let’s call them mix tapes of moods; starting with an equilibrium, setting of scene or an illustration of the feeling. Unusual but true. A piece of writing never starts without the ideal soundtrack that incites me to dance at the back of my head.
I have Tindersticks on repeat. Even before the beginning of this blog entry. I shot a music video in my head. It’s a black and white video set in Paris. There are couples kissing; some are crying but you cannot tell why. A woman smokes a cigarette whilst gazing into the abyss of The Seine. The couples are parting, still arm in arm. The woman’s hazy eyes are still observing the inconsistent city lights shimmering in The Seine. Just as the song reaches its climax, the woman bends her body over the barrier. Her feet are now in the air. She inhales one last time before letting go of her cigarette. Then her body rolls forward and she falls into The Seine. As she sinks she watches the shimmering lights from the other side.
If music isn’t another form of fiction, then I don’t know.

Ice cream at midnight

A ladybird just landed on my keyboard. It looks lively like it’s dancing to the music by Yellowcard. How can a journey in my room be so exciting? I’ve just noticed its dirty bum; I hope it won’t excrete. My desk is no territory, but still I accept no shit.

Tis a clear fact that women hate getting their period, but it has become a part of their lives ever since they turned 11, 12 or 13. They are now used to the monthly pain; pain or merely an uncomfortable twisting feeling in the lower stomach.
Isn’t it funny that when your period doesn’t come, you start to panic? You either suspect you are pregnant or that menopause is kicking in. Again, funny how something infuriating like the monthly blood can become such a crucial part of you – something that constitutes security and identity. Mine was a day and a half late and I almost panicked. No I haven’t had sex and I’m nowhere close to forty – I just panicked. Every woman senses this monthly bloodlust, but the majority just isn’t aware of it.

My little dotted friend has disappeared. I just have to make sure I don’t accidentally crush it when it reappears. Why would someone just leave me alone like that?

Two foxes are having a fist fight outside. It sounds like a girl is being attacked. I wonder whether they are arguing about who’s going to get the grapes.

This is a period in my life where self-awareness is inevitable. My mental hands are rummaging around in my head, my heart and stomach. I have learnt to trust my guts, but very often doing nothing is the best option. Let people question you in their heads. In the end you just don’t care.

I’ve also accepted the fact that I am small. I mean as long as I can reach out for what I want, I’m fine. Desires beyond my reach are usually a heart-thing anyway – no hands needed just electric impulses.

Where is my little friend? I want to see that dance again...

There was a period in my life where I used to catch ladybirds to keep them in a glass jar. I attempted building a little territory for them as well by placing pebbles and leaves in the jar.
Though I should have pierced tiny holes through the lit for air to come through...

When you do bad things as a child you feel sorry later. But when you do bad things as a delinquent you regret nothing. And as an adult you can’t even tell good from bad anymore. You just do it to remember who you used to be.
Years ago when I read about Kant saying that the goodwill is the only good we are ever left with, I couldn’t agree more, but it is now that I no longer understand it.

I think my little dotted friend has found its bed in the socket. Again, fallen asleep before me.

Shimmer

I was watching the reflection of the water shimmering on the wooden fence. The movements signal inconsistency and unpredictability, which are a sheer symptom of life’s mental instability. And yet we have to accept it the way it is.
Whenever I hear drunken laughs and shouts, I tend to turn away, because they are not sober laughs and shouts, therefore I’m unable to understand.
There is nowhere to escape to. Life is on the kitchen table, on a tree or in the bin – an apple that ants and other insects feast on, too.

What is an apple? Yes, usually sweet and juicy. You eat it when it’s ripe (ants and other insects don’t care about its development) and if you don’t, it will rot and dry out. I haven’t heard anything simpler than this and yet this tragic story makes me feel hungry for apple pie/Apfelstrudel.
I would shed tears of bliss if I could eat it right here and now.

I have been sleeping with my desk lamp on recently. I’ve again heard too many scary stories based on hypnagogia and I can’t help believing that I will experience another one.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do tonight and how far my paranoia will drive me into. If I only wasn’t alone tonight, but what am I saying? Everyone would fall asleep within a wink anyway and leave me alone in the dark with no shimmer. You only see the shimmer when there is no one else.

