Eyes wide shut?

Fuck this, I think. Fuck this.
The carpet I'm walking on feels like chewing-gum, my heels reluctantly kissing goodbye, more veins on my legs saying hello. Everyone's skin is a little bit blue and the way we keep hugging ourselves, it makes us look what we are. Cold and lonely and like we're about to lose it any minute.
If anyone leaves their beer on the bar for long enough, cockroaches will crawl up the bottle and drown themselves.
My skin looks the way salami does, and I'm downing shot after shot of tequila, no lemon, no salt. I can afford the intimacy now. How everyone's face looks is sympathetic. We all pity each other. We all pity ourselves. And yet we're still here.
I know all the songs, in order of succession.
People walk in and it's making money time. Hustle hustle hustle until you're either too drunk or couldn't be bothered. Or both. This is all really frustrating. And yet I'm still here.
People walk around taking it all in. I guess this is what must have been like for Alice, falling down that rabbit hole.
And then it's all a fucking wonderland I only remember in flashes.
I'm beyond disgust and frustration and all I feel is like one big shrug. I tell myself I could be doing worse. I could be a junkie. I could be a whore. I could be a bum.
What I don't tell myself is I could be doing loads better. I could. I don't know. But it pisses me off too bad, that I've got no one to blame but myself and I generally choose to ignore this. Yea. I act very mature. Big whoop.
By the end of the night, I'm thinking This is what the pretty little white rabbit must have felt like. Lost. Late? I don't know. I don't think so. I don't know.
And yet I'm Still. Fucking. Here.

Christmas

Someday... I'm going to have the Christmas of my dreams. Watching the snow fall, listening to beautiful music in silence (preferably snuggled up to some Greek-god of a man), with bright, white fairy lights diffusing the magic.
Until then, I'll have to make do.
And it's not so bad really.
Happy Christmas :) xx

Pff!!... and I couldn't have said it better than that!

Is it bad and totally shallow that I want to be Angelina Jolie when I grow up? Because I'm really fine with it, if that's the case. I'm known to be occasionally, deeply superficial .

At this point, I honestly couldn't be bothered to be bothered about my total lack of inspiration. It's almost Christmas and I still haven't decided how to feel about that. I have such pretty, early childhood memories of this time. And then I decided to grow up and everything lost its magic.
Although I still like going out to the fairy lights and the carols.
I just feel like snuggling up to someone and stay in watching movies...

But work calls. And reality calls...

No more of that, right now. I'm gonna go back to thinking about how lovely it would be if I looked like Angelina...

I sometimes wish I was found fully formed under some damp rock. No roots, no family. It's such an unnecessary cross to bear, these members that impose their presence on you throughout, talking talking, thinking they have the right to comment on whatever you do, helping themselves to you. Parasites.
I'm not going into one of my rants about how I need space and silence ( which I do), and how much I dislike most of the general public. I'm just saying.
Sometimes no family is better than a shit one.

Why is it that people complain about wanting to get a life, and once they do, they just complain they're too busy?




Or is that just me, then?

Irrelevance.

Sunday morning and my throat already feels like it's on flames. My inner Praying Mantis is having a field day. I've been yelling my head off at whoever crossed my way this morning. This is going to be one of my new year's resolutions, for sure. Anger management. Of course I don't get angry for no reason. But I digress.
Oh well. Looking forward to my belated birthday present to myself and having my new tattoo done. Finally. I tried to have it done while in Paris but they asked for 150 Euros, jeez. I'm having 'Alis Volat Propriis' in script on the inside of my right wrist. Something similar to this. But lower. And upside down.



And no, this is not because I'm so proud of the masterpiece that is my blog . I like the idea of being independent and living life by your own rules. As much as possible, anyways.
Also, I want to get a pet rabbit. Not one of those mean dwarf things. I want to buy one that you're supposed to eat, that grow really big.




I used to have them as pets when I was a tiny angry midget of ten and they're so tame and nice. This was brought on by me having a dream, a couple of nights ago, about a white rabbit that really loved me. I woke up feeling really happy until I remembered my dream and then I started worrying about there being something wrong with me. Which there undoubtedly is. My point is, I want a pet rabbit and I want it to love me.
I'm supposed to be doing an essay right now, called 'Solitude'. I wasn't the one to name it, of course.
How funny would it be if I could manage to put a waist coat on my rabbit, huh? I should have a couple of pictures taken and post them on here. Appropriate really, as I feel like I'm perpetually falling through a rabbit hole with no sign of landing. God, I'm such a drama queen, I bore myself sometimes.
I'm also on my third coffee. I'm not kidding. I'm not a morning person and having to do my work while half asleep would suck even worse than doing it fully awake. Would you look at my grammar this morning, huh?!! The next Nobel Price in Literature is mine, I can feel it.
And I keep thinking about how much I want this friggin' rabbit.
There is basically no relevant point in my writing all this.
Then again, when you look closely at things, there's never really a relevant point to anything.
And I'm feeling surprisingly much better.
And now I'm ranting.
Off I go.

Melancholy

A piece of blue following me everywhere

In Silenzio.

I sometimes dream of being able to shut everyone up. For real.

Shut my eyes close and sing me to silence.

Another day. Another evening where not even tiptoeing to my piano is safe. There are people in the living room, they keep throwing words at me, demanding some sort of response and no matter how hard I hit the keys to make the music louder, I still can't drown the fucking voices. I've been playing for, what, twelve years now? I would have taken this to be common knowledge to anyone who's known me for more than a day that I don't play and talk at the same time. This is what I go to to shut everyone out and it's not working anymore.
My beloved is falling apart from old age, the notes high strung and weak.
I'm at a loss. I'm not in a financial position to go anywhere to be on my own right now. But I crave empty space so much. I need a new space in a new place with new music, somewhere else.

Anima Mundi.

If I could sigh right now, I would. But I don't even bother doing that. I feel so unbelievably flat. There's a lot going on in my head that's saddening me. I feel upset at a bunch of stuff and I don't know what upsets me the worst. Sometimes I feel things I can't name. My feet drag me wherever and whenever I try to analyze myself, my mind goes blank. Worst of all, I feel uninspired.
I can't write well, I don't want to play music, I don't want to paint or whatever it is that I do usually. I just read. My days are a succession of waking up in the morning and waiting to go to sleep at night. And I've no idea what happens to the time in between.
This feels a little bit like hibernating.
And I know, this is probably one of my mood swings. I go through periods where I let the sadness take over. And the worst thing is, I know what's gnawing at me and I can't doing anything about it.
How I feel like is something like this: " Speed has never killed anyone. It's suddenly becoming stationary that's the problem. "
And I don't expect anyone else to understand me because I don't even understand myself. But I need reasons and inspiration.
Routine is not comfort. It's murder.

Enough said.

"To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting." ~e.e. Cummings.

Untitled.

“Our Generation has had no Great war, no Great Depression. Our war is spiritual. Our depression is our lives.”

