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.