I almost tried adding some yoghurt to my tomato soup and decided against it. Whenever I have soup now, I will think of yoghurt and that bloke from London Particular who won’t believe that I am not vegan. I refused having butter on my bread and yoghurt in my soup. Butter = I’m on a diet, okay. Yoghurt+soup= that’s just wrong.
I don’t give a damn about veganism. Next time I go there I will order something with cheese on top.

Maybe all this is wannabe-fiction anyway used to denounce life’s infinite emptiness which often shimmers on your bedroom wall, but you cannot fathom those lights. You begin to laugh at your stupidity, as you realise that their purpose of existence is only for you to enjoy the moment; to absorb the beauty with the eye of your mind. You laugh again and this time because you have come up with a joke. Write it down and tell others, before it stagnates in oblivion. Enhance the punch line and pray they will all laugh to death. One way to feed Das Loch.

The shimmer is all we’re ever left with.
Lights off.

Ladybird invasion in my room

Recently I’ve been hearing whispers in my dreams; whispers that are incoherent and have no business in my dreams. Only when dreaming I can figure out the daunting words in the background, but as soon as I wake up I don’t remember a thing of what’s been said. Maybe I’m getting too obsessed with that story of mine from 2006, in which the voice was Peter Pan’s – a fairy tale character that was supposed to teach me how to fly.
It was pretty much inspired by Madame Butterfly. Blindfold the child so it won’t see the tragedy and it shall never learn the word ‘tragedy’.

Yesterday I watched the original opera show, which was breath-taking, mind-blowing, heart-breaking.
The stage was beautifully egg-shaped. In the middle you had Cio Cio-san’s marvellous room surrounded by four ponds with bridge-like crossings built above the water. The lady who performed as Butterfly was brilliant, but in some ways she didn’t act naturally enough. And using the American flag to blindfold the kid felt a bit wrong.

I had my blood taken today. Blood tests are exciting! I don’t mind needles; I just don’t like watching how they suck some life out of me.
Also what I realised is that British doctors are primarily female and ALL of them have short hair. Are they trying to scare the shit out of me?! The doctor that I see has short hair and totally resembles my paediatrician. This is out of order.
She is not a thorough examiner, either. Why am I to tell her what’s wrong with me? She is supposed to figure it out herself. “Your urine looks perfectly clear – all is fine!” Bullshit.
You think I don’t know my kidney by now? I need an urologist, not to mention a gynaecologist, but they don’t seem to exist in this country or I’m not ill enough to get a transfer. The general doctors and their nurses will take care of it, of course! This is as competent as they can get.

And I will keep drinking London’s metallic water.

I’m still wondering whom to give the 6th kiss to – preferably some lips that don’t taste like poison this time. I remember stroking Dan’s (5th) burnt tongue two years ago. He was also supposed to be #3 in bed, but it never happened. Shortly after the disappointment I wrote the blog entry ‘Absinthe rush’ – one of the best titles I ever came up with. That was an attempt to say ‘Over and done with’ and for some reason it didn’t work; it never seems to work. So I tried fiction last month, which helped a lot more.
Unfortunately it is not yet over. Son of a bitch.

There’s only one week left before spring officially begins. I haven’t even prepared the farewell prayer yet. I haven’t even finished reading Hemingway yet. I haven’t been stalking nesting robins yet. I haven’t done shit.
Only ladybirds pay me regular visits to remind me.
Sometimes I let them play around in my room. And sometimes I flick them out of my window.

'Don't try'

I have officially lost interest. Another three weeks. Last week, it was ‘Snap out of it’ and this week ‘Get a grip’. Who knew life was that hard? I wonder how non-Saturday children feel. Does life crush upon their heads just as hard? I wonder how much it hurts them or whether that head injury leaves some scratch marks. There are certain days where I want to have absolute control over life, so I can use it to knock them unconscious.

I haven’t felt mentally so exhausted in a long time. If life was merely an apple I’d devour it right here and now, but what I have on the plate is a frozen readymade meal made with no love. I couldn’t even heat it up with love. So why would I want to consume it.