Seeing as how things are going, how we've skimmed through physical political 'disagreement' and are currently struggling as a planet to get out of a recession, would this 'statement' still count? Does this for granted-ly mean that after our collective struggling, things can only get better? Or do things have to go catastrophically bad for us to have an equally opposite reaction?
I find myself wondering how it would have been to live through the Great Depression or a War. Would we have been aware that we were living future history?
Have you ever asked yourselves how it feels to see the light at the end of the tunnel, when it comes to something so much bigger than yourself?
And I feel like we're not doing so good, but we're not doing too bad either. Maybe our real depression is being stuck in the middle. OK is not good enough. It's like being indifferent.
Then again, so many 'big' things happened. The first black president was elected, and that was a step forward. Movie and music legends died and we're going through a pandemic. I don't know what to think.
Maybe we are living future history. Maybe we're living through something significant and we don't even know it.
Do you not find this entirely frustrating, trying to find your place and never getting answers? How you always end up with more questions? I just don't like the idea of living through a grey shaded patch in time, through something oblivious and unimportant.
Is it still possible to know your identity amidst people who don't know where they stand?
Does it matter anymore?

Time to be your 21

To say that the view from the Eiffel Tower is breathtaking is understated and cliche. Turning twenty-one to the view of the City of Light below me gave me unbearable lightness, weighing me down. My thoughts while up there, with the tiny, cold dew drops wetting my face were just feelings. What I felt like was like I was the only being in the world, entirely grateful. Grateful for all the good times and the shit ones because they've made me who I am and I'm really OK with that. Grateful for my being able to appreciate life and the art around me. For the people in my life.
And what I feel now is nothing but eager; for the new people and places that wait for me, for the things I want but can't have, not yet. And I'm extremely grateful for where I am because I feel like right now, this is exactly where I need to be.
I think to say I'm giddy is about spot on. And maybe I'm growing up, or maybe I'm finally seeing sense but you realize that the celebration of your birthday lies not in some party or gift. Celebrating the day you were born is something private and intimate. It's you being thankful for being, for getting to live another year, for all that you've gone through.
On this special day to me, I wish everyone to be thankful for being who they are and to stop and appreciate whatever it is they have. The closer you look, the more you'll see.
And be high on life. Live mighty x

The Trapeze Artist.

People are always going on about how no matter how high you dream of living, you have to have some sort of security. Something to fall safely back on if your plans and dreams don't come true. And to the average person, I guess that would make sense. But the thing is, could it be that having a safety net holds us back from giving our all? It's a little bit like being a trapeze artist. Knowing there's literally no safety net to fall back on, they do a much bigger effort not to fall. And they don't. Because they know that if they do, they're literally done for. Maybe that's how sure and passionate we ought to be about our dreams, about the things we believe in. We could either have it all or be nothing. Maybe with the knowledge that we have no 'either or', that we have no other option than that to grab that swinging trapeze or die would drive us to success.
Why should you not believe in yourself enough to think you need something to fall back on? Just so you can have yet another excuse to give up at the fist sign of turbulence?
A safety net can keep you from crashing but well, it works both ways. What keeps you from falling, traps you.
So what I ask is; have you got the guts? Have you got the guts to do what you dream of?

Bored.

This is how lucky I am. The weather's just changing and guess who the first one to get the flu is? That's right! I'm stuck at home, barely breathing from my asthma and my blocked sinuses and surfing the net aimlessly. I hate not being able to do anything. Have you ever noticed how you start over-thinking every little thing when you've got too much time on your hands? I can't believe I spent four hours studying straight today because I've got nothing else I can do that doesn't make me feel like I've just run a marathon. I feel like crap. And I feel like whining. Dear Santa... Can I have a new Immunity System for Christmas?
God... my own thoughts are driving me nuts. I wish I were stupid sometimes. Honestly. It must be so nice to think about superfluous stuff all the time. Then again, if you're superficial and not intelligent enough to appreciate being it, there's not much point to it, is there?
I'm out.

Where have the good books gone?

Extreme disappointment. And what I mean by my previous statement is extreme disappointment. I've developed a new hobby where I buy lots of books online and then wait eagerly for the packages to start coming, giddy like a kid at Christmas. Geek Love by Kathrine Dunn turned out to be o.k. The story is about the Binewskis, a carnival couple who with the help of drugs ( amphetamines, arsenic, radioisotopes ) breed their own exhibit of 'human oddities'. It was kind of like reading a fairy tale, really. Not one of my favorites but with occasional highlights. What the book is basically about is the extremity to which some people are willing to go to break the mould and stand out.
"There are those whose own vulgar normality is so apparent and stultifying that they strive to escape it. They affect flamboyant behavior and claim originality according to the fashionable eccentrities of their time. They claim brains or talent or indifference to mores in desperate attempts to deny their own mediocrity. These are frequently artists and performers, adventurers and wide-life devotees.
Then there are those who feel their own strangeness and are terrified by it. They struggle toward normalcy. they suffer to exactly that degree that they are unable to appear normal to others, or to convince themselves that their aberration does not exist. These are true freaks, who appear, almost always, conventional and dull".
The book has 348 pages and this is what I thought was the highlight. Other than that, not much to it really.
Than there was Jesus's son by Denis Johnson. I had such high hopes for this one. The disappointment. 'Deflation' in this case is exactly the right word. All it is is a collection of short stories that do not coincide with one another, with no specific theme or subject. If they did have a theme, I obviously did not get it because I couldn't even concentrate on what was going on. That's how bored I was. I am now waiting for Johnson's Tree of Smoke to be delivered. I really do hope it's better.
Where have all the good books gone? I need some Kundera.

Leaving on a jet plane

Turning twenty one at the base of fort bliss. Walking down the cobbled streets, inhaling the art in the air.
In twelve days, I'll be celebrating my birthday. And I can't wait till Paris.
The prospect of getting on a plane and visiting a new somewhere is my air. And me trying to do something with my life is proving harder than I thought. But it's only till May and then I can resume living in my suitcase again.
The world is my stage and my home.
And it's waiting for me to conquer it.

At a loss.

When you spend more than thirty six hours awake straight, you oddly realize that reality is only a perception. And you can't really explain it properly in words, but if you're dead tired and seeing things up, your reality for the moment is a guy with blood drops splattered on his face and kids running around roundabouts at three in the morning, because, yes, that's how vivid my hallucinations become. And maybe every body's known this way longer than I have, but it's absolutely fascinating how something is always on your mind and it takes you ages to put it in words, even to yourself.
Reality changes according to the moods and perspectives. So I ask myself, in this state of near-paranoia, if something is constantly changing, how do you know which, if any, part of it is real? And if something that constantly changes is less real, than everything else isn't real either because everything is constantly changing. And by process of elimination, if nothing is real, then everything is.
And Lord knows, but right now, in my head, this is making a lot of sense.
But what I'm thinking is how much more alone we are than we think. Because each of us lives in their own version of reality. And when reality is something that happens in your mind, you can only go through it alone.
And really, crazy people and geniuses are no different than the rest of us but in the fact that what they perceive to be real and normal is either a work of art or totally bogus to the majority. And maybe we're the crazy people and the 'crazies' are the sane ones. Because just because the majority see things in a certain similar way, it doesn't mean they're right.
And maybe, just about now, I should go to sleep.
Because I think I've stopped making sense.

Down the rabbit hole

"Would you tell me please, which way I ought to go from here?"
"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to", said the cat
"I don't care where-", said Alice
"Then it doesn't matter which way you go", said the cat
"So long as I get SOMEWHERE", added Alice as an explanation
"Oh you're sure to do that", said the cat " if you only walk long enough".

