Sometimes when she speaks, her voice reflects the agony that has been eating her up on the inside. The signs of despair and the amount of sorrow accumulating in the heart… How much and for how long can one’s body and mind accommodate such an adverse invasion?
And I can’t change or comfort her. I just watch her like an autistic; unable to comprehend.
I only snapped at her once during my stay and I instantly regretted it. But it was just the once, despite the cabin fever.
Watching people who suffer from stress is as bad as any chronic disease. Stress factors deteriorate your body’s functions – sometimes gradually, sometimes quickly. It may start with growth of skin diseases, hair loss, rapid aging, sensitive kidney or inner suffocation (panic attack). I’ve seen those.
In the next stage one would begin to injure himself, because he hates everyone and himself so vehemently. The inner is like a radical force hiding in a cave or temple, planning on how to inflict its pain on others. But I wish it would inflict its agony, anger and sorrow on itself. These stress factors are testing your endurance level. You must not fail.
As options people would consume depressants such as alcohol or drugs. This makes me believe that the world’s intrinsic journey is based upon finding oblivion. And while dwelling in remembrance or nostalgia, you deliberately lie to yourself.
What am I after discovering the novelty of telling lies? Although this is just another expansion of the line on which my guilty conscience balances.
How do you treat a person’s thinning hairline effectively? Reach out for drugs maybe. Therapy. Make-believe solutions. To sustain the balance of health is no longer crucial to those who rack their brains over job and money.
How do you encourage a person to believe in something that you don’t give a shit about?
Why is it so hard to comfort people? Why is it so hard to be a friend…
You’ve been through the exact same thing. You lost your innocence, been through cleansing and now you’ve started anew.
Maybe it’s the reminders that make you go numb – a sudden recap on all those things that had gone wrong in the past.
What have I lost on memory lane, anyway?
This must be where lucid perception fucks up.
Though, I like being surrounded by perceptive people. I’ve realized that I wasn’t as perceptive as I had thought.
Whatever you find, it’s never what you had in mind. You are then unprepared for what is yet to come, uncertain of how your life will continue or how you want it to continue.
I couldn’t give a damn about faith, but I will give it a try.
Mittwoch, 29. Juni 2011
Montag, 20. Juni 2011
Psychology Test
This is a psychology test that I did in 2002. Those who went to school with me at Wardle High in Rochdale may remember the English lessons with the fabulous Miss Chance. Don’t you guys miss Mr. Burns as well? Those were fun times.
I found this sheet of paper earlier while browsing through and re-reading my dreamy yearnings for an unforgettable first love encounter. I wrote over thousand hand-written pages from 1994-2002 – why can’t I be like that now?
While reconnecting with my former self, I remember how I had felt back then; the associated risk of losing my mental balance. Now all that is emerging to the surface again, smiling. I remember how that identity crisis had led me to immerse in writing intensively like there was nothing else that a child could do. My feelings haven’t changed – there still is nothing else.
The psychology test is the last piece of evidence that I have which reflects a trace of innocence or purity, whatever you call it nowadays. Show me something from today that isn’t tainted and I will let the truth go.
Do the test, too, if you like.
The symbolic meanings are at the bottom.
1) Imagine you’re standing on a path. Visualise it as good as possible.
The path is narrow and looks endless
2) Visualise the trees.
The trees are all grey, covered in fog.
3) You suddenly see a bear after entering the woods. What do you do?
It’s a brown bear. He’s looking deeply into my eyes and then it minds its own business.
4) You see a house. Describe the outside appearance of the house.
It’s made of wood; it’s old and looks vacant on the outside.
5) You go inside and enter a room, describe it.
There’s an unmade bed, a desk with sheets of paper, biros, CDs, but no CD player. Windows are broken, you can’t shut them properly.
6) Go to the back of the house. You look out of the window and see water. Describe the water.
It’s a canal with clean water.
7) You step outside. There is a wall on your right. Describe the wall.
It’s a brick wall. Some kind of vehicle has crashed into it before.
