Butterfly sex

It happens that the past holds beautiful moments and its images will only fade if we let them. So in order to let the beauty ring we pronounce its name under the bridge or inside a cave.

Orwell reminded me of the nature of time. Time will always remain constant and it will always have control over us, a kind of influence that will kick our butts. The older we get the more in a hurry we are and the more anxious we become, and we pay less attention to things. It’s not until we are old bags – seniors! – that we will stop and look at things and learn to appreciate…fuck!
I think I am just pretending to be wise here then.
Well, at least this is how I imagine things to be, but truth is that I imagine a lot of things and I prefer them as part of my imagination because I don’t give them legs, thus… they will never kick me. I don’t like being kicked. I won’t give them arms, either, as I don’t like being elbowed. It’s that simple.

I went into the woods with a friend last weekend to do some exploring. Most of the trees are wounded, sick and bleak but still standing on their feet creating air for me to breathe. I had a little bit of an oxygen overdose, but I needed it. Some trees were ugly…bulimic to be exact. On the other hand there were fat trees as well. It’s strange that I see people in trees, as if I need them so much.

I saw butterfly sex; they didn’t like me watching and got too embarrassed making love in the air. Hmm, making love in the air…

Acorns were falling on my head. This is how you get my attention. This is how you hit on me.

After visiting the woods I slept quite well I must say…after 9hrs of hiking in the forest. Although I did have freaky dreams like little elephants with two trunks and wings swimming under water.
And there was a man eating a hot dog with thick blood on top, which I mistook for ketchup. It turned out I bit into it.
Other dreams you don’t want to hear, but I am sure at some point Dali’s “Metamorphosis of Narcissus” appeared briefly. I cannot refrain from letting a series of dirty thoughts enter my head when I look at the Dali piece (, which is my favorite of his). I mean, where the fuck are the fingers you’re talking about? All I see are a man fucking a woman from behind and she happens to have an egg-shaped head. No, no, she’s not stupid. You want to enter the center of her head and eat the yellow part of that egg, but you won’t ever get there. It’s not that she doesn’t want you to, but she wants to be the first to enter it herself, do you understand?
Weird that my other favorite Dali piece is “In Voluptas”, weird because I don’t see naked women, I see the face of the clown from Rob Zombie’s Devil’s Rejects.
I might not always see much in clouds, but I see a lot of things in paintings, like dirty things, which I don’t really understand. I think I am too disconnected during sex, you are supposed to let the brain go, which I do, but there’s something in me that I cannot connect with (yet).
And you see that’s Ellen’s problem, too, except that I know how she can be healed. As for me, I need to find another way.
Butterfly sex, who knows.
Neurosurgeon.
Elephant trunks.

You think about crazy stuff when numb. Like the other night I woke up and forgot for 2 seconds who I was and where I was. It was two seconds of thrill and some of it is still with me. I felt like I had the power to recreate.

Then I played some Beck music and realized that I was still high from the forest air. I saw two moths, however, not having sex.

No, currently I don’t need to get laid; I haven’t even been touching myself. I’m just hungry for progress and I am working hard on it. And it happens that my imagination conjures up pictures of pleasure, which in real life don’t feel the same as they look, although butterfly sex is a bit of a turn-on.

When moths have air sex they must look beautiful while exchanging colored scales.

Jelly

Maybe it’s a good thing if my body decides that excessive eye lubrication is of obsolete nature. I no longer need it. However, I cannot decide for sure if it’s a good thing or not. It’s either I’ve grown too strong or the level of indifference has surpassed the bucket of my former emotions. They’re all gone.

The jelly has finally grown hard.

During the course of writing (the novel), I was seeking more depth in a book called “The Pattern of Madness” by Symington in order to apply it to my protagonist. The center of our personality is a jelly with no particular form. So if a person says that s/he is a mess, we know we all are. On the inside we are a bunch of fragments with no order whatsoever on how to restore sanity.

You speak of control, but that’s not enough.

You need motivation.
A friend says that motivation is desire. Desire can be a lot of things: greed, attraction, envy, …
Can you prove to me that desire can be of selfless nature?
You seek motivation in order to move yourself forward.
Even Pip, who was motivated by his love for Estella, only went ahead to become a gentleman because he wanted reciprocation. He did it for her, but in the hope of benefitting from it.

My protagonist lives her life based on a lie, and yet motivated by her flaws she is curious whether she could ever come to terms with the past.

This proves that unrequited love can be used as a tool, the excitement lies behind the notion of not knowing – there is only hope. But people will never understand what I mean by that – the art of not knowing but urged by the desire to find out.
You don’t understand.

Anyway, back to the jelly: If you cannot speak for yourself, it means your jelly is gelatinous and vulnerable. Therefore in your life you will work upon hardening and shaping it. There is nothing more to personality.
Let’s take greed as an example. Once you’re driven by greed, you will notice how it rouses you into action. The jelly inside starts to take form and that makes you a person with personality, but not so quick, this is just a part of the whole thing, as we are all preys of the narcissistic condition. The jelly needs a particular desire and if you take greed, you will see that we always “want”.
It’s not a bad thing, unless what we are…who we are is a bad thing.

In fact, I am not too sure about her jelly in the end.

It’s time to check.

Norwegian Smile

And tears wouldn’t even come after Stand By Me; not even during the teariest scenes where Gordie and Chris are crying in each other’s arms. I probably need a higher dose and move on to Dead Poets Society – which always works, but it’s not autumn yet.

It’s interesting to experience my pride wounded, interesting because you would expect heartbreak of some sort in a girl. But at present I can’t even stimulate eye lubrication anymore, it’s simply not coming through, as if there is nothing left to feel emotional about. Though, I shouldn’t complain, should I? I remember I used to feel an imaginary itch back then, once scratched, everything was ok and the tears would just flow from the mountains and wash away the unclear.

That’s now gone. The river’s gone dry.

Deletion time. I’ve been quite brave for emptying my phone inbox, email inbox, etc. What are disappointments from 2011 still good for? For remembrance?

Never has indifference leveled up that high inside me. I’m even prone to telling lies recently as it saves time and explanation.

Having failed to blend in in the last couple of days, I’ve caused a lot of suspicion, I suppose, particularly today, all because I could not ignore my pained pride, which is another aspect of not being good enough to people. Feels familiar.

If only I could dig out Ernest and punch him hard in the face. I play that scene in my head sometimes. He and I have a tea party and I would condemn him for publishing “Men without Women”. At the same time we would be listening to Chris Cornell (a living version of Ernest…) and he would simply watch me go mental.

In the name of the God of Harvest, the leader of the Titans and ruler of Saturn…this numbness is unbearable. Enter me now and give me strength. If on Sunday I am a wimp again, I will ask for more needle and no more numbing cream this time – no, not for the purpose of punishment, but endurance. I can take some more, like Buk and still stand straight. I will prove it to you.

People ask me why I invested money in a scythe. I said for harvest.

Today I looked the Norwegian in the face and sensed nothing, except that I imitated his grin – a very unsettling moment at first…

If empathy or even antipathy, I don’t really care, but I figured, there was a short moment of a mutual sentiment.

No, not evil.

Just indifference.

Nothing else.

Four more months. And I hope the smile will become bright again. On my face. A smile that they can understand.

Right now I feel sad and alone, because the current smile is not understood by anyone.

This is the main reason why I want to be somewhere else now, for nothing is holding me back here.

However, the hole is growing deep. There’s not much time left.

I shall be leaving.

Follow that smile, so far away.

Against the Sun God

I do enjoy sitting naked at my desk while listening to KoRn. Despite continuous perspiration, trouble breathing and this banging headache I am surviving this day well.

Though having come back from the night sky, I guess I haven’t quite gotten used to being on earth again.

The heat fucks up my circulation and blurs my thought process. The hot water has washed away the scab, which is good (stops me from picking), but the heat has penetrated my body like a virus…

I shall keep control and distract myself…

In the night sky I saw a little bit of Cronos who is still far away from me. From October onwards he shall be closer. I wonder how often he thinks about me, how he likes my art, and how much he will harvest this year.

Until then I’ll have to teach myself to be alone again.

It’s not the same without him.

Sky tonight

There is no room to accommodate tiredness and sometimes you can escape it by merely keeping yourself busy with whatever interests you.
I’m currently charging well. Plug in the music, connect it with my soul and life is back.
The words are back.

I get scared of my own smiles sometimes, especially when it happens in public and I forget the reason of the smile. That’s an awkward moment as the muscles in the face go stiff and funny as though embarrassed.

I can smell autumn, that’s the only reason why I seem happy to you recently. Other than that you don’t know the slightest thing about this face.

The year has gone by rather quickly, it feels like it’s tomorrow that I have to hand in my thesis. And when thinking about it, I get nervous.
Ellen has been waiting. She wants to re-experience the fucks just to make sure I didn’t miss anything internal.
I didn’t miss anything.
There’s just something else that I have to work on. And I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t know how.

And whenever I feel like asking her for forgiveness, I feel odd. Who am I to ask? She chose that path herself. Or maybe I’m just attempting to shrug off the guilty conscience, for I have given her life.

My fingers and nails smell funny; somewhat like disinfectant and body lotion, which is a very unpleasant mix and it kind of defamiliarises me from this place. Why my hands are in the constant need of cleansing, I don’t know. I don’t do anything bad, not that I know of anyway. And yet I can’t dodge this presentiment that I will commit something nasty.

A sentiment that keeps one up at night.

Tiredness has gone for a long walk this time.

For the sky tonight is beautiful.

Implementation and Haribo

Haribo at nighttime seems a bit wrong, but the way the sweet taste melts on my tongue is quite soothing.

I’m running out of bepanthen and my back is peeling badly, but at least it’s no longer painful. I was such a wimp as well, because he had to add numbing cream on my back. However, he said I was a brave girl for choosing that motif. What’s so brave about it when I have a reason, when it has a meaning? So I unite menace with beauty and Greek mythology with nature and astronomy – what’s the big deal here, I don’t know.
What’s it to do with you?
What’s it to do with me?
A hell of a lot.


The end of a chapter.