And oddly enough, I always manage to find my answers in children's Fairy Tales. And maybe the term 'children's' isn't quite correct. And this, what the extract is saying, it stopped being enough for me quite some time ago

Because ending up anywhere isn't necessarily better than being static. And walking forwards doesn't necessarily mean moving on. And maybe we've been asking ourselves the wrong kinds of questions all the while. You've always got much more to lose than you think you do.

Do you know where you're going ?

Not sure what my point is.

I don't know whether to feel admiration or irritation towards these people who appear to be absurdly sure about their place in this world. And by place, I mean knowing what the heck you're supposed to be doing on this vast space of land we call earth. Something you feel like you were born to do. Something to be passionate about.
And maybe I'm undecided because I'm thorn between jealousy and admiration. Or cynicism.
I hear artists saying passionately' I believe we were born to make music'.
Dancers saying ' Some people walk through life, some people run ... and some people dance ' ( like that's supposed to make sense).
I've never heard actors saying some people were born to imitate life, because that's kind of insulting.
Maybe that's what it is with me.
I feel like I haven't found a single thing I feel really strongly about because I feel strongly about lots of things. I think we weren't born to make music. I think we were born making it already. Crying is either a noise or a melody, depending on your perspective. None of us talk in monotone, and even if we did, it's still a note.
And I don't feel like you need to know how to dance to be able to dance through life. Because you're already, unknowingly, moving to the rhythms of nature, of your surroundings.
And maybe these people are just really good bullshitters.
Because if I have to believe we were put here for a reason, I'll say I believe we were put here to have a good time. To at least try to have it. To experience it, to grow.
Because no matter how much you love doing something, I believe it to be impossible to be sure about it all along.
I love acting. But I wouldn't die not being on stage.
I love playing piano but I'd still be breathing if all my fingers fell off.
I mean... life would go on right..?
Or maybe it wouldn't. Maybe a piece of you would die when the things you love doing become an impossibility. Maybe that's what being passionate about something is.
Maybe all you have to do to find your place here is ask.
Ask yourself, your friends, anyone with an ear to lend.
Some would call this a process' By Elimination'.
What would you not live without?
What makes your heart beat faster?
Is it possible to believe that you were sent here for one reason?
And do you need to know all this to know how to become who you really are?

Ecstatic.

After twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep, even the deepest shithole is reduced to a dent in the road. What I'll do is not talk and walk. I'll do and not say. And I don't need to speak loudly during a conversation with myself. I don't need to open my arms wide when I know there's empty space around me. This feel like cold, fresh air after being stuck inside for too long.
And maybe you think I'm exaggerating. But the thing is, I'm not. Being left alone, being given my space is probably one of the most beautiful feelings in the world. Because you never appreciate your personal space until it's not personal anymore.
And I feel ready to face whatever is thrown at me. I'm feeling sane ( relatively). And I'm feeling freeeeee....

The long awaited day.

Where you can't really sleep. Where you wake up grinding your teeth, feeling pissed off before you can even remember what's bothering you.
And I'm awake at six a.m. Where the only sound is my typing and the gentle hum of a gerbil wheel.
And God knows, I've been waiting for this day to come for the past ten. Because being thrust with someone all the time drives me to hysterics.
Because I can't believe how selfish and rude people can be. And as time goes I realize that the more you respect, the worse you're treated. And the worse you treat people, the more they respect you.
And I'm my own personal psychologist now, but I can barely speak with how broken my voice is. And this, my dear friends, is my repressed self physically expressing my psychological temporary inability of speech. Inability is not the right word. Maybe censorship is more like it. Because if I were to speak what's on my mind, somebody would commit suicide, I'm that hateful right now.
And I think I'm more angry at myself than I am at anybody else. For letting this bitch invite herself and disrupt my routine for the part days. For treating her nicely only to have her 'obliviously' act selfishly back.
Because when you're offering free lodging and all that comes with it, you don't expect you friend to prance around in her towel, wet, in front of your brothers, just after her shower. Neither do you expect her to act all offended when you draw her attention on this.
Because when you've made such an effort to be hospitable, you don't expect to get no gratitude in return. To spend more money than this bitch does on her holiday. To drag her out and about even when you're dead tired and be totally unappreciated.
And right now, I want to believe in karma more than any other time in my life.
Because girls suck ass. I keep being surprised by the extent of their bitchiness.
Men are much more genuine than women. That is why I heart and understand gays so much.
I bet if a guy friend would have come over, this would have been a blast.
And my point is. Be bitchy. Be crude and speak your mind.
I bet nobody would think of using you in any way, then.

Babysitting duties?

How I feel is absolutely exhausted. My friend came to 'see me' all the way from London and what I feel like is a babysitter that's underpaid and underrated. And you could take this wrong or not. But I don't like having someone stuck to my side 24/7. I don't like having to think about feeding them and showing them places. Worrying about whether they're enjoying themselves or not. Sharing my personal space. My story.
This is why I don't do relationships. This is why I don't want a boyfriend. The fact that your friends don't demand sex and/or constantly try to touch some part of you doesn't make it any less better. Actually, I think that's what makes it worse.
And I feel so drowsy and fucked up. I can't sleep, my voice isn't quite right and I feel hungover without the alcohol and the funny memories.
All I want is some quiet inside my head, and some alone time.
So why do I feel so bad, me being a tad bit anti social? I'm happy that my friend came over. But I've seen enough of her now, we've caught up. I just want her to leave so I can carry on with the routine she's disrupted.
I don't like being depended upon. If she'd just come over and stayed at mine's and hung out in the evening, that would have been perfect.
Why do people have to keep on pushing at your boundaries?
Is this weird of me?
I just want space.

The talent that is List writing.

I'm an avid list maker. Yes. It's one of my many talents. This is what I've learned and have come to accept so far in the year two thousand and n/mine.

-Life is not fair. And even though everyone's telling you to get used to that - you probably never will.

-Look after yourself. No one else gives a sh*t.

-Freedom isn't for free. Someone has to pay the price and it might as well be you.

-The only constant is change. (And that's perfectly fine by me).

-If something sounds dodgy it probably is.

-You are probably not entitled to any thing you didn’t work for.

-Talk is cheap, unless action backs it up.

-If you f*ck up, it's your own damn fault, and nobody else's.

-You can't help someone who doesn't want help.

-Although it may feel fun going against the rules, bad things will invariably happen.

Open up and say Hi...

And. I have a pathological need to move around. And I'm not sure whether I'm moving on or simply moving away. What I'm trying to do is find my place in this world and it's doesn't matter which way you take this because you got it right any way.
I need to see new things. To meet new people and expose myself to new things until I go to that place where I feel like there, this feels like home.
And no, it doesn't get any easier leaving. Packing up and saying bye to your friends is as scary as the first time, every single time you do it.
But I get this feeling, almost like a timed alarm, and it tells me it's time to leave again, to move on and do new stuff. Safety never got anyone anywhere. And the world is such a beautiful place that being static is like swearing in a church; it's done, but it's just so wrong.
And it's true that wherever you are, it's never where you want to be. But I do believe that eventually, after seeing relatively enough, you'll find somewhere you won't want to run away from.
And, true, it may sound a little lonely and it may feel like it sometimes. But going back to whatever place and having friends waiting for you wherever warms your heart that little bit more.
And I can't wait to move again. Because going back home only serves to remind you why you left it in the first place.
And,I need to go now.
I've been static for long enough.

