A day goes to waste if I do not create at least one sentence; a sentence I have spent creating on my train ride home. Don’t you artists need that, too? Don’t you need a little reminder that you can do a lot better than that zombie modus you’re in, putting all efforts into duties…you know what I mean. I am not allowed to elaborate here.

So on the ride home, the morning breaths have dissolved and you smell sweat of exhaustion and farts. Here, you become one of them, except that your head does not switch off, in fact, it’s starting to dedicate time to you, to you and you only. Unfortunately, it’s not always pleasant; it depends on what your head’s got in store for you. Look around you, they pretend to be virtually comatose; maybe they are and they might think the same of you…IF they even perceive your presence that is. As for me, I know they are all there. It’s just…I don’t think I am.

Believe it or not, that’s what makes me a good unreliable narrator. Telling lies is not bad as long as you admit it. But in writing, your protagonist doesn’t admit anything, he or she shows it to you, which ultimately makes him or her stupid, stupid for trusting a person like you. The exposure of one’s incredible self-denial is veiled in obstinacy which eventually defines the madness that our sanity is subordinate to. Nothing gets more irrational. Everything you cannot capture is irrational. You see what I’m saying? That’s right, that’s why people pretend that reason still exists, but the truth is that we’re all actors. One may be better than the other, but some of us do not want to act. So they suffer. It’s not a choice; it’s the way some people are.

There is a dark haunting tranquillity next door and I’m dying to absorb it with my fist; it must be like grabbing a handful of snow. The temperature is rising again and there is nothing that I can do about it. Like last year my attempt to delay the spring time will be impossible. So you are saying I have to accept it. But I will not.
I am not done with this tranquillity which sounds and feels similar to the air that I breathed in Auschwitz twelve years ago, a place where no bird would make its nest; no storm would disrupt the stature of the lifeless trees.

There are psychics with the ability to retrieve memories and images hidden in objects or sense the aura of a place. Remember what Trent said about living in the house where Sharon Tate got murdered by the Manson Family? And how the chicken that Tori Amos cooked for him at that place tasted horrible? I believe that when one dwells in a place where blood got spilled, the blood will lay hands on you in order to live on. One of the murderers had written “Pig” on the door with Sharon’s blood. Now you understand the pig references on the The Downward Spiral album. The Downward Spiral is the result of that blood touching Trent’s heart and brain. But I shan’t tell you the initial message of that album, shall I? It might not be relevant to him now, but to me, it always will be. There is always that one last way out. The very last.

I used to believe in Jung’s concept of coincidence without intent, but I am no longer sure. Sometimes there are sentiments that are inexplicable and too overwhelming with no particular reason. We’ve already touched upon irrationality. In my opinion irrationality is nothing but an emptiness that pretends to have something to deliver. So we end up waiting. Waiting for…

It’s been almost a year when I dedicated the story to him, the more I think about it the more I want to undedicate it. You don’t just say thank you for the story, you return the favour by writing something back, but he never did, neither did he ever tell me whether or not he liked it. And I was too chicken to ask. Not that I care, but I do wonder what he is up to. I wonder what effect a drop of my blood would have on his heart and brain. Some didn’t take it so well, but nonetheless, I am inspiring. At least that.

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