Soon it’ll be harvest time – time to collect and prepare.

These people cannot decide whether it’s warm or cold, but the truth is, it’s just right. The temperature has never been any better. You might think its instability corresponds with a mind’s insanity and you might be right, haha.
It almost smells like autumn; the smell that gives people colds, which they deserve.

While they sniff I will prepare.

For a new chapter.

A better chapter.

The most exciting thing is knowing that I will be the one to write it and to make it happen.

My only reason to rise from the bed and get out.

I love this part.

Implementation.

Another sweet before bed.

Attachment and meaninglessness

I bled on my bed sheet last night.

I’ve lent my Vanish soap to someone and I’m not sure when I’ll get it back. Funny that whenever you get something dirty all you can think about is how to get it clean again. But would your first thought ever be to replace it? Probably, if you can’t be bothered or it depends on how much you care about the object.
Despite my tendency to throw everything away, I would try cleaning it before I consider a replacement. Not always, though. It’s a matter of attachment.
How about you? Do you form attachment to objects and give it meaning?
I am fascinated by how certain objects play a decisive role in shaping a person; you become a slave of the object by obsessing over it. In my current case, it’s the bed sheet and a post-it-note from 2007.

Good to know that our heads instinctually create meaning for everything…and within the meaning arises a warm familiarity that equals security.

Without intending to impose existentialism on you, I think if it hadn’t been Sisyphus and his love-hate-relationship with the boulder, I wouldn’t even be where I am now. The boulder has probably turned into an internalized image of Sisyphus and all he sees in the boulder is the purpose of his life.

I see the same thing when I stare at the white sea.

It might all be meaningless, but when I see the white sea I want to strip myself naked and jump right in, have the sea suck mind, blood and all my entire heart until there’s nothing left. I give the sea all I have, because I have a lot to give away, especially for cleansing. The result is exposure through words that I put together; it’s a game that turns me on so much. However, many times the sea would spit it all back at me and I’m again a prisoner of the heat that I myself create. I don’t want it. That’s when the game turns into a war.

No time for truce.

Just more stripping.

And, I need my soap back.

You know this sudden moment of defamiliarisation when staring at something for too long and not realizing it because you got carried away? Then the person next to you says
“You were miles away.”

Erase all memories and struggle with the remaining feelings that you cannot comprehend? Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is a shit film. Nothing will ever go away unless you embrace it entirely and say
“Everything will be ok.”

When you are in need of transparency of the mind, you write down words that chronicle your situation and if you are clever, there will be one sentence that reads
“Truth be told, I’m lying.”
Sometimes you go through different stages of perception, and the key sentiment is placed at the end of the queue. What you should’ve felt first had been a victim of suppression, but you don’t realize it until Kelly Jones sings
“It means nothing.”

My curiosity always surpasses my fears, which is good, because I’m one step ahead of the next big thing I have in mind. There is so much to do, so much to achieve and I say
“I don’t want to lose the time to come.”

When I see beauty in what you find ugly, I get the urge to clean your eyes and make you see things my way, but I won’t as you will make it lose meaning. So I will only I tell you
“This is how I view things.”

“It’s not meant to be understood.”

“Just meant to be questioned.”

“It’s not about answers.”

“But possibilities.”

Simple

Today I woke up, same like every night Mesmerised by dreams so bright Chasing strangers that I don't know But convinced they'll help me grow A stranger's arm on my shoulder What is in the eyes of the beholder? I forgot, forgot that I must not Blot my lips in the blind spot And life can be ever so simple In the depth of the child's dimple The God of Wine succumbs to frenzy With libido levels rising immensely Still young enough to lie and deny Too indifferent to even heave a sigh Hopeful for the days yet to come But leaving things unsaid, undone Ready to simplify this life's motion By adding value to my only notion Of facilitating the itinerary I am ready

Autumn fuck me

The smell of autumn is coming my way to pat my nostrils and current fucked up head; been scratching my scalp, nipples and labia too hard. Evidently the delayed feeling of anguish did not evaporate in the oblivion capsule like I hoped it would, but never mind. So in order to suit this ugly face I’m currently not using hair conditioner, cos when things are smooth you tend to slip.

The switch from sunshine to rain is like a mental disease that propels you to walk on a string of ideas; it’s stimulation at its best, a movement, as nothing is constant. Only spring and autumn have the ability to present it. Spring symbolizes the beginning while autumn represents the end. As you may know, I’m rather partial to the latter.

The effort I invest into blending in needs to be balanced out by a long session of music intake as otherwise an indescribable series of numbness will penetrate my limbs and my spine will spread a signal of severe tiredness through my head and chest. Like you want to cry and it’s not coming.
There is just this feeling that something’s not quite right with your face.
Maybe I should test each experiment one at a time instead of all at once, but I can’t do anything about my great curiosity that revolves around “what if”. It’s a compulsion.
Discovering truths, learning new and more effective techniques to live and explore what makes me weak and step out before it forces me down on my knees and forget who I really am. You know what I am talking about. There is a danger involved sparking a kind of fear that makes us take a step back, not all of us, though.

When F. helped me to nurture my abilities last year, I perceived the essential significance within my alter ego. She is of higher standards and a lot more successful, but her flaws are my invention of what could be referred to as my imagined paradise of a successful human being. Motivated by the lie planted in the heart and tickled by her libido, she ultimately integrates herself into a spot in society where she is highly regarded as successful. A lie, after all, can evolve into a piece of truth, as we always need a certain reason for our actions. There is nothing wrong with making things up sometimes. All writers are being accused of this. Accused of what? Facilitating life by creating lies that mirror each individual’s perception of his shadows and thus builds empathy of the highest order. That’s how we get together as far as I know. And this is what I want to do, no matter how much I despise each single one of you.

When Hemingway said that all typewriter-addicts did was sit and bleed, he was right. It makes me wonder how much he bled, judging by his sense of composure, probably drop-by-drop, while some would hemorrhage on the first page.
I saw Hemingway’s tears in the rain, his affection through the way he touched her and his kindness in nursing his fellow soldiers.
Stoic people don’t tell anyone how much it aches.

Emotions are never to be shown.

And Greenland melted with me

There are plenty of ways to interpret the seeds. You call it hope, devastation, sperm or absolutely nothing. The garden is a nice image of aspiration, but what matters is actually the road. To me anyway. Whatever happens in your life, you’ll always feel like walking it because you are attracted by infinity. It doesn’t matter where you are heading, important is that you never stop. The road, the countless steps – they represent possibilities, however, with more obstacles than you can think of; just like a kid leaving his toys on the floor. And your job will be to pick them all up before you continue the walk. One may spend more time looking at a toy than the other; there is nothing wrong with that, as long as your temperature is not rising. Once it starts to rise, then it will be time to move on before you grow too heavy for the ice.
The road provides you balance and a solid ground. There is no need to watch your feet this time; you are at ease an your eyes are solely fixed on infinity. You stumble upon a plastic elephant or a can of Pepsi, but you don’t care, you just keep on chasing the purpose of your life. I like that. It might the most selfish thing ever, but how often have you warned them about the melting ice and they never listened?
Apathy is wet and cold. Sometimes it’s beneficial if you want to keep certain unwanted sentiments off the table. As long as you know when to come out, it’s all good, because apathy, as a defense mechanism can be cruel.
You remember Alice in Wonderland when she simply licks the piece of bread in order to recover her main size? Experience has taught her to take control, has led her through a kind of self-discovery that is both adventurous and sexual.
So many puzzles to pick up from the road! So many people to growl and smile at! Just hardly time to stop…
…which is ok. You’ve swallowed the garden.

Perceptions and presentiments

This is by far one of the prettiest summer-autumn I’ve experienced. The motivating chills and fresh smells have been keeping my head clear somewhat, although I see by the twitch in your eyebrow that you disagree, but it’s natural to disagree with the way one perceives the weather. Not only the weather. So often being accused of painting a dark shade on everything. And it would never occur to you that it looks pretty and makes other people smile. So many accusations lately…I shall seal my lips and blend in. It saves some useless explanations.
Truth is I’m tired. But it’s not the time to sleep.

There is no such thing as empathy or comprehension of the exact same kind. Even a mutual feeling is not at the same length (but you may believe so). There is only similarity. Just like we don’t perceive the beauty of love the same way. This is supposed to make things more interesting. Hm.
It may be difficult to view things from all angles and not just rely on your own, and once you understand your friend’s point of view, you feel that you have broadened your mindset. It feels good.

I love sunshine, even when it blinds my mind and makes me sleepy. However, I miss my nocturnal activities and so does my brain. That’s when everything’s at its place, waiting to be utilized for creative purposes. I can then live out my obsessions; line up strings of thoughts and ideas that will set my mind free or at least distract me from everything unpleasant. It’ also the time when my libido level rises, but I apply sublimation so it becomes a sexy piece of fiction.

Recently I’ve been occupied with presentiments, but not of the good kind. I will not elaborate, for I cannot. If I have to apply Jung’s concept of emotional conflict in relation to the unconscious I feel like I have to polarize my sentiments and support only one extreme, rather than both at the same time, but I don’t know which one. The middle part currently involves too much uncertainty and indecision that are infuriating me, but they are all self-inflicted; I admit that. It’s the same dilemma as Nemo’s in “Mr Nobody”, except that I can’t go into the future to check which extreme will eventually … it doesn’t matter now. You evaluate yourself as you go.

I don’t want to feel presentiments. They come in a blur along with a bad taste in my mouth. And whenever I filter them into a piece of fiction, I feel released. Why do you think I’m so calm? I can always burst another day...when you’re not looking.

Today I made someone cry by saying nothing. It was very unexpected.

Tell the kid to play

Sometimes the feeling that you can do anything leads you astray and you are aware of it, but the idea of going wrong tastes so sweet on your tongue… You spread the sweetness on your teeth and you swallow. The result is a tingle in your stomach. Before you ask yourself where to go from here you do a little tango dance. It feels warm and familiar and yet you condemn it for its inexplicable presence. Lie. The truth behind this is it’s a lie…the tingle is by no means inexplicable. There is just the ongoing concept of denial and endless string of cognitive dissonance. But do you resent her? Probably so. You can hate her for it. She can pinpoint the cause of anything, but there is no reason to talk about it, as it is merely a series of repetition, similar to a soap opera with plenty of reinventions to keep you interested. She filters a lot of things, so often that it loses meaning and new meanings have to be invented. One must not run out of creative motivations – one must not neglect the purpose of his presence, no matter if based on truth or lie. Just do something.

