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.