Fascination Street

I dreamt I took my guinea pig Joey with me down to Fascination Street. I hadn’t seen him since 1996 when he died. I remember how my sister and I were watching him convulse with pain and there was nothing that we could do, except watch and hope that he was only having a terrible nightmare. Afterwards we took Joey to the vet only to get a confirmation that he was not sleeping. You don’t sleep with eyes open.

In my dream Joey was sitting on my shoulder. He pooped on me a few times, too. I’d almost forgotten that guinea pig poo is somewhat capsule-shaped.
Well, I have no idea which city we were in, let alone, which country. It’s sufficient to know that there is such a place like that in my head. A street that blurs the boundaries between what’s real and what’s only in your head.
Unfortunately before I could even discover the street’s delights, the next thing I knew was that I was on a plane to Dublin with my dogs. When thinking or talking about flights, I’m always reminded of this unpleasant sensation of losing ground, similar to hypnic jerks which often occur before falling into your land of dreams. The idea that you’re no longer walking on solid ground is always daunting. I don’t think that the plane was heading towards Dublin, because it flew up vertically into the sky like a rocket. It felt normal. Everything that would take me away from people seemed very normal at that point in my dream.

This anxiety engulfs my entire mental and physical existence, triggering fragmented, dismal and pathetic speeches that I cannot believe are coming out of my mouth. Also my ears and eyes become obtuse like wood and broken glass when I listen to others, as though I’m not there, but they are talking to me, therefore I am there.
When a person says “I don’t want to talk about it”, you respect that. But for the sake of socialising, I always find myself talking about what I don’t want to talk about, just because…
…I have nothing better to tell people. I don’t want to talk about the future, I don’t want to talk about unrequited love, I don’t want to talk about my book – not when you aim for small-fucking-talk.
I want to talk about your scars instead. Yes, I still want to talk about your scars. If you say no, it’ll mean you are more scared that I am.

Funny that whenever I do open up myself with sheer honesty concerning my personality and personal view on things, I scare people off, unknowing that all this is caused by agony of expression. You speak perfect English, but instead of telling about yourself, you use your eloquence to hide within the bleak interpretations of your interests rather than tell how your interests shape you. I’m sick of conversations in which I’m not allowed to point out the mystery hidden between the lines.

‘Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention.’
These lines are good to steal in order to cover up a self denial mode.
The wall that I mentioned in my previous blog entry is about to break – check my iron fist! Don’t ever let anyone or anything break your wall – do it yourself, for your own reasons and intentions.

If you don’t want to use violence, just go to your room instead, sit in front of your window and watch the crow on the antenna. He’s plotting something evil.

It’s better than watching plants; plants that grow upwards, because these little shits believe they can reach the sun. We all want the sun.

How do you know you’re not mending broken pieces of your previous life? The arsehole you were…
So karma – my debt collector: Whose dogma did I run over?

The accident had better not happened on Fascination Street. Or maybe Fascination Street was all about that journey going upward.

No, seriously, whose dogma did I run over?

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