Indiferencia

There are no words just because I no longer have the time frame for in depth literature and I know what you are going to say, but there is nothing that I am not aware of. Same as you, what makes my world turn is the array of words that stimulates my former string of sticky emotions to actually act to something. And right now they are slipping, I am.
The only current interesting pursuit is to find the spider hiding in my broken fireplace. Every other day I sweep the dust and break the cobwebs – the sticky silky threads with no food but dust and ashes. I don’t know what it is he wants to catch; I haven’t had any ladybugs visiting recently. And yet I envy him for his sticky webs.
Actually, I lied, there is another pursuit: I have decided to become a part-time snail saver who goes out on rainy days to save those creatures from the nightmarish human pathway. Maybe I don’t really facilitate their lives, and maybe I end up putting them back to the start, or maybe they had a death wish of which I wasn’t aware, but nevertheless, whatever you do involves some form of guilt. You question your ability and most of all, the reason why you do it.
Animals are supposed to be driven by their survival instincts only, but since Graham Greene’s story about the pig that leaped off the roof and killed a man, I think otherwise. You hear about wolves and crocodiles mauling a human being, but in that story you have a pig that has presumably committed suicide. Maybe these creatures think about tomorrow after all.
One day all pigs will discover there are places such as roofs.
I wonder whether animals understand the concept of indifference. Some look at you and then they look the other way. So I think they do. Only food will give them an impetus to rouse into action, but apart from that, they’re as deep in apathy as most living things. Has my friend taken me too far and triggered an overkill? One dose of indifference, two doses…it was nothing but self-defense, only to avoid…you know, disappointment. On top of that I’ve been listening to the silence for so long that I’m now too anxious to go outside and face the discordant noise. It sounds like death in my ears.
Do you ever think you’ve thrown too much away? Most people I know wouldn’t dare to throw anything away and things would accumulate and you’d be trapped in your own clutter, which will lead towards suffocation. To some people trivial things are valuable. It’s true, triviality adds up to something big, something you grow attach to. Why is that when you have something, all you can think about are the risks of losing it? And while feeling that way, everything in your stomach begins to swirl and you fear the moment that might determine your life. It’s not about thinking too much as a human being; these images are just there. They come as broken fractions in dreams and precognition during the day and it’s freaking me out – big time.
My recent dreams encompass a high level of stormy weather and the only save place is the attic. It turns me on somehow, it’s very romantic, but not when you’re alone and turn into a pig. It’s quite sad, because you’re plagued with fractured thoughts that lead to no conclusion. The pig wanders back and forth. Eventually he loses interest…

The hamster wheel

The head feels twice as big and you refuse to take painkillers. Still, I ran a little around 6 miles today in 75min, same for tomorrow. Never did I care about the distance, but about time and now I care about where I could have run. If someone tells me the road is open, I picture a vast space that leads to anywhere and yet it seems like I prefer to spin my hamster wheel behind closed doors. I like to envision myself in the midst of daylight with a clear head, but the rod cells in my eyes are more dominant than the cone cells, therefore during the day, my perception is halfway paralyzed sometimes. This is becoming more and more obvious these days.
Two days of having the mouth shut, I can’t think of anything more soothing and safe, no white lies and other filtered talks where I feel the heaviness of the mask, which is pulling me down, and its itch-inducing substances that are irritating my skin. I’ve been feeling itchy lately. It’s so hard to keep the skin all right. What they perceive is the opposite of me, no matter how hard I try to present the truth.
There are people, you tell them things you don’t want to tell and of course they throw it back at you with criticisms that you have already applied on yourself, so there is no need to hear it spoken by others. Here’s the art of keeping your mouth shut. After so many years I watched The Crow again, my favourite fictional love story encompassing a justified reason for retribution. It makes me want to work harder on getting my feelings back, but I don’t want to lose indifference as a friend. You’ll never know what might happen, you know.
I’ve been running faster and faster in the hamster wheel. The faster you run the more likely you’re going to break it. Never will it occur to me that I only have to step off and go outside. It’s not that easy. I have to break it.

Composure

Tomorrow is a long way and apparently it never comes. Have I ever thought about that? I don’t think I have. And you become most aware of tomorrow once it has turned into today. That’s when the man with the scythe will poke my spine and say, “I told you.” I will then smash him in the skeletal face with no further word. He is not my father, neither am I his daughter or disciple. I’m just obsessed with him and he exploits it – love and hate, you know.
There seem to always be someone to point his finger when you have messed something up. In the moment of a fiasco, don’t you tend to ostracize the helpers and other kind-hearted creatures whose hands are always cleaner than yours? It doesn’t matter…
When unaware that you’re in need of restraint, you’re most naïve and forgetful, and sometimes for a good reason; a good reason that unfolds to be an array of sentimentalities, but not always appropriate in regards of exposure.
What about the fact that writing is all about exposure? I remember now, F. said that once. I bumped into him the other week and I hated how I showered him with unpleasantness, like a patient who hasn’t seen his psychologist in a year. Some things should better remain untold, even in moments of desperation.
It’s only just now that I have found composure. There is a soothing sound in the word that relaxes me and I now realize that there are words, which are not worth being said out loudly, especially when they are in dispute and uncertain. There is a novelty in silence, silence is gold – it is deeply running water that will never show on the surface, as it has no reason to taint the world.
Exposure and composure have an affair and composure will impregnate exposure with metaphors that I will type down now while looking composure in the eye. My lips remain sealed.
And maybe my obsession with the man carrying the hourglass will diminish, and all these could-have-beens will disappear for good and today is all that matters. If only I could think more like that. It shouldn’t be that hard.

Thoughts from under the bridge

Vertical carrions, dancing carrions, all crammed into one place. I am not sure what is exactly happening at Southbank – it’s so full of people. The breeze feels tender, but strange, I am unable to distinguish the cold from the hot in this air, as several areas of my perception are affected. I see dirt being washed ashore, an opaque face or ambiguity that reflects the city’s blind eye; probably the eye through which we all gaze during day time…
A carousel is a repetition of movement as though there was no exit for the mind; therefore your footsteps follow those of others. Out of the roundabout – right now. There are too many kids.
Here are so many words and pictures of manipulation, the only aim to coax you into adopting an attitude that suits only them. But the colours and fonts are nice.
And under the bridge I find comfort. The noise of the train drains off the sound of people’s cheering and hand clapping in this vast space. Like an emulation of thunder. A low sky so rusty, but close enough to worship with confidence.
There is the deep water that’s keeps looking up. It’s keeping the secrets below. And if the rusty sky falls, its overwhelming weight will push you down and crush you along with your secrets. It was a fake sky after all.
What’s real is behind the rusty sky. But what on earth is behind that thing that you worship? What’s behind that face you wonder? Doesn’t it kill you every time you realize that you won’t ever know?
Vertical carrions, dancing carrions, we’re a walking paradox, living by choice, smiling through the void as we create something to fill it and the fill is all that counts. But the void is always hungry, as it digests fast. In a case of danger you should always keep a creative invention in your pocket, but nothing will ever be good enough.

Mickey Mouse Bullshit

Whenever someone writes about endurance my chest begins to tighten up like I could throw up the delicious ice-cream cone that I’ve just consumed. I admire those who can take a lot without ever defending themselves. They take it, they swallow it and that’s the trouble gone. Take the blame and that’s it. They love you for it, it’s as you’ve washed their hands clean from sin. Blame me and my heart will not be stirred by it at all. It’s the art of indifference. There is a lot to fight against, but there are people who are not worth the effort. So I try to view it as a children’s game. We come up with so many concepts; concepts that educate and inspire the young and the moment this young person feels most alive is when he is most courageous and would gamble with his life if it came to it. Years later, he’ll realize that experience is an influence that has implanted many seeds in his mind and body and they’re growing like diseases…One feels them when he shudders. This is how anxiety comes to life. But I ignore it. I try to view it as a children’s game as much as I can. I know I’m in need of a territory that’s spacious enough to accommodate my mess, although I am not sure what mess, as I throw away a lot of things. Once it’s gone, I don’t think about it, no matter how attached I’d felt to the object. Maybe a person changes after all, I don’t know. But really, the moment you view something as a children’s game, you no longer find the seriousness behind it all and you simply let go, because it no longer matters. In the end there are a lot of things that you don’t give a shit about, but you can’t make them go away. I forgot about those. If only scars were like bruises. Once you have your shit together doesn’t mean you have gained faith, it simply means you have tidied up your kids’ toys, nothing else. I think faith is something different… On the other hand, playing a children’s game for real is a whole different scenario. Two adults who play Mickey Mouse Bullshit is a sacred thing and I never realized the preciousness behind it. Games where losing and winning do not matter… Don’t you sometimes close your eyes to teleport yourself somewhere? And the moment you open your eyes you’re still here. I guess this is what P. K. Dick meant when he said reality doesn’t go away. To me reality is the result of soberness so far stretched like the way you perceive things hours later after a joint. Sometimes the melancholy involved can be very romantic and you shed some tears of appreciation, but it also happens that you come to realize something unpleasant. Like now, I feel hot, I feel heavy and I am not sure how long the ice is going to hold me. Do you ever try to look at your feet when you’re dreaming? I don’t think it’s possible, but we can turn it into a children’s game and call it “Where are my feet?” This will game will be purpose. I need that.

