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.