I knew it the moment I woke up this morning – it’s the day Buk died. Today, seventeen years ago, he was lying there marvelling at that beautiful crack of light and I bet he died with a smile and his last thought was “Rot in hell, suckers” hence the words on his tombstone “Don’t try.”

Buk is a suitcase full of survival guides. They come with no instructions – you just know how they work the moment you pick them up.

I have no idea how far I have to travel so I can be the way I really am. Somewhere where I don’t have to pretend that I care.
And stop pretending that I don’t care about how well people operate the machinery of language.
Why I don’t speak much? Why I don’t give much feedback on your work? It’s because my mind is opaque, you fuckers. It’s opaque whenever I have to open my mouth. I’m sure I was different five, six years ago. I remember being impulsive and chatty, therefore I don’t know whatever happened to that person that I once used to be.
On the other hand I do have a lot more perceptive people around me who are much more insightful and influential than those I knew from my previous university. The only thing I notice is that I used to feel a lot more at ease and laidback with people back then, whereas now I feel claustrophobic and somewhat under pressure.

The other day I smoked two long cigarettes in a row and noticed straight away how they had dried my skin. I looked three years older. But the Pall Malls tasted good. It’s not a good sign when I say how nice a fag tastes.
A shame I can’t do anything bad in the next few days due to blood test on Monday.

I’m after a particular feeling. I’m relentlessly in search for something/someone to evoke a feeling that makes me want to pursue the possible path of self-expression just so that I no longer feel alone and empty. Usually that feeling doesn’t last long enough for me to develop it further, because I see no chance and thus the hope minimises itself and I lose focus, usually because I get nothing back.

Maybe it’s because nothing is happening on the sexual plane. I don’t know.

It’s only just now that I’ve discovered the advantages of lying to those of whom you know will not understand you anyway. When Buk talks about being an actor during readings, I can see how it works for him, how he suddenly becomes a joker that he in reality isn’t. Like he gives a fuck.
This kind of acting is what I’m learning, and I am quite close to succeeding, but most of the time I just remain quiet, because I find it easiest. As previously mentioned, I can’t express myself anyway. Writers who write like they speak scare the shit out of me and I easily feel intimidated – how dare they...

Maybe that feeling isn’t that strong and I shall no longer pursue something that’s not meant for me.

The day I lost my shadow

The day I lost my shadow was the first day of spring. I remember reading A moveable feast and I believed that all the fruit trees in bud symbolized birth and therefore a new beginning. But it also meant that nothing would ever be the same again.
The day he vanished or let’s say – I vanished; he remained on that lonely territory whereas I had to leave. I’d already done some reality checks by pinching myself, looking at my digital watch – the numbers in order. My mirror image wasn’t distorted anymore and the ground was solid – I could see my feet and converse shoes. And the sky above the port was not the colour of television tuned to a dead channel. Sorry Mr Gibson.
After they had released me from their care, I returned to college. No one knew where I had been. I told them my guinea-pig had died; therefore I had spent the last whole month mourning. I’m not good at lying. Also I was told to quit reading Science Fiction, comics and anything about Greek Mythology, because they were fucking up my head and perception. Well, so they said. And apparently they aren’t meant for girls anyway. I didn’t realise that once I stopped reading those, I’d lose him as well. It was reading that kept him alive.
Hemingway’s perception is more raw and down-to-earth. It was not necessarily what I was looking for. I missed the androids and the virtual reality.
It felt like I had been away for a few years. But the campus was still the same. People didn’t seem to remember me. People I knew completely blanked me, even when I said hello. I didn’t know what I had done to trigger all those negative impulses within everyone. I was like a ghost in class, a phantom that was haunting them all. The depression extended through the unpleasant effects that reality was initiating. I didn’t know where exactly I was going anymore. Nevertheless I remained conscious and positive. I started to read what I was recommended and it happened to be A moveable feast which I had started to read on the first day of spring. I went to the campus’s courtyard and lit myself a cigarette. There was one quote that struck me:
“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.”
It was indeed people that were spoiling my days, making me feel uncomfortable by discouraging me while I was reluctantly attempting to fit in again. In the courtyard I heard boys and girls. I moved into the cool shade where the sun wouldn’t find me. That was when I saw him entering the courtyard. He was dressed like a teacher and wore glasses. He was supposed to be wearing a dystopian style leather jacket and sunglasses. Was it really him? Did he escape that lonely territory as well?
He sat down on a bench with a cup of coffee and the daily newspaper. I couldn’t concentrate any further on Hemingway. I needed something more drastic and imaginative – action and acrobatic movements. He should have seen me in the shades by then – I was the only one sitting on the ground, reading something that was not a magazine. I watched every little movement of his – the delicate way he turned the page, tilted his glasses or sipped at his coffee. Ten minutes had passed and he still hadn’t noticed me.
Lastly I was thinking of walking over to say hello or simply walk past him noticeably, so that he’d at least throw one single glance at me; remember me. Whilst still sitting on the ground, I suddenly felt petrified. It was the fear of the unknown; unknown and yet still so familiar. There was that uncanny resemblance of an intimacy that I had once known. I was dying to find out, dying to learn more. The shades of the trees and benches mirrored my fear and incomprehension clearly.
I stood up and decided to walk past him. But he didn’t even notice me then. I said nothing, as I didn’t want to interrupt his flow of mind of which I was not part of.
On my way across the courtyard I felt like I had lost something; something valuable and irreplaceable. That was when I noticed that my body cast no shadow. As I turned back, I saw that my shadow was with him. It looked like it was waving at me, gesturing that I should come back at once.
Suddenly all the shadows in the courtyard began to loom over me like a thick dark cloud. The trees, the benches... – they all wanted me to go back. And I did. As I went back to fetch my shadow, I noticed him smiling at me. Something I believed to be a distant memory had now come back with such intensity that I reached out to touch him. But like a ghost he slowly floated away with bits and bits of him disappearing until there was nothing but air. Like a hynpnagogic experience after waking from a dream, except, that was no dream. It was me attempting to cling to my reality, similar to Oliphant’s Library Window. He was there.
After all there is no fixed reality, as we all have a different perception of it.