If it's pre-Dawn, is it still called twilight?

It's not exactly insomnia if what keeps you up are coughing fits. The time is 06:25 and the sun is not, not yet. And the quiet is everywhere. And it's lovely.
For a couple of minutes I can imagine the world as my empty playground. Asleep, everyone looks so innocuous. If the room were empty, my breath would have an echo.
And this is just a bunch of jumbled thoughts mashed all together but what this feels like is peace and intimacy.
The birds are still sleeping. The sun is still not and right now, this silence is the most beautiful sound in the world.

I know why the caged bird sings

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

- Maya Angelou

Summer rain

For the record, the weather today is cloudy with occasional bursts of light summer rain and the general mood is... serene?
I'm thinking how I love this weather. With the sun not blinding you and the heat not being unbearable. I feel like sitting next to the balcony where my piano is and just play all day. Or read. I feel like reading. Or just staring, outside, with the soft breeze playing with my hair.
I'm listening to the soothing tones of Jason Mraz and thinking about how ungrateful I can be sometimes. True, I could be loads better than this, but I could be shit loads worse.
At least, where I am right now, my mind is in the right place.
And I'm thinking, life is as good or as bad as you decide for it to be. Perception is key.
And I'm thinking, where is there that's not cold but not too hot? I want to go live there...

Gravity

Back to earth. I've just been paragliding. Ah - the rush. And I always knew I had this thing with heights. It's somewhere between the fear of falling and the scarily vivid desire to fling myself off. All is good.
What's next?

Rant

It's my mother's birthday tomorrow. And I can't help but feel a little bad at feeling so pissed off about the whole thing. Well - not pissed off really. But annoyed. Extremely. Yeah - annoyed would be a better suited word. And it's not like I'm this colossal bitch, but the parent is counting on me to make her day. Like it's my responsibility.
Everybody expects something or another from me, and what I feel like is frothing angrily and flipping everyone off.
I love my mother. Mostly. But what people seem to willingly ignore is that I barely have time to do things for myself, let alone plan birthdays. This is the first year in my life where I've even planned my own.
Besides. I'm sick of being nice to people and having nothing in return. I guess what this makes me is one angry bitch.
What with resuming my studies and constantly moving around and having a job that's doing my head in and meeting my friends and just generally trying to work things out while getting more that two hours sleep, the last thing I need is this.
And I don't really have a point here. I'm just ranting.
I want to live somewhere where I'm allowed to be mean.
God, the general atmosphere here is stifling.
Relatives kill your mojo.
What a drag.

Giddy

The highlight of my day yesterday was me last night, on the bus on my way to, well, work. Up comes this guy. Well, girl really. Transvestite is the right word. And s/he was really trying hard. I mean, you could obviously see the muscles, and the prominent Adam's apple, but the leg shaving was meticulous and she had a boyfriend already. Black, curl wig and bright red lipstick, she was doing anything she possibly could to make herself noticed. How is that? If you can't hide who you are, you might as well be the centre of all the attention.
And people on the bus, there were whispering and snickering and then there was me, my heart was thumping wildly praying, please God, let her talk to me. I'm just so instantly drawn to people who're just so blatantly different.
As if by sheer force of will ( or maybe it was just the universe being kind to the girl in front of me who had horrible hair which, I was quite worried to discover, I was seriously contemplating giving a pull), the guy next to me left and there it was. An empty seat.
And then this queen, she sits next to me, puts her phone on speaker, looks at me and starts singing along to Marylin Monroe's 'Diamonds', I shit you not. I obviously did not need any more pushing about and started flailing my hands to the beat, singing along.
God, I was temporarily in heaven. And then people were looking at me too, but I just directed my beaming smile towards them and carried on singing.
Diamonds are, after all, a girl's best friend.
I just want to befriend that person so bad... I envy people who can abnormally stand out like that. I'm obviously not going to do anything extreme like blowing half my face off to grotesquely stand out, but having people unable to help themselves looking at you like you're some social misfit ( which you are)... Utopia.
And I don't know if I'm really interested in the personality or just intrigued by the change process. Maybe both. I wonder what it feels like to have a social experiment of a friend. God, I'd be the bestest friend ever. Doting over her, teaching her make up tricks, helping her take care of her new fake boobs....
Am I sick...? I don't think I am. I'm just intrigued by the force of nature these personalities are...
O well...
A girl can only hope.
And sing ... 'A kiss on the hand may be quite continental, but diamonds are a girl's best friend...'

Pensieri

Indifference, I think, is self induced. It's not something you're born how to do. It's a defense mechanism, a wall, a line, whatever. Underneath the vacant stares and non committal shrugs there's something much bigger than anything boiling.
My point being, indifference can save you. Save you from harsh words and nasty blows. Save you from hatred. From wanting to just allow yourself to love someone , love them so much, all the while knowing that the specific person, well, they don't exist. Pathological liars, charming manipulators. Who you love is your own perception. May be who you want to love is yourself.
Blood may be thicker than water. But so is vodka.
My point is, indifference doesn't break you.

Find what you're afraid of most...

"Find value in what we've been taught is worthless. Find good in what the world says is evil [...] I wish the whole world would embrace what it hates. Find what you're afraid of most, and go live there" - from Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk.

Because these words seems to be haunting me, keep coming back to me in some form or another. And I honestly do think it makes sense. To try and do the things you're afraid of the most.
Because ironically, the things you really want to be doing the most, your hopes and your dreams and your plans... they terrify you. They're the monsters hiding under your bed, the skeletons hiding in your closet. Your screech in the dark.
Because you're afraid of failure. Because you're afraid that if you fail, you have to start rebuilding your hopes and your dreams and your plans, your whole life up from scratch.
'T comes with the whole other side of the penny, as they say. And it's scary as hell and incredibly lonely, exposing yourself to yourself. Did that come out right?
And I guess living on the edge is not doing 'crazy', 'different' things. It's giving in to your dreams and plans and following them no matter what, with the possible risk of coming back with your tail between your legs , having to start all over again.
Being yourself, well, it's not that easy. Having to own up to your faults and accept all the things you don't like about yourself, it's shit but it's growing up.
Try to be as untrained as possible. Find things out on your own, on your own terms.
Learn how to learn.
And do the things that scare you the most.

Longing.

I dream of quiet mornings with the sunlight streaming in, warm and silent. I dream of walking around in socks, hair tousled up. Silence. I dream of space. My very own home. And I do make it a point to try and travel as much as possible. I want to discover some corner of the world where I feel like I belong. Maybe it'll be Paris I'll fall in love with, next October. Or maybe it'll be 'lil 'ol Florence. Maybe San Diego. hmm... I just want somewhere where I can be on my own. And I have people pointing out how much it is I hold back. How anti-social sometimes I can be. The truth is, I'm not one of those people who just warms up to anyone. Not anymore. The truth is, there's such a small amount of people worth knowing, out there. If you had to pick between spending your time on your own or being surrounded by drunk, high, or superficial people, which one would you choose?
The fact is, I think some people are meant to be on their own. And I think I'm one of those. And how I feel is not bitter about this, at all.
I just need space. And silence.