Sweating it out until nothing’s left

As this growing heat permeates my body and I am unable to stop it, I just let it consume me for a while to see what it tasted like. It tasted very bad and left a salty aftertaste on my tongue, inciting bitterness to linger for too long. It’s not self-infliction; it’s merely the result of my body’s attempt to drain the foul smell of impurity that results in guilt. Veins are showing everywhere, as if the blood-flow is rushing crazily; only an accumulation of wasted thoughts and second hand feelings going in circles and you’re too much of a coward to break free. There is this negative force that you depend on, and it absorbs the only energy that you have; the precious energy that you could use to create something of value. Lately it has been hard to focus and distinguish the real from the unreal, as if I’ve been dragged closer to the border of where the two worlds meet. A secure smell would linger on my hands and arms, like fiction coming to life. And you realize this is too good to be true. And it’s happening to you and not the others. Melancholy stung me like a delirious wasp spreading a sort of numbness, which was overkill. There are times where the potion of anger is too inferior to melancholy and there is no more strength left to hold up the anger or you simply chose it that way. Thank God it’s only temporary. E. never chose to be weak, except just the once. That was ok. I never resented her. Sometimes you are curious what that the kiss of death tastes like. She likes the evident risks, because she is strong and determined. She survived that kiss. Here is my superego working against me like every day...

Filter

Beneath the scar the truth is buried, so they think. But whether or not memories are the truth, I no longer know. Every day you filter something, no matter if a feeling, a thought or even an event. We tell stories the way we remember it and this makes us liars… technically. Some people don’t like photographs or videos, because they want to remember things their way. This is not necessarily denial or lying to yourself, not if you believe in fiction. Like I do. In the end – it’s all about the feeling. Fucking feeling. They are right about mind over matter; here’s the fucking mind determining what to do and what not to do. For example why would I not want to hold my hand in front of fire or hit my head against the wall? Why is the mind cooperating with my will? And why is my body not participating in this debate? It’s too scared to admit that nociceptors are are the heartbreakers of the human body! And it’s the heartbreakers that make us human, because pain is mandatory? I know as a person I have nothing better to reflect other than this. I wish I would think about other things, like learning chess or getting married. Apathay…at least apathy keeps problematic sentiments off the table. But you know, - me and apathy - it sucks me in like a black hole and it takes a lot of effort to get back out. I’m sorry to inform you that it didn’t get me this time. I told you about my friend indifference, who is a lot tenderer. He doesn’t take me for granted. He makes me think. If everything is meaningless and only survival instinct counts then what are we trying to preserve? And the answer is who cares? We are here to act, to feed on day and night. We are here to taste and fuck each other as we’re all the same. Did I just write we’re the same? No, we are not. Each of us is unique and original (with exceptions). Some have big egos, some have small egos. Some are still waters, some are angry waves. But whether or not you are who you are for a reason, I don’t know. It’s your job to know. How do you practice defence mechanisms if you want to protect your ego? Do you shut others out or do you have to show all your bad to everyone? Either way, I don’t think any of us know how to protect oneself. If beneath your scar you unfold the truth, why will it matter to anyone? They don’t know you, they cannot comprehend, that’s why it doesn’t matter what you share with people. They won’t know what to say. They are all so fucking speechless, unlike friends. Friends and people are different species. Some people judge you by what you find funny, what you eat and what you believe in, as if it matters. There’s a creature in you that lives on your tears and I want it to starve to death. If I ever make you cry, I will break my cheekbones, I promise. Oh self-denial you sexy little minx… And interesting realization: people think I lack intelligence and confidence, while friends think I lack happiness and freedom. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how people or even friends view each other. I don’t understand communication, common sense or even reason…basically, being human is… What you remember won’t ever go away…just to come back to the previous topic in this incoherent blog entry of mine. You keep it in a safe at the back of your head, for good. Why we filter so much, I don’t know, either. Maybe it’s a sign that the truth doesn’t matter. BUT IT DOES. I wish the truth wouldn’t push us away so much. I said lying was not bad as long as you admit it in time. I believe that we all know the truth, because we’re part of it. We’re just incomplete. I don’t understand why people say we are made of dust, we are made of cells. Dust is what we will become. It’s hard to hold an ongoing line of things that relate to each other. My mind is currently fucked, but tomorrow I will forget.

To Autumn

TO AUTUMN I walked up Telegraph Hill earlier. I’ve never seen that hill during the day and it looked nice. And there was a tree, which waved me over – just like that. So I moved closer, leaned against it and we started talking. I’ve never seen him before, but he said he saw me running every other morning when it was still dark. I asked how he could recognize me in the dark and he said he could smell me, because I’m the only human outside nearby the park. He asked “Why do you go running so early?” And I said I liked the smell of cold fresh air. I accidentally stepped on his foot, but it didn’t hurt him, he told me that all his life he’d been rootless and now was the time for him to strike roots. I asked him Why, but he wouldn’t answer me. I was watching how his arms were pointing at different directions as if he was figuring out where to go, where I should go. Then the wind started to determine everything, the sun appeared from behind the clouds, blinding me. There was an ant crawling on my finger. After a long break, the tree said: “…Fill all fruit with ripeness to the core.” That was the last thing he said. I could feel some warmth when our legs touched. And I realized that he was quoting a poem by John Keats. But I didn’t know what he meant or what he was trying to say. If you know the meaning, let me know. My perception of the poem is currently blurry.

Father Time

If there is one enemy that I have, it shall be time. It's time alone that does what it wants during the absence of your attention. It can be a good thing sometimes, but too often, you open your eyes and you realize that you have wasted too much of your precious time. Yes, precious. I guess it's a love & hate thing after all. And yet, my love for Father Time doesn't grant me the mercy that I was aiming for. He knows no mercy, neither does the tip of his sickle. Time never ever stood still, either. It's all perception, cerebral illusion, not optic, but cerebral. You just don't know how to live with it best, so you decide to ignore it, unaware that the consequences could be fatal. I wonder how does the heart perceive? I don't think I understood it the way I was supposed to, like they did. So I thought it was merely chemistry – like every reaction has an end. But I'm no longer sure what to make of it. Like reality, time is always there…to be consumed or maybe to be ignored. Nothing ever goes away. Through the numbness you look at the clock and it doesn't seem to matter anymore. But when looking at the hourglass, how the sand flows from one glass bulb into the other, you get a sense of urgency. You are more aware of what you have got – and that's time. Learning to get on with time…

Mirth of Saturn

It happens a lot that a moment just vanishes within a blink. You’re no longer sure what there is that you can still capture. It’s all going away as if it has never been here in first place. Seize the moment. You hear this and you go stiff, spending too much time thinking if it’s going to be another mistake. The next thing you realise is that the footsteps have receded into a distance so you can no longer tell where you are and whether or not you’ve followed any steps. So you either turn back or you stand there. Pretending not to be lost, you do not hesitate to choose a direction, because you’ve always been good at making decisions. You know you can’t have it all.
You have a choice. By all means choose. You can go anywhere you want.

There is a bed on which you could sleep for ten years, but as soon as you are underneath the cover, the horror of thought consumes your essence by turning tranquillity and reason into slaves of the wake. You press your eyes shut so tightly, they begin to water. Monsters and noises are rain dancing on the top of your head like nightmares looking to set free. Your planet is getting closer, longing for your long lost company.

Nothing is quite as it seems because you never know the meaning of what you see or experience. They say it doesn’t matter, it just happens. It’s going to be a good day. So why care about the reason of it all?
But truth be told, you never cared.
You just have a myriad of questions of which the answers do not add up to the truth.

Not even the greatest minds in history made it any further, so why would you?
In the end they no longer questioned and that’s the key to mirth. They knew it, of course. The endless string of inquisitions was what made them miserable and despicable. They couldn’t help it. Everything comes with a question; one after the other. It’s hard living and not knowing.
While there are a great number of things of which we know the answer, there are places where we’ve never been, like on Saturn where you wouldn’t survive with merely helium gas.
They say Saturn’s rings are particles of a former moon that smashed apart in a collision millions of years ago. But Cronos prevailed. Titan actually has an atmosphere with gravity so weak, you could strap a set of wings on you arms and fly. Cronos will lift you up.
Only with a heat like yours you will survive the cold.
They say Saturday children are very much influenced by Saturn’s stormy weather. So far away from the sun, what did you expect? Only the cool autumn air can tame your heart and brain, so tender, so homely. With Saturn’s low density you will float on water. (However, where you are now, you will sink into the deepest abyss)
When listening to the eerie sounds of Titan and Saturn’s rings recorded by Nasa you realise they are similar to the noise which you’d once heard during an unnerving afternoon nap some years ago. It was not the unplugged television after all.
Your first year on Saturn.

Hourglass

If only you knew that the climate change has become the equivalent of who we are in reality – a little off balance. I haven’t quite wrapped my head around this and I never would have thought I would say this, but I admire old couples, although I’m not the most tolerant person when it comes to old age. Still there is something admirable about consistency, as in the concept of accepting things the way they are and not questioning them. A shame that there is only little that I accept and my questions never seem to have an end.

I like the end of things. This is why autumn is the most meaningful season that we have and currently, along with the climate change, we get a lot of autumn. So does this mean we’re approaching the end of things? Or just the end of you? Funny that you don’t think about these things.

In the early morning between 5 and 6 I smell spring in the damp air, in the pink blossoms and in the evening I smell the end of the day, the smell of autumn, the smell of the end and I become calmer. I’ve figured that everything and everyone smells inexplicably bad during the day. They’re everywhere robbing your air, your space and your soul.
The only sentiment that you’re left with is loss, because deep inside you believe that we are here to create and share and you’ve realized you’ve done none of that today.

It’s cold, but the window will remain open throughout the night. I guess I need to capture autumn as much as I can, as I’m still heating up and it’s difficult to suppress that. Keep that child’s forehead cool with a wet towel. You see he’s hallucinating again. He thinks you’re Cronos, his favourite Greek God who has arrived to give him an hourglass. Our days come in grains of sand through the hourglass.

Delirium is a nice place to be if you have no fear; you have to be awake, as fear only shows in your dreams.

I lied; I don’t like the end of things. I only pretend I do. There is a danger in looking forward to things and the danger is the fear of the transitory.

Each grain counts. And this I need to remind myself every day.

