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?
Samstag, 25. Februar 2012
Freitag, 17. Februar 2012
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.
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.
Samstag, 11. Februar 2012
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.
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.
Sonntag, 5. Februar 2012
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.
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.
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.
Samstag, 4. Februar 2012
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.
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.
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