Ground teeth and subtle growls

I'm thinking about how I hate how patronising people can be. How they think they can judge you, your life, and fool everybody else into ignoring the fact that by following your life they're running away from theirs. I hate how you feel when you know you're supposed to give a shit about what some people think but you're completely indifferent. How this little fact still makes you feel a bit like shit. So detached. Plastic. To keep the anger from bubbling over and keep yourself from screaming Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off...!!! like some deranged patient.
I hate how you're supposed to be somebody else's satisfation. Why is it that we spend more time fighting for what we're already supposed to have than trying to achieve something else? When did our lives stop being our own and become common property?
Jesus H. I'm thinking I just dislike most people in general.
And your word of the day is ... Misanthropy...

The joys of being half in love

I am falling in love. I know that, I can't help it and I don't want to. People are always trying to get me to worry about how I can't go twelve hours without a computer. How I freak out without my cell and how I've been gushing about upgrading it to a blackberry so as to have Internet access all the time. But see, beautiful, wonderful things happen on the Internet.
Like today.
Here I was, feeling fresh and perky after about my fourth coffee, browsing about, reading 'Pygmy' reviews ( because it is a given fact to anyone who knows me that I have a platonic crush on all that's Chuck Palahniuk) and I stumble upon some site that's going on about authors that are similar the The Mighty in style.
And then I come across the name Denis Johnson.
I very cynically google him up, rush to the quotes section and this is what comes up;
"She had nothing in this world but her two hands and her crazy love for Jesus, who seemed, for his part, never to have heard of her."
— from Tree of Smoke.
"How could I do it, how could a person go that low? And I understand your question, to which I reply, Are you kidding? That's nothing. I'd been much lower than that. And I expected to see myself do worse."
— from Jesus' son.
"Does everything you touch turn to shit? Does this happen to you every time?" The latter struck because I can totally assimilate. Sometimes. More often that I'd like to admit.
And so... if the rest of today turns out to be shit, I'll still be fine because of this.
Yes,I'm off to Amazon.com.
And yes, I'm actually giddy over this.
I very un-sarcastically wish you a happy, happy day.

And the quote of the day is...

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined - Henry David Thoreau.

The Garden of Forking Paths

There I was on some bus, sitting two seats to the right behind some nun. And I find myself almost tearfully thinking Sorry Jesus, Sorry Ma.
I could be studying at some college like most of my friends. But where I am is on some bus sitting two seats to the right behind some nun, with a bag full of lingerie and a pair of plastic heels.
And sometimes I wish so hard I had that blind child-like faith or be that delusional to believe so strongly or stupidly, depending on the given perspective, and become a nun. To live in a convent full of fucking olive trees and small crosses hung on the walls of their every dull-colored room.
To justify my every thought by the God I seem to have lost my faith in. To think about the kids who need adopting and about the girls that walk around showing too much, and never look into boys' eyes.
Think about anything but myself.
Instead I walk mostly naked, one step away from dry humping old men for thirty bucks a song.
And I could be learning something useless at school right now. Or be doing what I fear and love the most. Perform. I could be cursing at my coffee at one in the morning, groggily studying for some exam.
Sorry Jesus Sorry Ma.
But is this what I've become? Could this be permanent, this creature I've turned myself into? Silly, naive me, taking off thinking things will sort themselves out.
And I'm thinking Sorry Sorry, but I don't know who I'm apologizing to anymore. Maybe the person who needs most apologizing to is myself.
For becoming this bitter cynic of a twenty year old with only a vague idea of where to go but no idea how to get there. What to do? I'm small and I demand somebody tell me what to do!
And maybe it's blatantly obvious. Maybe the thing to finding yourself is to go back to the start. And I'm thinking, yeah, this is me, quoting Coldplay songs but I need to go back to what I was before I consciously flung myself into shit.
Sorry Jesus Sorry Ma
And maybe I'm a bit lost. Or maybe I'm a self absorbed girl driving herself nuts.
But I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Space and the lack of it.

And I really don't know. Maybe this is just me being my usual 'weird' self but the air feels stifling and space seems to be closing in on me. Wherever I go, there always seems to be someone in the room with me. Or in the room next to me. Or in the room next to that. I can hear voices and other people's music and other people's T.V.s on and smell other people's smells, be it clothes or food or skin. And people are talking to me and demanding an answer and wanting hugs and kissing my forehead or my cheeks or touching my arm when they speak to me or looking me in the eyes and expecting me to look back. And everything is this massive blur of colors and all I want is to let out a scream so loud that scares the world into silence.
All I want is my own space. Where people can't come in. Where I'm with myself and my own sounds and my own air. Where nobody sneaks up on me. Where I go into a room to be alone and be alone. Where nobody touches my stuff. Where I can open my arms wide and fucking twirl around without hitting anyone, just because I can.
What I have is the opposite of the Stendhal Syndrome, where I open my eyes and the dizziness and the panic comes from the too much ugly around me.
Old George Orwell didn't even know the half of it. Big brother isn't just seeing everything. He's listening and feeling and demanding an answer.
He's in everyone we know. And he's taking our space away. Our time, our attention, our privacy. He's choking us.

The way it is.

How it is in the 'exotic dancing' industry is this; there are three standard lines the girls eventually get used to by heart. The men are called 'punters' in this case, a word which I am ashamed ( or maybe not) to admit I've never heard before until recently. Well, in this case the guy looks at the girl and says,
"You know what? I've got to be honest. Out of all the girls here, you're the most beautiful."
Not necessarily in that same word structure, but you'd be surprised how unimaginative those men can be. They say this to every single girl they talk to during the night.
The second thing they say is
"What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?".
After a bit you learn that there is no sober way of answering this. Mostly you say 'I was waiting for you' and smile sweetly. Or knowingly. Or both. What is says is 'Subject Dropped'. What is says is ' I gave you a fake name and a fake story. And I'm sticking to it'.
It's not method acting when you're living this every night.
Then the punchline is, and this is tops really, they say
"I hate to see you here, like this. If I can do anything to help you, I will. I will give you anything you ask me for".
The sad thing about this is having this happen in this exact same sequence every time, it ceases to be entertaining and starts irritating the shit out of you.
The sad thing about this is that they, the punters, they actually mean it. To an extent, that is.
They want to save you, be your knight in shining last season's Prada glasses, not even bothering to hide their wedding bands.
Of course, the underlying subtext is ' I give you what you want if you give me what I want'.
They are not so much the saviours as the mother who never wants her kid to grow up.
What they do is they convince themselves that they're saving you when what they're really doing is saving themselves. Making themselves feel better by thinking they're needed. Distracting themselves from a boring life. Buying a simulation of love.
Everybody is so absorbed in themselves.
Mostly, I don't feel sad about this. How I feel is very Matter-Of-fact-ly.
About how this applies to just about any situation in life.
About how you're always somebody else's means to some end.