Fear and change

So many people have accidentally called me recently. By “accidentally” I mean, they have their phones in their pockets and somehow a movement caused a certain touch and unlocked their phones that way. How interesting. The phone is telling you that I still exist. I mean my phone’s ringing, isn’t it? It’s just a shame that when I pick up I am immediately teleported into your pocket. What’s more interesting, when I miss the call you then leave me a 4-minute voicemail with funny noises. The last voicemail sounded like Curtis preparing his suicide.

You remember when I said the William Tell game is not merely about trust? There’s a hell of a lot of fear involved, opposed to your own belief in yourself. And it is self-belief that scares the shit out of me. Doubt is what we’re grown up with and it will always be a root in our conscience that we cannot rip out.
Fear is not always rational, but it’s there; it’s not something that we can simply dispel from every day life. If there is one thing that I’ve realized it’s that fear can be tackled in association with indifference. It begins with the question “Why?” and “Is the fear really worth it?” I know that we have instincts, too, and most of the time we cannot comprehend. But does the animal ever question the inexplicable?
I noticed that the only time you really express fear is in your dreams, which pretty much says it all, right? Fear grabs hold of everything that’s you, such as your guilt, your flaws and even your achievements and shakes them like milk. And now where has your balance gone?

Deconstruction is all about the significance of change, no, sorry, the certainty and inevitability of change. This leads us back to fear, as people fear change, no matter if for the better or worse. Change is a disruption of the clock of consistency. Move time by one hour back or forward and people already get uneasy and restless. But they don’t realize how easily it passes, it’s not even a jetlag, it’s just a little change. It’s not only your body’s clock that you need to worry about, but also your sense of perception and how wide you can open up your mind. For some people it takes a whole life to realize something. This will only happen once a change has entered their life.

The only person who is always hungry for change is the artist – he who cannot settle down. Once he is a victim of a routine like most of ‘them’, he becomes numb and trapped. This numbness is triggered by dull repetitions and swimming with the stream. If he swims the other way he’ll be referred to as the stupid person, the outsider.
In order to set himself free (at least for a little while) he shuts the door and sews his mouths shut. That’s when his face changes and he will no longer be able to hold back or keep that vexatious thought in his head. It’s sore inside his ribcage and he loves it, as suddenly he has come back to life. His vision has transcended into the eyes of illusions, but he prefers to call them inspirations.

I admit that I am scared of phones, because I hate talking on the phone. And if you ring me and keep me in your dark pocket without saying a word, I shall feel even more scared. Or seeing a miscall from someone that you used to like, but you haven’t heard from in a year, you get excited about the fact that they’ve called and it turned out to be a fucking accidental call. Is it sad to say that I listened to that 4-minute voicemail of nothing?
Fuck the phone…fuck the phone…I’ve lost coherence, I’m sorry.
What was I talking about? The significance of fear…
Teach yourself indifference, not necessarily apathy (only if you know how to get out easily), but indifference is a good friend to make. He is gentle with scars.

Fool

Thanks for reading my latest piece of fiction; I was surprised about the hits on my blog. Thank you. And, no. No, it’s not autobiographical, no. Also, I never studied medicine, either. Would I be booking coaches at a travel agency if I had studied medicine? I guess so, because patients would have died on my table and you’re right, life’s too short to be collecting more guilty conscience. I’m still attempting to eliminate them on paper. They slip through my fingertips.

Do you know why writers have it so bad? Did you know that when Bukowski wrote the screenplay for Barfly, he pretty much earned nothing? Fucking Mickey Rourke got a lot more money for simply pretending to be Buk on the screen. Throughout my entire life I’ve refused to put my belief in pretense. But acting is art; it depends on how it comes across and how you view it. To me, acting is not creation, but it helps in distributing the creation and it gives the creation a universal identity.
Approach.
The way you approach that piece of creation is also a huge matter as it tells us about you. At least it should. I liked someone a year ago who was fascinated by creations and studied them like there was nothing better to do. He would debate about their meanings, analyse the creator’s intentions and apply the values to the world that we live in, but never would he tell me what those creations meant to him, how they shaped him and what he wanted out of them. All I knew was that he was running away from something, but most of all he was creating something. The only pity was that he didn’t show it to me. He was a number 3, therefore one of the creative.

Do you prefer odd or even numbers? Odd numbers, of course. Imagine they’re people and you pair them up. One of them will always stand out and that’ll be you, because you suck.
You suck because you believe in something greater. You were born to think for yourself, have your own way and delve in your creativity, as you believe we are here to create and share.
But why of all people, is the creator the one who is alone? Of course you accuse him of pushing people away and that it’s his own fault, but here it goes, you’re the one that lacks of understanding. You know shit about this person’s needs. I admit he is not easy to deal with, but he has energies to release and if you get too close those energies will harm you. He knows it. Can you not see that he is only trying to save you from him, you blind fuck? Of course not, the creative are the most selfish of all people.

Maybe I should set my quest to finding the stranger who secretly drew me at the cafe upstairs at Foyle’s. For a moment I felt special. I wondered whether I should sit still or play with my hair. That was a nice conversation; conversation through observatory power. Talking is overrated. If only you knew.

Or maybe I shall simply continue dreaming about good looking men who do not speak. Another quest of mine is to go to Montreal to find a guy called Matt whose surname is unknown to me. The only things I know about him is that he is Cancerian, too, and that he builds a tent in less than five minutes. The only thing he left me was the collection of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which I still haven’t read. Sometimes I look through each page to check whether he has left me any notes. He was one of the few who looked at me and understood me right away.

They say I have the tendency to set goals that are out of reach. Don’t you understand? What’s going to happen once you’ve attained your goal which was only within arm’s length? How can you be so unadventurous? Get married and stay the fuck away from me. Dreams are to remain dreams, but you’re supposed to keep looking for them. I don’t know what the fuck people are talking about. If a dream comes true it’s never the way you expected it to be. It’s the feeling of yearning that counts and NOT fulfillment because it doesn’t exist. A human being is a creature that wants it all. The less we get the better. Give the child a toy and it will want another.
Create something that you cannot be and there you go you have a dream, a fool’s dream, which will outlive everything before getting forever lost.

On sex and surgeries

You switch sadness to loathing or the other way round, whichever befalls you first. Of course it depends on your personal preference for that very moment. However, let me tell you that I chose loathing, as for me, this is a way of producing creative energy. Why would you choose to be weak if you could dominate? I’ve worked hard to get here, no matter how high the bars were set at the beginning. Teaching yourself reliance is the most essential lesson in self-development. There is no one out there who is able to access your inner faculties apart from you. I’m not sure if this is what they call soul for I have none. Or I may have decided to sell it to the devil who promised to heal my heart, but it was more like tossing a coin into the well. Since nothing ever happened, I decided to step up to the plate and start working. Waiting for a single miracle might take a whole life and you do not want to waste time, thus I made a decision. The novelty of decision making is one of the least acknowledged rights that we have and yet people are scared of it as they do not know what they want. Speaking of rights, not each of us stands up for his rights, even on the philosophical front referring to mind and body, we face a huge dilemma involving the several voices within us to which we need to respond: the many voices of the conscience and that of the body.
Now you see, not everyone has a conscience, which means that there is no right and wrong. I never really concerned myself with this, for in my case the voice of the body has always been more dominant, particularly the adventurous travelers in my veins. Even Nietzsche put a great emphasis on the human body. It’s the body that makes us who we are. The spirit (if there is one) is nothing without a body; the spirit is not life, it’s either holy or eternally damned and always yearning for heart and brain.
And there you go gibbering about your spiritual path and inner peace like there was something invisible that you can capture. What would you say if I had your heart in my bare hands?
Some people can’t think with their brains or their hearts are devoid of feelings. There is a lot of that kind and since I’m devoid of any identifiable emotion, I yearn for that warm feeling that engulfs the heart during sex and the tingle in my spine during climax. I barely remember this feeling from when I was a child.
In order to get back there I need to fix other people’s hearts. A very wise man, after discovering my dark energies, once said to me that these energies needed a playground and that I was to further exhume them until there was nothing left. However, I’ve realized that those energies are endless, even now. Therefore the only way to accept this is to secretly hope for a cure, but until then I will carry on holding other people’s hearts and succumb to this daily routine in the operating theater with the halogen lights shining upon me.
My hands are always hungry for their flesh and blood and the more I am responsible for their well-being the hungrier they get. Fixing their hearts ultimately makes me visualize my own open thorax on the operating table. I see my pumping heart behind the gates and I wonder who will ever have the power to break through them and save me from that misery. I’ve already done a great deal of self-therapy, not even the novelty of meditation has brought me any closer to my heart, as if it’s not meant for me. I guess I know what people mean with “that person stole my heart” and I am certain that mine’s been stolen, too, and that this pumping organ in my chest is merely a prototype for my android self, an android that longs to be human. If this is how Zarathustra feels, then I’d rather decline the being of an Ubermensch and sink back into the abyss of atavism and dwell in the distant past whose existence at least incorporates the significance of nociceptors, the real meaning of flesh and blood.
What would we be without pain? The day of my downfall is not just my failure to remove those negative energies, but also the loss of nociceptors. I never thought about this so rigorously since the sex I had with Will. The way he drew his finger down my vertebral column sparked a curious chill in my body, not just any chill, but one that made me realize the connection between my brain and my heart. Throughout my life they have secretly been friends, maybe even lovers, but it’s not until I’ve slept with a neurosurgeon that this realization came to mind. The sex with him did serve its purpose. I could tell that he cared about my pleasure as he eagerly delved into my head to read my brain signals. It was intimidating and intriguing at the same time. Unlike the others he noticed on the spot that cunnilingus does not work for me, neither does poking my clitoris. It’s all down to the way of penetration. This is the only invasion and desecration that I allow men to perform but only with my dominance upon them. I used to repress my vaginal discharge so I wouldn’t be moist enough for a good penetration. The result of that was blood. The penis would rub against my sensitive cervix and scratch open a wound. It was a self-induced blood bath during which I lost my virginity again and again. Seeing my blood on their bodies used to give me an unnerving thrill, which I now feel in the operating theater when cutting through the bodies of sleeping subjects. I break their gates by removing two or three ribs and there is my treasure, not bigger than an angry human fist. During each heart surgery the heart is connected with the CPB that stops the heart from beating. The subject is kept alive through a machine. Therefore during surgery I hear no heartbeat which is why it’s necessary to replay the Depeche Mode song over and over again in my head. I need the certainty that the subject is alive and not a machine.
Regarding sex, it is a race of hearts. The harder a heart beats, the more love this person has to offer. I calculate the rate of all my sexual partners. Important is not their heart rate, but mine. And with Stuart I exceeded my limit. Like Will he concentrated on nothing but me and he made me look into his eyes so my mind wouldn’t slip like it always did. With Stuart, however, it wasn’t just the way of penetration, but the way our hearts competed with each other. And for the very first time, I won.
That day I was tired, so I chose sadness.

