2 days in February

Hungry for prose, he wrote.

Yes, I can relate too well, especially if everything feels like plastic or nothing. There have been too many of those days – falling off the wagon despite knowing you could have held on to something, or, falling prey to mundanity when all you have to do is motivate yourself to go outside. But you couldn’t be bothered at the time, because it didn’t feel right or you didn’t care.

If we fall on our faces it’s because we choose to, believing there is nothing else to write home about otherwise. Being a little guilty of this I admit that I sometimes take badly directed risks on the emotional front by holding on just because I’ve grown so accustomed to fighting the inevitable. Revolt, feel alive, write about it and forget about it.

One example being that I cannot accept the wrong, as I am fully convinced that it is the right. This involves the lack of trust in my own instincts sometimes. It always takes a great number of forebodings to steer me towards the “destined” direction. Yes, I wrote “destined”, because you can make any decision you want, except that your guts will always know better and eventually you’ll listen to what your guts will spill. You could’ve stopped it from happening but you didn’t. You didn’t feel like it.

I’ve been paddling against the waves to vent my anger and prove a point that is simply non-existent. All because I’m bored and want to unload the excess of passion, or simply my inability to control my feelings and strong tendency to flare them up! Just so I feel something.

In other words – pathetic.

One’s latent anxieties are best faced through the eyes of a chess figure, because it involves the compulsion to move no matter what. Sisyphus is just a contrasting effigy to sitting passively in front of the TV. Rolling up a boulder or having his guts pecked and snatched. What sounds more like life?

My choices with relation to the existentialist are simple – doomed to be free, and yet captive in one’s head. There’s something not right here, look, it’s Mr Determinism nudging my ribs! Can I still be who I want to be?

With a collage of all my life’s events flashing before my eyes…I don’t know.

Thus I choose the never-ending hunger for prose. Over anything.

I’d been asleep on my stomach for so many nights and didn’t realize its negative effect on my neck. Most of my dreams’ images are fragmentary, except for the sex in changing rooms, bathrooms and swimming pools. They say it’s dangerous being too conscious in one’s own head when the eyes are closed. This being the main reason why I fear meditation, as Philip K. Dick’s vision of the world may manifest itself and stretch my fears beyond sensibility. Though, it may be the only way of dealing with them. On the plus side, they may help emphasize that you are there and alive.

I wonder do you ever look for ways to elevate yourself? You may have a strong social presence with the ability to wrap every person around your little finger. The extroverted people are skilled communicators. Talking through written words and songs doesn’t really get me anywhere or to anyone. They get the wrong idea and approach you the wrong way. Why care anyway?

Still lonely at the back of my head I am trying not to slip too far away from this page. I just want to elevate myself– somehow.

Prose being my only healthy channel of anger release. As long as something bad happens to the chess figure, I should be on the safe side, right? Or am I part of the game as well? Does one’s fiction have influence on one’s karma?

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