Of Sea, Sand and SunScreen

T'is but summer. It's forty degrees Celsius outside, my attention span rivals that of a fish and I can do little more than float about the blue sea all day and moan about the limited ice cream selection in general.
I am now very set on working on my tan, which is on hell of a bitch. I have to use different sun cream on different parts of my body if I don't want to end up looking like a patchwork quilt.
It's so hot I can't even read ad I can feel my geekiness morphing into blondiety under the sun's unforgiving glare.
In my defense, this is where I find myself right now, I shit you not;



Maltesia. Hah. The only thing I can bother to think about is my next escape to Florence and Rome. Before I head somewhere else. Whatever. The world is my home and all that.
It's too hot to write anything else.
Off to swim.

You are now dismissed.

Rumblings of a soul when drunk

What you don't realize is, the minute you stop talking your dreams out to strangers is the minute you give up on them.
And you tell yourself, it's because I don't want people to mock me or bring me down. It's because it's no body's business but my own. It's because this is a vulnerable part of me I don't feel like I have to share.
But the thing is this. The minute you stop talking about them is the minute you stop believing in them is the minute you decide to start fooling yourself into that you're being realistic and you're only giving yourself time.
People, they give up on their dreams and then they want you to give up on yours. Like a domino dream effect. And they all tumble down...
And maybe, just maybe, the thing is this. You have to stop running your life by other people. Someone is always going to think you're being ridiculous.
When you shape yourself to fit your surroundings, you don't get comfortable. All you do is blend in and kill some other little part of yourself.
Become a little bit like everybody else. One more mediocre pedestrian.
Maybe the thing to do is to shut yourself up and smile and nod and scream your dreams at the top of your lungs, so loud that you don't hear anyshitbody yelling back.
Just like when you were a kid. And you told everybody, smiling, that the tooth fairy brought you money. Such unabashed conviction and naivete that nobody wanted to say otherwise and people actually egged you on.
Maybe this is how our approach to everything should be. Childlike. Untainted.
Funny story, how our belief in ourselves in inversely proportional to our size.
And maybe this is the just the effect of the cheap wine I had earlier. And maybe not.
You know what they say. Vino Veritas.
And when that time comes when you realize that people believe in you more than you do, start screaming. Scream your hopes and your dreams. Scream your plans.
Eventually you'll find that not caring who's listening has given you the strength to believe in yourself again.
Become who you are.
Extraordinary.

Between a girl and her whisper

To beg To ask for To plead To cry
Kill the monsters under my bed.
To whisper To murmur To mouth To say
Take me out of inside my head.
To try To wish To hope To dare
On one dying burning light.
That you rip me open and see me be bare
Give me space yet hold me tight
To skim To stroke featherlight To caress
Kissing love letters onto my skin
To make up To want and To wait and To dream
Of meeting and letting you in.

Epiphanic? Epiphaniacal?...

Using this opportunity to develop a skill that really matters, I attempt to blow smoke rings with my Dunhills. I light one after the other after the other like it’s going out of style to smoke in a bar so full of thick smoke already that eye contact with anyone on the opposite end is virtually impossible.
Where I work, the only way to survive if you're female is to not smile back, so for the whole ten hours of my shift my face is one big scowl. And I'm so used to my being so friendly that this is actually incredibly liberating, my being a bitch.
When I feel like my lungs can't really take it anymore, I lean back in my seat and set about destroying as many square inches of cloth as I can with my thread pulling.
And all I can think about is how I really want to leave and go to Rome or maybe Paris. I can't even believe I'm saying this but what I really feel like is some normalcy. I want to work in a record store. Vintage, preferably. In some other continent, maybe. I'd tell people my name is Penny, wear my hair in pigtails and maybe I'll give myself an accent. Or maybe not. Even a library would do. Aa... I'd be the best, working in a library.
At this point some asshole comes to pay for one of the dancers and is waiting for his change and I smile, his change still in hand, and ask him whether he wants to tip the nice waitress. He nods and starts to say something but I turn my back to him quickly. Fifty euros in tips, oh so dazzling is my charm. Cue* eye roll.
But then I'm thinking when it comes to it, I only really like the idea of normalcy. Not that I've ever given it much of a chance...
Ugh. You stay awake all night and you start being really epiphanic, if that even counts as a word.
Maybe the whole point of this is that no matter where you are, it's never the right place. And no matter what you have , you always want something you believe to be better.
And I really don't know about living in the now all the time. My attention span is really not that long.
How long can you go on ignoring the bigger picture?

Shock

Bruise me shocked with truth and nails
Honest participation
Tell me how to feel
Reach my soul with teeth, clawed hands
Light me anticipated.
Give me something real
Suck my breath and brand my flesh
Mark me your satisfaction
Show me how to feel.
Teach me.

Warped and twisted.

Why do I always fall for the jerks, huh?
I don't know why I do this to myself. And the thing is, they act like jerks with me. Then they go find some girl and suddenly turn all nice. And it makes me fall even harder. And I know that this would be just them masking themselves up, because hey, I know what an ass the specific guy really is. Yet I decide to intentionally convince myself that they're nicer now, really...
That's just so fucked up.

Twilighted?

The picture is me squinting like one of those posh ladies in the 1960s movies. Or was it the 60s? Anyways, in my head I had glossy red lipstick and slick, shiny hair, head tilted backwards, smoking a cigarette from its holder and smirking knowingly. I have a slight flair for the dramatics.
Where I was really was, was at work behind a stinking bar, no doubt looking like an idiot smirking to myself. Well, it was either that or crying.
I could feel this pair of eyes just burning a hole into me. The S.W.D. ( Scary Weird Dude) decided to nurse his unrequited love by drowning himself in Jack. Well, not drowning. Downing.
His eyes were following me everywhere. Every time I looked up, he was right in front of me, like some freaky Matrix move. Or a vampire. That particular thought had me in hysterics and before you could say 'Prada', I was having a close albeit blurry encounter with the filthy carpet and endless cigarette butts, doubled over in laughter.
Yeah... people were probably questioning my sanity at this point. That made me laugh even harder. Maybe they'd leave me the fuck alone. I somehow always seem to manage to get socially adopted by either Aggressively Happy People, or Creeps. Tough.
And S.W.D. was still looking at me weird, trying to talk to me. And it was funny because he was behaving like every body's fictitious crush, Edward Cullen. With the brooding and the intense looks and him wanting to just hold me and me waking up in his shirt ... it was SO fucking annoying and chillingly creepy. It was.. no.. just NO.
And everyone of these girls thinks this novel character is so romantic and sweet. What they choose to ignore is that he's obsessive and stalking and creepy. If every one of them met a guy like that in real life, they'd be having restraining orders issued like they were warm bread buns.
The lion does does not 'fall in love with the lamb', people. It eats it.
Cheers.

Time

Why is it that people wait till they're seventy to have a bucket list?
Why is it that people, they have to wait till just before they're married to go to strip clubs?
Why is it that people have to be struck by some disease to go on that longed for holiday?
Why is that we're always apologizing to corpses?
Why is that people have to be given a deadline in order to live what they want?
So last minute.
James Dean, he said once, Live as if you'll die Tomorrow, Dream as if you'll live forever.
And what he meant was that, sometimes we have to forget the bigger picture and focus on the details.
Un-wait.
The whole is less important than the sum of its parts.
What I want to do is live my life the way I imagine it. The way I want. Be happy.
What I want is one big adventure.
I don't want my life crammed in a single word.