Wave goodbye

By far, this has been the weirdest and most unsettling time back home. Why? Because nobody has changed. They are just involved in different scenarios, which I haven’t been following, and this is how people drift away from each other. Updating people about my life is the least that I like doing. Sometimes when you have nothing to say, you force yourself to say something utterly banal that ultimately triggers bad mood, because you didn’t want to say it, but you didn’t want to lie, either.
Lies are wonderful. If you admit that they are lies, then YOU are wonderful. What if you don’t care? Bah.

I love people who have every reason to laugh, but they never seem to have the last laugh: The Comedian, Bill Hicks, Pagliacci…
I principally admire those who can express their anger with spoken words. This is anger for real: John Lydon, Bill Hicks, Alec Empire…
Do you see the difference between you and these people? I didn’t think so.

I did something bad again. One more reason why I’m not to be trusted, but you wouldn’t speak to me (!)…while I’m still telling you everything. Anyway, if I hadn’t done it, I’d have never seen the big picture; the picture illustrating a dark hole from which I need to save her.
There are so many people on the High Street, in the Internet that attempt to coax you into donation. When you tell them you can’t even help yourself, they remain persistent by telling you that you have to help others first. I said thanks for the advice; I am trying to help my family. Now get out of my way, I can very well manipulate myfuckingself, too.

I made an unnerving discovery when I re-read my unfinished book. In the last two weeks I only managed to write no more than 1500 words, half of it was based on rewriting. Anyway, the discovery was that my writing was that of Houellebecq (, except that I do not express myself as finely as he does). You remember when I told you that unlike him, I have hope? In the last chapters there is only pretence of it; hope is presented with the face of frivolity. And honestly I haven’t thought about it; I haven’t realised it until now.
The problem is I am very sorry; I absolutely cannot rewrite it again. She is who she is and I am who I am. That much I figured. Either she has a huge thing coming up or nothing. I will always be where I am, with no big thing. I only gave her a choice.

During my stay at home, I am glad that my dreams haven’t been merely fragments, but complete stories. I’ve managed to dig deeper and exhume some fire. Also, it seems that in my dreams I still fantasize about beating the shit out of him. But he always escapes by changing his outward appearance and shape shifting.

Apparently what I write is offensive. If you find my writing offensive, you don’t want to know me. Let’s pray together that you won’t ever have to. On the outside I’m just a coward, not worth making friends with and I shall be glad if you view that way. It’s one effort less to make. I never said I was a good friend. I never ever said that. I prefer my laptop as my companion to anyone that you have to speak to. I sing to you if you like! I dance for you!
Even my ma calls me a selfish bastard, but you know what, I like it best to hear it from her, makes me think she doesn’t know me although she knows me best, as she knows my worst. And this is why she means the world to me and you never will.

It scares me how you, one by one, get married and father/mother a kid, no matter if by choice or accident (Yes, I wrote “accident”). Once that has happened, you blindly push me away and it’s always too late for me to push you away first. Nevertheless, it’s ok. I’m serious, it’s ok. As long as you are happy, nothing else matters, I really, really do not matter and I do not want to matter, either. Please do not misunderstand me, I am truly happy for you. The only sad matter in association with this is just that things are no longer the same and I’ll choose to wave goodbye. I choose to wave goodbye.

Nociceptors

It shouldn’t be that hard to simply let the fear go, whatever it is that you fear it will always come at you sooner or later, whereas the fear will not exist if you replace it with indifference. My former fear of spiders was pretty irrational, as they’d never done anything to me. It was their unusual leg arrangements and fat behinds which distinguished them from insects. I’ve never thought spiders were cute; they more reminded me of evil women, crack whores and other femme fatales.
I’ve read that arachnophobia is abnormal and can only be explained by a human’s instinctive reaction to danger. What danger? Unusual ugliness with eight legs?
As a crab, I have eight less, too, which makes me an arthropod. I undergo molting in order to keep growing, molt my exoskeleton and eat it while mourning over it. The past doesn’t digest well…

Do you ever wonder what it’d be like being an arthropod with no nociceptors? I would like to know for at least a day and then decide whether it’s worth being a mammal. Maybe we’re better of with only physical sensations: hunger, thirst and sex drive. What more do we need? Why do we have to talk and be plagued by pain that constantly needs expression? A centipede would merely keep crawling and a spider weaving. You’d never get the feeling that you’re wasting away and if so, it just happens, no last thoughts, no feelings whatsoever.

To be human, I see no purpose other than to create. The standard human pattern that you follow, if uncreative, is not of my interest.
You create in order to de-clutter the shit that you were born with. This is the purpose of our lives.
We are born and this is who we are. People never change. Some people are born with more deep thoughts than the others – let’s call them artists, artists burning to express these thoughts, but unable to share it with anyone even if he wanted to. Artists don’t have it easy. You find an artist working part or full time in a bar, a restaurant or in retail. Throughout the day they dedicate their efforts to nothing in order to pay for rent and food. Only in the middle of the night this creative energy unravels his pain, anger and recklessness triggered by his views on the unevolved world. These artists, let me tell you, are angry for good altruistic reason. They long for truth and they know the truth. And yet the world turns its back on them. So the artist dedicates his life to opening your fucking eyes. See Bill Hicks, see Alec Empire, and listen to all suppressed voices, but does the majority care? Of course not. Whatever you say, it’ll fall on deaf ears.
This walking ignorance with no ears or eyes, but feet that conform to the marsh of others…

My fear of red tartan patterns, however, wasn’t as irrational. When that big fat man in the tartan suit stood beside my bed at 5 in the morning, I jumped. But instead of harassing me, he slowly floated into the ceiling. How could one’s imagination hurt anyone? Nonetheless, tartan patterns still hurt my eyes.

Why would you say I’m special as I am not? Can’t you just give me a feeling I’m worth being faithful to and we’ll leave it at that? As long as someone is being cheated on he or she is not special in any way. Got that?

Recently my dreams have been coming in broken fragments. Have you ever had that before? It’s as if you can’t live life quickly enough. There is not one moment that seems to last. And it’s very sad, I know. It’s the dynamic of London town to which my mind and body have adjusted to. It’s very sad, I know.
Sometimes I close my eyes and I see a bid grey screen and think of classic black and white movies with Lugosi. I prefer dreams like that to broken fragments.

I envy those who love this city and its dynamics. This is where you see that everyone lives his life their way. I envy your way, your happiness, luck and all, but furthermore, a lot of you deserve it. Therefore I am not saying anything. I am a nice person. I know that people deserve what they deserve.

I discovered the art of not eating after 6pm, no matter what your bed time is. But then again each digestive system, each bowel has a different pace. It depends on how balanced your mind and body is. I know all this.

Why I feel so low I have no idea. In the true sense of the word. Nine. Is the highest alone standing number and I am it. Think about it. The highest. Invincible.
I think I was made on my parents wedding night and it was autumn. They have planned me well; I was to be born in the year of the wood rat. Wood rats have a very bad temper, so look at me. You don’t know me. You will never know me as a person.

You hear so many fucking sirens on Saturday nights, why? It’s nothing but alcohol. I hate the effect of alcohol in other people’s veins. I hate it with all my heart. But right now what I hate most is Ian Curtis, the liar, the cheater. I hate the song Atmosphere, I hate it. Yes, it used to be my favourite Joy Divison song. But he lied. He walked away… in silence. Big big time. You don’t tell others to do what you won’t. Little coward piece of shit.

Here you are listening to me complaining about the heat. Above 15°C oh my…
You hate that and during winter I was listening to you complain about the cold. If only you knew how hot it really is. We’ve been walking for so many years, have you not warmed up yet? Are you seriously that cold? My condolences.
I constantly find myself walking fast, but where to? Not important.

You follow your passion, you follow your desire. But don’t follow people.
The more you know that they’re there, the more translucent your own being becomes. I don’t know if it makes sense to you, but it makes sense to me. And I wish it wouldn’t.
It’s ok to believe in God, just don’t hold the Bible to your heart.

What am I talking about? I’m empty like a shoe box.
I blame the Nociceptors. I blame them.

The curse of the h-a-y question

If I say I’ve written and read more words than I’ve spoken, will you try to change that? It’s not that easy. I may have once said ‘Get me to speak six hours straight and you’ll have found a place in my heart’, but this no longer happens. There’s no one that allows me to be me anymore. The last person was Sam, but he’s no longer here. I do not enjoy talking, I never have. The problem is that people are not as respectful as they think they are.
If you notice that I’m talking (as in speaking) about things that I do not wish to talk about, you’ll have probably led me one step closer into madness. I might hate you for it, but no worries, I will hate myself a lot more for it. Right, we’re not getting anywhere, are we?
Shall we just shut the fuck up and do our thing? As in do what each of us is interested in? Only talk to those who know the right thing to say?
Now a German would say: “Einfacher gesagt als getan.”

So there I am sweating out my temperature every night. It’s awful. But you know what the strange thing is? It feels more like I have drooled all over myself or as if my urine has escaped my bladder and is now perspiring through my pores. Yes, I am disgusting…for expressing how certain things really feel.
Another thing: I believe that sometimes I unbutton my pyjama and touch myself in my sleep, because sometimes in the middle of the night I stir and find my pyjama unbuttoned and the morning I wake up, it’s all buttoned again. Strange, isn’t it?