Delineation

I am trying very hard not to scare people off with my likes and dislikes. Even before I tell them something, I see this genuine smile in their eyes, around their mouths and cheekbones. This is when I say to myself “Oh fuck it, just smile back and let them believe what they want.” Don’t look at me in disgust. When I’m certain that they’ll have difficulty relating to what I say, then there’ll be no point in sharing, because it’ll make no universal sense. Or blame my eternal failure in expressing myself appropriately.
There are so many scars on their bodies with untold stories. It disappoints me that I tell them stories, but I get none in return.
I even feel I may scare people off with my love and devotion to my favourite band.
The same old question: What do you want from me

A tiny trace of complaint from my side and people will say “Snap out of it” and otherwise they’d sue me big time. I’ll keep swimming against the current alone then.
The next thing is people assuming that drinking is the most common thing to do. Ok, I forgot I am in Great Britain or in a world where alcohol is a party or relaxation factor and it’s only Buk who did it the way I understand.

I no longer have interests in talking about writing. They all seem to have so much fun talking about it, sharing quirks and habits. Isn’t this obvious, though? Who cares? Friends and enemies of writing…that was so ridiculous.
I wonder why people who are already eloquent choose to write. They speak well, they don’t stutter. Unless they want to tell the world about their innermost fears, then I understand. If I was as articulate and as eloquent as a politician, a TV presenter or a telephone sex whore, I wouldn’t write a single word. I would speak to a Dictaphone or produce silent movies, but I wouldn’t write.

I am in a baby’s cot of my own breakdown and the bars are so high, they disappear in the clouds. This is an impasse where all you can do is grow, grow as high as the bars, maybe then you can see something. (‘Drink me.’)
Or stagnate in your own pathetic mirage.

I am scared of double beds – those agoraphobia-inducing places on which you rest. You’ll never know when this softness will turn into quicksand. It’s all just a reminder of past mortifications and anticlimaxes. Single beds suggest this kind of fidelity that not even a dog can give you.
Single beds with decent coil springs that treat you right. When pressing your legs tightly against your chest, the single bed will give you comfort.

Are you the missing chromosome from my love’s DNA? Let me steal you and fix this disfigurement. Can you then call it genuine love or have I violated against the rules of nature? Be natural, a friend once said.
This is a critical situation where you have to ask yourself how to delineate your life.