Iris ; The Secret Life Of...

Iris - Keeper of the Rainbow

"Throughout the ages, the rainbow has been the symbol of hope, a promise of better things to come. The ancient Greeks personified the rainbow as the goddess Iris, the favourite handmaiden and messenger of Hera, the queen of the heavenly court of Olympus. Carried by her shimmering wings, Iris travels so swiftly that mortals can see only the trail of her rainbow-coloured passage across the sky".

Isn't this absolutely lovely? Greek mythology has a way of explaining things in the most romantic light. And I had absolutely no idea Iris was the name of a goddess.

I guess you learn. This is what happens when you've got nothing better to do than surf the net aimlessly. Eh.

Of barcodes and board games...

What I dream of is to lead as fact less a life as I possibly can. The facts - my name, where I'm from, what my CV looks like, how well I get along with my family - inevitable information given to me by birth. Information accumulating over time, gathering dust on shelves.
Facts. Statistics. Superficially essential and absolutely irrelevant.
That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet... and all that jazz. Basically.
I am on my own, alone, independent, absorbed in my own random thoughts and I am almost absurdly lucid. Myself. An anonymous, asexual, ageless soul.
And maybe this is not really coming across the way it sounded in my head. The feeling it brings when I think of myself outside given facts and labels is something like that first deep gasp for air right after breaking the water surface.
Why be limited by what you didn't choose? Be shaped into something, not knowing why?
What I mean is... What would it be like if I could take it up a notch? Be my own personal Reincarnation Project. If I wake up in a different place and a different timezone, could I wake up a different someone? Almost, not quite.
If the people around you insist on giving importance to such frivolous facts, you could play around with that. Have fun. Change the facts. Don't share.
The world is your game you get to play by your rules.
The way you're going, you've got nothing to lose.

Mirror, Mirror...

I just wonder sometimes, what it would feel like to stop caring. To let myself grow fat and ugly. Stop doing my hair, stop brushing my teeth, doing such an effort. Be so grotesque that people, they wouldn't even look at me. Look right through me.
I could stare a hole through anyone, and people wouldn't even notice. They'd make such an effort to ignore me. You have to wonder sometimes, what it feels like to be really ass ugly. Or deformed.
I bet it would be so liberating, not having to care. Just giving up hope of someday being stunning. Giving up hope is such freedom sometimes.
We're so conditioned by the power that beauty is.
Mirror Mirror on the wall...

The hills, they're ALIVE.... HA!!!

My usual existential angst has temporarily fled my body so that I feel light and exceptionally giddy Hmm... the night and how it is is, everyone appears to be asleep. I love how quiet everything is. How the lights sparkle and everyone just shuts up. How the air smells like wet and summer and damp grass.
Maybe it's because I bought sneakers. In my mind, I'm already a whole bunch healthier.
Could be it's because I'm reading something really really hilarious. It involves people, an embarassing situation, and we all know how funny other people's humiliation is.
Either way, how I feel right now is like running on top of a green green hill in the middle of Salzburg, wearing a horrendous brown dress with a twirly skirt, take a deep breath like I can actually breathe from how tight the dress is at my tiny waist, pirouette like nobody's buisness and sing... " Theee hills are aliiiivvveeee... with the sound of muuu-siiiccc....!!!!"

Dreams Dreams Dreams

This pretty picture reminded me of that lovely poem I posted a while ago by Pablo Neruda.
And God knows, I'm not the clingy type at all, but you tell me which girl wouldn't want to be loved like dark things are loved? Delicately? Secretly? Like a secret obsession...
A mutual addiction...

Echo

And God, I'm so tired of being me me me all the time.
I'm so tired of being the center of my own universe... I'm so tired of being always the same person.
What I need is a script and a stage and a new story. What I need is to shut up and let everybody else think me up while I think of something else.
I guess what I'm trying to say is; until I become what I want myself is all I will think about. What to do, where to go...
Sometimes I feel like Narcissius had nothing on me.
Mostly I'm Echo... stumbling around in the dark.

Tired to the power of...

Where I'm supposed to be in bed. Where I'm supposed to be sleeping , dreaming. Or maybe waking up.
Where I am is at six o'clock in the morning, sitting in a new car, the smell of formaldahyde wafting up my nose. Do you know, formaldahyde is what they store dead foetuses and frogs and hearts and whatnot in, in lab jars. New car smell. New carpet smell. Biology Lab smell. Smells of clean cut death. And it's toxic.
Jump to me being too damn dramatic, Jesus I tire myself out, at six in the morning heading home from work with the sun blinding me. And I don't know which is worse. No really. At this point I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore. Give me a clue.
What I need to do is to stop overthinking things. What I need to do is to stop being disappointed. Living too much in your own head and the side effect you get is, you're let down. Because nothing is as good as you can imagine it.
What I need to do is stop living off of coffee and cigarettes. Running on fumes.
What I need to do is do something so absurd and surreal to give me a break from all this normalcy.
Give me a break.

Rumblings of a semi comatose

Where I work, these girls, they smoke long thin white cigarettes they forget in the ashtrays repeatedly, so they burn out and end up one long greay burnt ash. Like incense. Only it smells like shit. Only it kills you.
Where I work is a strip joint and right here, right now I'm the waitress/bartender. I've just finished my shift and I'm dead beat but this is too funny not to write about. This guy, let's call him John because that is his name. For real. He asked me when he could see me. I smiled. He asked me when he could see me. I smiled. Third fucking time, I'm not that much of a bitch, to say, listen pal, I don't really think this is going to work out. And truth be told, I wasn't that all against it. I'm kind of missing the idea of having male arms hug me tight tight tight.
Fast forward a couple of hours when john is drunk off his ass off Jack. He takes hold of my sticky sugary hands and asks me to stay with him. And I laugh, I genuinely say and What John, would I get paid for exactly?
This guy whose name I didn't even know last week was asking me to stay at his place. Cue belly laughter* Oh god, and I'm tired and maybe a bit high on passive nicotine intake, but God, it's funny as hell. He looks at me all serious and says, IJustWantToWakeUpInYourArms. He says, this is all we need to know about each other. I fucking kid you not. Wake up in each other's arms? Is this what kids are calling it these days? Do I give off some vibe I put out easily?
Wait. Wait. Don't answer that.
Fast forward to a couple more hours, more sulking ensues and hey, John looks at me and says, 'Are you a lesbian?' for real. I mean, I have to be, since I'm not putting out, aren't I?
And then he says 'It's your loss!'.
Instant gratification denial, anyone?
This guy who hadn't even asked me for a date wanted me to sleep in his arms. In his clothes. Hahaha!!! God, serisouly... I must be one of the most unattractive sleeping persons ever.
What happened to men who knew how to flirt, huh? Who snuk up on you and subtly brushed their hands up your thigh... who rested their hands softly on your lower back. Whose eyes met yours when you felt them staring. Who, when you couldn't take it anymore, shoved you high up some godawful wall, and pound you senseless...?
Hand holding? Wake up in each other's arms...? Jay-zus...