8) Climb up the ladder. What is behind the wall?
The path continues.
1) The PATH is your future.
2) The TREES are your friends.
3) The BEAR symbolises the way you deal with problems.
4) The OUTSIDE describes what you are really like.
5) The INSIDE is the image of yourself.
6) The WATER symbolises your sex life.
7) The WALL is death.
8) Beyond the WALL is your life after death.
I found this sheet of paper earlier while browsing through and re-reading my dreamy yearnings for an unforgettable first love encounter. I wrote over thousand hand-written pages from 1994-2002 – why can’t I be like that now?
While reconnecting with my former self, I remember how I had felt back then; the associated risk of losing my mental balance. Now all that is emerging to the surface again, smiling. I remember how that identity crisis had led me to immerse in writing intensively like there was nothing else that a child could do. My feelings haven’t changed – there still is nothing else.
The psychology test is the last piece of evidence that I have which reflects a trace of innocence or purity, whatever you call it nowadays. Show me something from today that isn’t tainted and I will let the truth go.
Do the test, too, if you like.
The symbolic meanings are at the bottom.
1) Imagine you’re standing on a path. Visualise it as good as possible.
The path is narrow and looks endless
2) Visualise the trees.
The trees are all grey, covered in fog.
3) You suddenly see a bear after entering the woods. What do you do?
It’s a brown bear. He’s looking deeply into my eyes and then it minds its own business.
4) You see a house. Describe the outside appearance of the house.
It’s made of wood; it’s old and looks vacant on the outside.
5) You go inside and enter a room, describe it.
There’s an unmade bed, a desk with sheets of paper, biros, CDs, but no CD player. Windows are broken, you can’t shut them properly.
6) Go to the back of the house. You look out of the window and see water. Describe the water.
It’s a canal with clean water.
7) You step outside. There is a wall on your right. Describe the wall.
It’s a brick wall. Some kind of vehicle has crashed into it before.
8) Climb up the ladder. What is behind the wall?
The path continues.
1) The PATH is your future.
2) The TREES are your friends.
3) The BEAR symbolises the way you deal with problems.
4) The OUTSIDE describes what you are really like.
5) The INSIDE is the image of yourself.
6) The WATER symbolises your sex life.
7) The WALL is death.
8) Beyond the WALL is your life after death.
Dienstag, 14. Juni 2011
Raison d'être
Where am I again?
This recurring question after awakening, after registering this defamiliarized surrounding which is triggered by inexplicable dreams in which my perception of normality is merely fabricated, but it felt like I had never known anything else.
I see a life which is simple, because I’m young. I’m closer to my family and relatives. We have our occasional festivities together like we used to back in those days.
There were no fall-outs or hardly any; no troubles or dilemmas. It doesn’t mean that life was easy then. It was only easy in terms of the absence of worrying about the future. The grown-ups would deal with those worries while you would dwell in your own world of bizarre perceptions; still pricking your finger on the world’s infectious spindle.
You were curious. You believed in everything, you believed you could be everything.
The truth is that year after year you become more and more confounded by a reality-induced anaesthetic. Your mind continually divulges previously buried images that are no longer valid or significant. They are present, but you feel nothing. No more paralysis indicating any disruption of equilibrium, just indifference.
The anaesthetic is manufactured by repeated disappointments – an accumulation of stupid infatuations that you can no longer understand and yet they feed your imagination. Despite the hopelessness you won’t forget what they feel like, that little tingling feeling of electricity. Together they form the perfect lie – the necessary immanent lie that each of us strive to live up to just to distract ourselves from this...
This slumberous state is just another extension of...
Who cares?
I give no hugs of comfort and I speak no word of comfort. That’s why the stoic type is easier to deal with. The less they talk, the more you want them; you want to hurt them real bad, but in the end you accidentally hurt yourself. It feels wrong, but good. And this is where the anaesthetic comes from; produced by healthy adrenal function and fucked up hemispheric control.
What you need is something to transfuse you with the right amount of perseverance. There are different types of perseverance; depending on what it’s fuelled with – there’s curiosity, anger, obsession, etc.