I still cannot grow accustomed to the face of reality. Do you ever get the feeling that you’re wasting away while in the middle of it? Even if you are a good actor or your way of thinking and concept of socialising are the same as all the others and you go out drinking with them because that’s what everybody does?
Am I being rude? I don’t think I am.
I believe we are all the same, but each of us just has a different taste and I happen to hate all your tastes, because I don’t think you have any. Nonetheless I respect you, so show some respect back.
I have quit blaming people for what they did and do. I understand that there is no point; however, I cannot stop hating them, for this is the only way to maintain my source or energy. I need that kind of fuel, as the other sources are way too simplistic and weak.

What I love about Bill Hicks? Why I cannot stop talking about Bill Hicks? I am using Bill Hicks, you see. I am using Bill Hicks as some form of a template in order to fully pull myself together and just say I don’t care and even if I lose you as a friend, I don’t care. Just don’t make me feel like I have to keep my likes and dislikes to myself. I want to tell you how much I hate kids and spring, how much I dislike being among people drinking (don’t care about drugs) and admit that I find amusement within very filthy things and laugh about dark humour that might be too dark for you. I don’t like how you tell me to smile while I do not have the same reasons as you to do so. I have my own reasons. It’s not that I do not smile at all; I simply don’t find you funny or in any way smile inducing. My family makes me smile, genuinely. My dogs make me smile. Bill makes me smile; it’s not that I’m all negative like you all think I am. And yet, it’s you that makes me feel like I’m all negative, which I truly am not. Mostly I just cannot stand your questions, such as the h-a-y?-question. Honestly, what is this? Why would you ask me a question that gets asked the most every fucking day? It makes me wonder what the fuck you want to hear. Or how do I answer you truthfully without triggering another similar question? These days I would do anything to dodge the h-a-y?-question. Anything.
The h-a-y?-question leads towards a string of other unbearable questions.
Questions are supposed to be interesting. Questions are supposed to educate. Questions are supposed to bring you closer to the one you like. But these days every day questions make me want to kill myself. Nothing but repetitions and the art of waiting, as in waiting for everyone to shut the fuck up. But you know they will not.

I had turned 14 when I realised the irrelevance of the h-a-y?-question. Not knowing who I was, what I was supposed to do and say and what I believed in and how to interact with people. At least I knew what I wanted, but not how to get it and I still don’t. And then I came across John Lydon’s autobio, which had taught me to think for myself. He taught me about the values of individuality and honesty and what the real kiss of death was. Sometimes when lonely, I believe that I want to taste that kiss and sell my soul on top of it, but losing my individuality forever is too much of a risk.
I haven’t finished building the emergency exit, yet.

I hate control freaks, each single one of them. And yet I presume that he has turned me into one. There is only one way to find out, but the sad thing is that after five years I still haven’t had the chance. On the love front, I don’t know what I have become. But I will find out. Hopefully before the completion of the fire exit for I want to be ablaze with him.
The scars will look beautiful on the two of us; they will remind us of the invincible heat that we have released to burn them all alive – all those fucking lizards basking in the sun.

My freckles will all be gone; particularly the triplet on my cheek, which looks like I have dirt on my face. Yes. Dirt on my face. My meaningless tattoos will fade. When I saw Lisbeth going to the tattoo saloon to have a tattoo done on her bruised ankle, I thought about my own reasons of getting myself tattooed. I understand.
You feel better and relieved by flaring up the pain that someone has inflicted on you. It’s ok if you do it to yourself…by your own choice, but it’s not acceptable if someone practises pain on you against your will. This is easy to understand, right? You want to make it your decision. Your very own.

So, why am I scared of being who I am? Am I scared of losing my job? Scared of losing friends that are no friends? I am no longer scared of spiders, so I guess I am making progress after all.

London, oh London, I know it’s not your fault, it’s the people’s; all these people who make you. I know I said I stopped blaming people, but read this again, I am not blaming anyone. I saw a bum on the street reading Kafka and I knew that in each gumball candy machine is a pearl.

So.
Does a fucking pessimist talk like that, you piece of shit?

Synchronicity

A day goes to waste if I do not create at least one sentence; a sentence I have spent creating on my train ride home. Don’t you artists need that, too? Don’t you need a little reminder that you can do a lot better than that zombie modus you’re in, putting all efforts into duties…you know what I mean. I am not allowed to elaborate here.

So on the ride home, the morning breaths have dissolved and you smell sweat of exhaustion and farts. Here, you become one of them, except that your head does not switch off, in fact, it’s starting to dedicate time to you, to you and you only. Unfortunately, it’s not always pleasant; it depends on what your head’s got in store for you. Look around you, they pretend to be virtually comatose; maybe they are and they might think the same of you…IF they even perceive your presence that is. As for me, I know they are all there. It’s just…I don’t think I am.

Believe it or not, that’s what makes me a good unreliable narrator. Telling lies is not bad as long as you admit it. But in writing, your protagonist doesn’t admit anything, he or she shows it to you, which ultimately makes him or her stupid, stupid for trusting a person like you. The exposure of one’s incredible self-denial is veiled in obstinacy which eventually defines the madness that our sanity is subordinate to. Nothing gets more irrational. Everything you cannot capture is irrational. You see what I’m saying? That’s right, that’s why people pretend that reason still exists, but the truth is that we’re all actors. One may be better than the other, but some of us do not want to act. So they suffer. It’s not a choice; it’s the way some people are.

There is a dark haunting tranquillity next door and I’m dying to absorb it with my fist; it must be like grabbing a handful of snow. The temperature is rising again and there is nothing that I can do about it. Like last year my attempt to delay the spring time will be impossible. So you are saying I have to accept it. But I will not.
I am not done with this tranquillity which sounds and feels similar to the air that I breathed in Auschwitz twelve years ago, a place where no bird would make its nest; no storm would disrupt the stature of the lifeless trees.

There are psychics with the ability to retrieve memories and images hidden in objects or sense the aura of a place. Remember what Trent said about living in the house where Sharon Tate got murdered by the Manson Family? And how the chicken that Tori Amos cooked for him at that place tasted horrible? I believe that when one dwells in a place where blood got spilled, the blood will lay hands on you in order to live on. One of the murderers had written “Pig” on the door with Sharon’s blood. Now you understand the pig references on the The Downward Spiral album. The Downward Spiral is the result of that blood touching Trent’s heart and brain. But I shan’t tell you the initial message of that album, shall I? It might not be relevant to him now, but to me, it always will be. There is always that one last way out. The very last.

I used to believe in Jung’s concept of coincidence without intent, but I am no longer sure. Sometimes there are sentiments that are inexplicable and too overwhelming with no particular reason. We’ve already touched upon irrationality. In my opinion irrationality is nothing but an emptiness that pretends to have something to deliver. So we end up waiting. Waiting for…

It’s been almost a year when I dedicated the story to him, the more I think about it the more I want to undedicate it. You don’t just say thank you for the story, you return the favour by writing something back, but he never did, neither did he ever tell me whether or not he liked it. And I was too chicken to ask. Not that I care, but I do wonder what he is up to. I wonder what effect a drop of my blood would have on his heart and brain. Some didn’t take it so well, but nonetheless, I am inspiring. At least that.

Dear Ellen

I miss you so much.

The more I enhance your existence by merely sinking into your architectural dimension (, which I created for you), the more alive I feel. If only I had more time. I know this sentiment is mutual, but you are holier than I ever will be, more intelligent, more reserved. And since I’ve been reluctantly taking steps into madness pretty much every day, I am ashamed that you have to witness this. I am aware that there is nothing that I can hide from you, especially when the nimbus has arrived before my chance to hide, before I even realise that something’s wrong. It’s not difficult to find me and yet I wonder why he hasn’t found me by now. Maybe you could leave him a trail for me?

The veins in my palms and fingers have turned purple from holding on to the strings of control. The marionette has gained a lot of weight from consuming too much guilt and shame. You see, this is why plants die on me. They, too, can sense these things. However, I’ve been teaching him the dance of solitude just to give him some exercise. But apparently the energy that I transmit through the strings makes him want to cry. I guess you’d be a better teacher than me. I’m no master of disguise and you know that.

Aren’t you tired of people moaning about the cold? There is so much heat that we could inflict on them. We could cause their blood to boil and then watch them shake in despair. I would like that. Everyone who deserves it.

I envy you for your fortune to pursue an occupation that aids in self completion. You have worked hard…but…so have I. For seventeen years I have been eagerly working towards what I want. The path is too long and more obstacles have occurred. The rest of the path remains obscure. Recently the impediments have been demoralizing and undermining my ability to control the strings. I know I shouldn’t let them. But you know me.
I’m sorry for the way I’ve been treating you. I know it’s me who showed you that self completion doesn’t exist, at least not in the way that we think. In the end I just wanted you to be successful in what you’re passionate about. However, I am sorry I did not grant you fulfilment. Believe me, if guilt had wings, I’d fly off right this very moment. Fulfilment is not meant for anyone. Not you. Not me. Not them.

So what else has been happening in your life? Is being a heart surgeon merely like being a general surgeon? Unbelievable how little I know about your occupation and yet, I can heal as many hearts as you can, except our dirty ones. Not quite fair, if you think about it.
Why do you call the thorax the gate to the heart? You’ve never been a kitschy type, but ever since Mr. Whitley’s operation you have changed somewhat. What happened to you? Don’t tell me you’re in love with him?! Come on, he has a girlfriend (who has had a buttocks augmentation). Besides, he is old enough to be your grandfather. Don’t let him throw you off balance and mess with your head. Don’t get involved with a feeling that’s foreign to you. You know who you are, right?