Insomnia

All night long, your thoughts are on the air. Am I sleeping? Have I slept at all? And then you know how when you can't sleep, everything becomes an out of body experience.
That was me last night, and I quite clearly remember arguing with people in my room that it was absolutely not normal that I was arguing with people in my room that just weren't there. They answered me back. My door opened on its own. This was probably all in my head. Probably. It's worse than when you're drunk and remember in flashes.
I took a walk around the house. I drank water, drank water drank water. Such a drag when you can't sleep, when you're actually falling alseep that you get so excited and your heart starts beating so wildly that you wake yourself back up. And all I was waiting for was light.
Twenty years old and the middle of the night still terrifies me.
And I'm biting the inside of my mouth so much. My tongue feels like sandpaper.
And instead of counting sheep I'm counting reasons.
And even though nobody died from lack of sleep. You still feel like ripping your hair out.
Dawn makes everything better.

Asphyxia

How many masks can you put on until you get confused and forget who you were in the first place, huh? How many people can you be...?
How is it that some people, well, they keep on changing yet manage to be the same deadly virus?
If you love something, set it free. If you hate something, well. Set it free.
When you're sick of starting over, when you see that every new beginning is just in fact a continuation, when you're ready to be who you want to be... cut yourself off.
Eventually you see that your roots, what started you off, they're holding you back.
Choking you.

Sighs, sighs...

Just for the record, the weather today is sunny and the air is full of... hmm... can dreamy-ness pass as a word? I stumbled coincidentally on this lovely poem by Pablo Neruda, some months ago... Cue girls sighing everywhere*


"I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close".

Ehh... ehh...

I won't worry my life away

I'm a No/Mad Nomad nooommmaaadddd...
People, they seem to have a problem with me not having a clue about lots of things. Like, they don't approve of what I do, or what I want to become. Or how to go about it. Or that I can't live in one place for too long.
It's funny how when you notice it, it's people who have issues with what should be your own personal, private concerns. You can't talk because you know most of them, they won't understand.
And when you can't talk about your problems and your concerns, it makes you not give a shit about other people's. It really goes like this. You only ask people about their weekends so you can tell them about yours. True fact.
What's also funny, and this is me NotBeingSarcastic, is. People can't live with what they can't label. Where is she from?Where does she live? What does she do? WhyWhereWhatWHAT??!!!
It kind of gives you a funny feeling of fondness... like you're petting a pet that's done something really stupid and funny at the same time. Most people are so predictable.
Me, hmm... I Just feel really really light.
And I get that you have to trade your youth for something, at some point. A future, Stability. Whatnot. But not yet.
With the sun shining, and the blue blue sky, and me being where I am right now, what I become could be anything. The smell of sea and wet grass, and my good good friends. Special mention of A.
I won't worry my life away.

Cue*

Because even the strongest of rocks still
breaks from the constant
angry waves.
The phoenix in love with the flame
that consumes it,
it still
gets burned. The shoe that doesn't
fit, you'll still stumble around
in it. Pain.
What doesn't kill you
doesn't
necessarily make
you stronger.
It
scars
you.

The memories of.

My friend S. - we stopped talking for a while after she decided to try drugs and date a dealer. We used to go out and get dead drunk before that happened. We used to hang out and not get drunk and have the time of our lives. Vodka and chatting up random guys until the alcohol started wearing off of me and she got too drunk. The she sagged. Deadweight and heavy like a potato sack, I'd have to carry her around while she mumbled incoherently and I laughed my head off at the whole thing.
She'd drink coffee right after dumping cigarette ashes in it. We'd dance until our feet went numb. We'd go clubbing in flip flops. The point is - she got me. As fucked up as it sounds, she understood. That the shallow red cuts on my wrists were battle scars, not suicide. Teen me coping with the world. As fucked up as it sounds.
Me, I met her once while I was out stealing handbags from unsuspecting turists with another friend. True fact. She was with some boy and asked me if I'd seen him touching her. I said no. He hadn't been. Her breath smelled like nail polish remover, the little pixie.
My other friend swore opening the bag and finding nothing. Motherfucker. And my friend S., she was drunk and thought I was talking about her. Stalking towards me with her tiny fist up my face. She was too drunk to hit but it was still funny as hell.
The point is, there are those who fuck up and those who are fucked up. The point is, we're ok.
The point is, this random memory came up and I wanted to write this down. Not wanting to be limited in being too human, I don't want to forget anything. Just in case I do, this will remind me of the times.
I don't want to forget.
I don't want to.

Perseverence

You know how you suddenly find yourself saying ' I'm just not gonna drink for a while. I'm just taking some time off...' and find that people are looking at you weird and you're trailing off knowing that as soon as you forget why you've promised yourself this, you'll be out with the girls downing vodka shots and daquiris?
I don't know how it is with everybody else. No, wait. Wait. I do. This happens at every New Year/Holiday with almost everyone I know.
It's not like I drink particularly ridiculous amounts. Ah, who am I kidding? Me and my friends are a bunch of closet drunks. I'm especially jealous of my friend Maria. She's this tiny girl who apparently has one hollow leg. She ends up hauling my ass/dressing me back up wherever we go. Good times!
The point being, I'm fairly disappointed in myself. I used to have bad ass alcohol tolerance, but lately I'm finding that the whole getting-pissed-and-doing-ungodly-embarassing-things is happening a bit too early in the night for my liking. Not only that. I then proceed to pass out for the rest of the night while my friends stumble about and trip on me several times a night.
The problem, people, are the so called ' time offs'. They're bad for your health. Honest to God, your alcohol tolerance to intake ratio lowers to a point where you start waking up disoriented in some friend's bed, stripped down to your underwear for whatever reason, sporting bruises you didn't even work hard for, with your mouth tasting like ass , an empty bucket conveniently placed next to the bed and barf on the floor.
It's embaressing I tell you.
SO what I'm going to is this... instead of giving up so easily next time, instead of giving myself a 'break', I'm going to try harder . Up myself to the 'Advanced Drinker' status. This is very necessary for a girl in this day and age... You never know when some creep will try to get in your pants by getting you drunk off your ass. Or when the next game of 'I Never' will take place. Or Strip Poker. You get the drift. A girl needs to be prepared. Preseverence is key...

Never think

Do you know how you can never quite describe a feeling? And then you stop trying at all because not talking about feelings spares you having to ask about other people's feelings in return. Like some sort of emotional obligation. It's not like I am this heartless bitch. Mmm... I'm just a bit... detached. Mostly.
The point being, you know how leave a specific place, a physical place, a town, a country, a continent. And you live away for whatever, and you grow and you change and maybe it's for the better and maybe it's for the worse.
And then for whatever reason, a visit, a duty, a duty visit, you head back. And you realise that. It's the same old pervert that's running the shop down the road. The same old drunks walking stumbling into clubs, the same bus drivers, the same faces, names. The same, the same. It's like, no matter how much you changed and how much time has passed, you slip right in. Blend right in. Like you've never left. Like you're expected to still be the person you were before you left. Play the role. Static.
Some people call this routine, or pattern or comfort or home. This things never changing. This everything being so constant, so monotone, so the same.
Some people call it 'life'.
Other people, me, I call it claustrophobia.
Maybe the trick is to destroy your roots. Turn your past into a story. Maybe the point is to create our own unroutine. Where everything is not always planned. Maybe when you stop letting your upbringing condition you, not even the most boring of places and spaces will.
The sound of rattling cages is choking me up.