Once drugged with those you start to live. But like each drug, it loses its effect after a while.
I don’t mean to make ‘perseverance’ sound negative, after all it’s a good character trait which I wish everyone had; the ability and will to finish something you have commenced, because if you give up, you’ll be accepting the inner void’s invitation to a suicide party. The original sound of emptiness will creep up inside your ears, and that’ll be it.
Your choice. Not that I give a shit. I’m just saying.
We’re ignoring the fact that we’re “vertical carrions extinguishing ourselves in verse, having love hold us prisoner…” (Cioran).
It feels good.
This recurring question after awakening, after registering this defamiliarized surrounding which is triggered by inexplicable dreams in which my perception of normality is merely fabricated, but it felt like I had never known anything else.
I see a life which is simple, because I’m young. I’m closer to my family and relatives. We have our occasional festivities together like we used to back in those days.
There were no fall-outs or hardly any; no troubles or dilemmas. It doesn’t mean that life was easy then. It was only easy in terms of the absence of worrying about the future. The grown-ups would deal with those worries while you would dwell in your own world of bizarre perceptions; still pricking your finger on the world’s infectious spindle.
You were curious. You believed in everything, you believed you could be everything.
The truth is that year after year you become more and more confounded by a reality-induced anaesthetic. Your mind continually divulges previously buried images that are no longer valid or significant. They are present, but you feel nothing. No more paralysis indicating any disruption of equilibrium, just indifference.
The anaesthetic is manufactured by repeated disappointments – an accumulation of stupid infatuations that you can no longer understand and yet they feed your imagination. Despite the hopelessness you won’t forget what they feel like, that little tingling feeling of electricity. Together they form the perfect lie – the necessary immanent lie that each of us strive to live up to just to distract ourselves from this...
This slumberous state is just another extension of...
Who cares?
I give no hugs of comfort and I speak no word of comfort. That’s why the stoic type is easier to deal with. The less they talk, the more you want them; you want to hurt them real bad, but in the end you accidentally hurt yourself. It feels wrong, but good. And this is where the anaesthetic comes from; produced by healthy adrenal function and fucked up hemispheric control.
What you need is something to transfuse you with the right amount of perseverance. There are different types of perseverance; depending on what it’s fuelled with – there’s curiosity, anger, obsession, etc.
Once drugged with those you start to live. But like each drug, it loses its effect after a while.
I don’t mean to make ‘perseverance’ sound negative, after all it’s a good character trait which I wish everyone had; the ability and will to finish something you have commenced, because if you give up, you’ll be accepting the inner void’s invitation to a suicide party. The original sound of emptiness will creep up inside your ears, and that’ll be it.
Your choice. Not that I give a shit. I’m just saying.
We’re ignoring the fact that we’re “vertical carrions extinguishing ourselves in verse, having love hold us prisoner…” (Cioran).
It feels good.
Samstag, 4. Juni 2011
London - you slag
There is no medical cure for neurodermatitis, you can only control it the best you can. If you’re lucky it’ll disappear via intense meditation, happiness and other make-believe techniques. After thirteen years of coping with this stressed-induced chronic nuisance, I would say I’ve been controlling it well, although Londoner water has deteriorated my aquagenic pruritus. There are cetirizine tablets, hydrocortisone cream, urea cream, etc.
When I was suffering severely from dust mite allergy I underwent a so-called desensitization, meaning I received monthly injections at the dermatologist. That process took three years – now I’m no longer heavily allergic to dust mites. Should I go through the same process again to get rid of my allergy against dander and summer (alias pollen)? I really liked the injections, except that the swellings were a little bit sore. I wonder whether they do the same for latex. Latex could probably kill me like a wasp’s sting could kill others.
They say the reason why my skin and blood are so unfortunate is because, as a child I didn’t infect myself enough with nature – a type of love-making I failed to immerse in.