And beware of Stuart’s mind games. I know you are cautious, but he mustn’t win control over you. But to be honest I wouldn’t be surprised if my words fall on deaf ears. I know what’s going on. Sometimes we ask ourselves how deep we should let a person touch us. Let their fingers glide along the surface of our skin or let them dig into our flesh? The first one sounds better to me, however, I know you like both variants, as long as a sharp object is involved. You’re doing a great deal of secret keeping, but the people out there are empathising with you, which, for me is a job well done. Unlike me, you never admit anything. Still, I’m glad we have so much in common.
So you are making good friends with Sarah, I believe? Doesn’t she hide patients’ biopsy specimens and eats them? She might be a good friend to make, you never know.
I wish I’d meet people like that. I currently don’t trust the people around me. Just like I shouldn’t have let my friend (?) touch my laptop while still signed in on various platforms. So she saw I was on Facebook and simply clicked on my Close Friends- list, saying “You’d better have me in that list.” It was too late to say “Don’t”. So she clicked on it and all she found was an empty list. And when you explain that you only categorise people that mean nothing to you, she doesn’t understand. Why the world needs so much explanation, I never will understand. Trying to understand the opaque reality dimension is difficult enough, not to mention, the point of talking, getting married, buying houses, etc.

I have once let apathy suck me up and I became devoid of any drastic reactions. You feel content for a while and then you realise this is not the right state to dwell in for a long period of time, as it consumes all your sensitivity and reason. The distinction between right and wrong becomes irrelevant. So you begin to watch other people. You notice that wrong seems to upset them and suddenly you cannot fight the itch to intensify the wrong. You know exactly what I mean, do not pretend you don’t. Now is the first time that I no longer worry about it. Just watch the people and you will know what to do.

The anaesthetic from last time has had a huge effect on me, from throwing up to the realisation that numbness is the kind of medication that strengthens the survival instinct. So far all I need I can imagine. I believe. I hope. I create. If I ever get bored, I borrow their pain without giving a shit.
I know you’re the same as me. But we’re not allowed to show.

When you operate do you ever wonder what it’d be like chewing on that heart? I know you get these thoughts when you’re eating lunch and dinner, but what exact thoughts run through your mind in the operating theatre? You look at the calcified arteries in the heart and what? I need you to be more specific. Do you ever feel like biting through with your teeth?

In the OT your mind is constant and sharp just like mine when the images of creativity are transparent, intense and vivid. I miss these moments. They used to keep me thin and healthy. Now I’m not only losing my shape and health, but also my mind and it feels like the heart has never been there in first place. What happened to it? What happened to your heart? There is so much one can do with a heart: break it, eat it out, rip it out…

I still believe that you care too much, but I need you to, otherwise there’d be no plot and you know how important it is. I couldn’t care less at the beginning, you remember. But it was F. who managed to open my eyes. He saw something he wasn’t supposed to see and then he said he was glad to know me. That was probably the nicest thing someone said to me last year. Back then I felt smart. And now behind my back I hear utterances, such as, I am not good enough or implications of me being stupid. Maybe I am obtuse at times, but I have my reasons. I have my reasons.

I would do anything to swap places with you, despite the inevitable destiny that has marked the story; a story that has become greater than me, a story that has taken its own turn. I am no saviour, none of us are.

Take care of yourself.

P. for T.

3-4

On a constant journey
Into a non-expository domain
A platform of undiscovered word arrangements
The mind will do its best
To unveil a new influx of phrases
In order to self-medicate
And enunciate
Every hunch and intellection
For which there is no proof
Devoid of the light
A malfunction of the rod cells
A mind walk is a blind talk
The eyes now obsolete
One soft touch in the dark
Evokes chance and desire
To carry the story farther and farther
And plunge into the dangerous sea
To fight impediments and suffer cramps
Just for the sake of the plot
A 3-4 dimensional territory
Its length and width
Height and depth surreal

Your kingdom.

On a constant journey
Into a non-expository domain
A platform of undiscovered word arrangements
The mind will do its best
To unveil a new influx of phrases
In order to self-medicate
And enunciate
Every hunch and intellection
For which there is no proof
Devoid of the light
A malfunction of the rod cells
A mind walk is a blind talk
The eyes now obsolete
One soft touch in the dark
Evokes chance and desire
To carry the story farther and farther
And plunge into the dangerous sea
To fight impediments and suffer cramps
Just for the sake of the plot
A 3-4 dimensional territory
Its length and width
Height and depth surreal

Your kingdom.

The Triptych

I’m definitely not scared of attachment, I’m just not into you and if you’re a girl I just want to show right away that I am no good friend to make with.
Thanks to all for granting me my space. There are currently a lot more important things to consider, to get over with, to send to hell.
At least I believe that one thing has gone to hell already or I like to believe it has, which proves that my sense for good and bad is still off balance. I shouldn’t want anything to go to hell, and yet, I do with all my heart. What you may call “good” is my willingness to return kindness, unless you impose your kindness on me, because you want something in return. One of the worst things is to owe people something. It’s not always money they want back. Sometimes they want help in return which is worse. The day I help you is the day I care about you. And right I have not got the time to help anyone apart from worrying about how I can help the three people that mean the world to me. You will never come first, nor second.
But I think about you all. Is that not enough?
Everyone just wants you to give!
And if you don’t they just take your bread, noodles and can of beans! Londoners just take, take what they can get!
You remember the scene where Chichiro refuses to take the gold coins? People like her do not exist here or anywhere near.

I no longer understand people who need to talk. If they believe there is a problem they force you to sit down with them and talk. Moments like these make me cringe, because they reflect bad movies. There’s another thing, it’s always a woman who does that. Talk about problems…what if my problem is you? I am not authorized to ask for you to change and that’s the other problem. When you’re in love with a person why would you want them to change? If you hate how they leave dirty laundry on the floor, then you don’t love them and you don’t accept them.
Maybe you’re right, and I am indeed over-thinking and exaggerating this, which explains why I reject every company that I get. Even if there is none, I reject them before they even seep through the surface.
Currently underneath my own blanket I am already inciting a lot of heat and I can no longer listen to people saying how cold it apparently is.

By the way the only reason why I cannot get married is because I am unable to wear a wedding ring on my left ring finger. The skin between my ring and middle finger is somewhat thick, similar to the skin layer on a frog’s hand which holds the fingers together. So when I wear a ring on that finger and stretch my fingers, it hurts. There is a sense of feeling trapped, being held hostage or being kept in chains. If you feel otherwise, I must say, I envy you. In none of my three dimensions have I been able to shake these adverse sentiments off. Never will I be able to decide which of the three dimensions will make it to the middle part of the triptych. There is so much inconsistency and unsteadiness that put you into a state of indecision where the only way to remain sane is to carry all three on the back and not rack your brains over decision making. I am glad to have those three dimensions. Despite the heaviness, I am glad, as other people are merely 2 dimensional. Unfortunately there are too much of them.

I can’t wait to catch up on Puccini opera shows. Il Trittico next – another threesome in a story where the jealous man, under the spell of the obsessive love wheel, accomplishes in feeding his rage and this is how things end. Just like that. An abrupt ending is like a slap in the face. Curtains. It’s up to us to imagine what it must have tasted like. It must have tasted indescribably good like a drug, but it’s the side effects…

Hopefully spring won’t come too soon as I want them down in their holes a little longer. The surface is mine. They will get the heat they deserve at some point.

Schubert's fingertips

There were numbers with meanings, a crying friend and sounds of irregular heartbeats. Sometimes you open your eyes in bed, noticing that you’ve been holding your breath as if you were under water. I blame the neighbour underneath for listening to horrible electro beats; beats that attempt to overhaul the sound of a heartbeat. You cannot overhaul or change the sound of a heartbeat with a different rhythm and believe it’s the new trend.
I have decided that I’m no longer into electro, unless it’s done professionally by Alec, Trent, Alessandro or Ladytron.

I haven’t mediated for almost two weeks and therefore the panic attacks have returned with some funky eczema on top. Just to let you know that below that layer of skin is nothing to discover except for some dead cells that were once part of me; they used to enable the regeneration process and I was very thankful. If you think about how much of you dies every day in order to give birth to something better, you feel guilty.
There is one part of you trying its best to support these cells as an act of kindness, to return the favour, but the other part of you (, you might want to call it the unconscious which sometimes is engulfed by a certain type of compulsion) wants to kill, to flare things up to the extreme and eventually taste the blood between the teeth. Stuff like that. The core’s hot, it always is. So if you’re not tired, make the most out of it, but not in front of your parents.

My hands are nervous, which is not a good sign. I accidently pierced through my capsule with my nail and the yellow powder scattered all over my hands, although it was supposed to dissolve in my stomach.
I’ve been overwhelming my cells too much and I’m sorry. There is never ever anyone to blame for any misfortune. After all it’s you who let it happen. It’s easy to hate that person or that thing, but it’s easier to transfer that hate onto paper and thus remove it from the soul, piece by piece. It may take years, or your whole life. You can accelerate it if you want.

Everyone knows you differently, looks at you differently – nothing is more confusing than that if you think about it. What everyone has in common is: they know your name, but then again, each one pronounces it differently, exhales it differently. In the end what is in your name that makes you so unique anyway? Nothing, except that once you’ve bitten the dust the name lives on, but for no particular reason. Why not take your name with you?

I recall the first time I was in a room alone with a man. I think I was ten. He was giving me piano lessons. It was dreadful. However, I do not resent my mother for urging me to find a hobby at that time. Tennis was all right for a while, but the piano lessons equalled tearful hours of desperation. My love for the piano had vanished instantly when that man was teaching me. Here they are: an evil female paediatrician and an evil male piano teacher, the first two adults who hated my guts. The feelings were reciprocated and it feels good holding on to them up to this day. I will take their goddamn names with me.
Years later my guitar teacher had made it up to me. At least he was competent and I showed progress, but it took me over six years to realise that I was not made to play music.
Now listening to Schubert singing to a beautiful crow, I wonder what if he had been my piano teacher. Would he have written “good night” at my door? And when listening to Trent singing “something I can never have”, I wonder whether I will experience the exact same sentiment of redemption one day.

After the discovery of writing at the age of eleven I had obviously assigned myself to a therapy for life. But what is writing without the sound of music and someone’s fingertips pressing against my skin? So I put the music down in words that have no meaning to you, but me. I only have one diagnosis, but whatever you have come up with please put “literary” before the word and it will be correct. Whatever you think will be correct. Just don’t ever let me know. Because if you do, I will hurt you.

I hope his fingers haven’t gone numb yet. I still want more.

Love is that which, once it has blinded you, will make you waste a lot of time.