It isn’t true. My sister and I had spent a lot of time outside cycling in the backyard, hiding under cherry trees, taunting ants…
I may have inherited hay fever from my mum, but no one else in the family is allergic to dust or latex apart from me. According to my latest allergy test from last summer I’m also allergic to guinea pigs.
I should have pursued the career as a dermatologist.
I read a brilliant book called ‘Direct Red’, which tells the story of a female surgeon. I got anxious, because on the emotional level my novel is kind of similar except that my protagonist is insane (apparently). I needed to gather scenes of surgeries, hospital lives and doctor & patient relationships. I’ve been spreading myself thin with secondary readings. I would like to return to fiction now.
Overall my protagonist is coping well for now and so am I. After rewriting the entire opening, I feel that she and I are both in balance. For some reason the parallels evoke morbid images at the back of my head. I assume they are reminders of what is yet to come.
After all, a sense of determination and confidence engulfed me today. It could have been the influence of the olive green Thames; watching beautiful flats reminding me of my wish to buy my family a beautiful house by the sea.
I felt smitten.
Ah, Wong Kar Wai movies – his ideas of unrequited love suck me in every time!
In the movies females cry genuinely, whereas men have their apartments flooded instead – just another way of shedding tears.
Internal monologues are to be heard, but whichever word that I utter in my heart – it seems to fall on deaf ears.
A stupid infatuation occurs just once a year and if I’m unlucky, it lasts for twelve months. And like Trent I wonder about all the might-have- could-have-beens. In the end you can only write a little tale about it and keep it to yourself. I express love in a soliloquy and then it continues dwelling in the shadows of oblivion. It’s easiest that way. You want something you can never have.
I’m still not keen on Londoners; many of them take a lot for granted.
But hey London, you slag – we’re almost one.
When I was suffering severely from dust mite allergy I underwent a so-called desensitization, meaning I received monthly injections at the dermatologist. That process took three years – now I’m no longer heavily allergic to dust mites. Should I go through the same process again to get rid of my allergy against dander and summer (alias pollen)? I really liked the injections, except that the swellings were a little bit sore. I wonder whether they do the same for latex. Latex could probably kill me like a wasp’s sting could kill others.
They say the reason why my skin and blood are so unfortunate is because, as a child I didn’t infect myself enough with nature – a type of love-making I failed to immerse in.
It isn’t true. My sister and I had spent a lot of time outside cycling in the backyard, hiding under cherry trees, taunting ants…
I may have inherited hay fever from my mum, but no one else in the family is allergic to dust or latex apart from me. According to my latest allergy test from last summer I’m also allergic to guinea pigs.
I should have pursued the career as a dermatologist.
I read a brilliant book called ‘Direct Red’, which tells the story of a female surgeon. I got anxious, because on the emotional level my novel is kind of similar except that my protagonist is insane (apparently). I needed to gather scenes of surgeries, hospital lives and doctor & patient relationships. I’ve been spreading myself thin with secondary readings. I would like to return to fiction now.
Overall my protagonist is coping well for now and so am I. After rewriting the entire opening, I feel that she and I are both in balance. For some reason the parallels evoke morbid images at the back of my head. I assume they are reminders of what is yet to come.
After all, a sense of determination and confidence engulfed me today. It could have been the influence of the olive green Thames; watching beautiful flats reminding me of my wish to buy my family a beautiful house by the sea.
I felt smitten.
Ah, Wong Kar Wai movies – his ideas of unrequited love suck me in every time!
In the movies females cry genuinely, whereas men have their apartments flooded instead – just another way of shedding tears.
Internal monologues are to be heard, but whichever word that I utter in my heart – it seems to fall on deaf ears.
A stupid infatuation occurs just once a year and if I’m unlucky, it lasts for twelve months. And like Trent I wonder about all the might-have- could-have-beens. In the end you can only write a little tale about it and keep it to yourself. I express love in a soliloquy and then it continues dwelling in the shadows of oblivion. It’s easiest that way. You want something you can never have.
I’m still not keen on Londoners; many of them take a lot for granted.
But hey London, you slag – we’re almost one.
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