Beneath the scar the truth is buried, so they think. But whether or not memories are the truth, I no longer know. Every day you filter something, no matter if a feeling, a thought or even an event. We tell stories the way we remember it and this makes us liars… technically. Some people don’t like photographs or videos, because they want to remember things their way.  This is not necessarily denial or lying to yourself, not if you believe in fiction. Like I do. In the end – it’s all about the feeling. Fucking feeling.

They are right about mind over matter; here’s the fucking mind determining what to do and what not to do. For example why would I not want to hold my hand in front of fire or hit my head against the wall? Why is the mind cooperating with my will? And why is my body not participating in this debate? It’s too scared to admit that nociceptors are the heartbreakers of the human body! And it’s the heartbreakers that make us human, because pain is mandatory?

I know as a person I have nothing better to reflect other than this. I wish I would think about other things, like learning chess or getting married.

Apathy…at least apathy keeps problematic sentiments off the table. But you know, – me and apathy – it sucks me in like a black hole and it takes a lot of effort to get back out. I’m sorry to inform you that it didn’t get me this time. I told you about my friend indifference, who is a lot tenderer. He doesn’t take me for granted.

He makes me think. If everything is meaningless and only survival instinct counts then what are we trying to preserve? And the answer is who cares? We are here to act, to feed on day and night. We are here to taste and fuck each other as we’re all the same.

Did I just write we’re the same? No, we are not. Each of us is unique and original (with exceptions).  Some have big egos, some have small egos. Some are still waters, some are angry waves and some are dead fish.

But whether or not you are who you are for a reason, I don’t know. It’s your job to know.

How do you practice defence mechanisms if you want to protect your ego? Do you shut others out or do you have to show all your bad to everyone? Either way, I don’t think any of us know how to protect oneself.

If beneath your scar you unfold the truth, why will it matter to anyone? They don’t know you, they cannot comprehend, that’s why it doesn’t matter what you share with people.  They won’t know what to say. They are all so fucking speechless, unlike friends. Friends and people are different species.

Some people judge you by what you find funny, what you eat and what you believe in, as if it matters.

There’s a creature in you that lives on your tears and I want it to starve to death.  If I ever make you cry, I will break my cheekbones, I promise.

Oh self-denial you sexy little minx…

And interesting realization: people think I lack intelligence and confidence, while friends think I lack happiness and freedom.  I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how people  or even friends view each other.  I don’t understand communication, common sense or even reason…basically, being human is…

What you remember won’t ever go away…just to come back to the previous topic in this incoherent blog entry of mine. You keep it in a safe at the back of your head, for good. Why we filter so much, I don’t know, either. Maybe it’s a sign that the truth doesn’t matter.  BUT IT DOES.  I wish the truth wouldn’t push us away so much.

I said lying was not bad as long as you admit it in time. I believe that we all know the truth, because we’re part of it. We’re just incomplete.

I don’t understand why people say we are made of dust, we are made of cells. Dust is what we will become.

It’s hard to hold an ongoing line of things that relate to each other.  My mind is currently fucked, but tomorrow I will forget.

To Autumn

I walked up Telegraph Hill earlier. I’ve never seen that hill during the day and it looked nice.  And there was a tree, which waved me over – just like that. So I moved closer, leaned against it and we started talking. I’ve never seen him before, but he said he saw me running every other morning when it was still dark. I asked how he could recognize me in the dark and he said he could smell me, because I’m the only human outside nearby the park. He asked “Why do you go running so early?” And I said I liked the smell of cold fresh air.

I accidentally stepped on his foot, but it didn’t hurt him, he told me that all his life he’d been rootless and now was the time for him to strike roots. I asked him Why, but he wouldn’t answer me. I was watching how his arms were pointing at different directions as if he was figuring out where to go, where I should go.  Then the wind started to determine everything, the sun appeared from behind the clouds, blinding me. There was an ant crawling on my finger.

After a long break, the tree said: “…Fill all fruit with ripeness to the core.”

That was the last thing he said.

I could feel some warmth when our legs touched. And I realized that he was quoting a poem by John Keats. But I didn’t know what he meant or what he was trying to say.  If you know the meaning, let me know. My perception of the poem is currently blurry.

It happens a lot that a moment just vanishes within a blink. You’re no longer sure what there is that you can still capture. It’s all going away as if it has never been here in first place. Seize the moment. You hear this and you go stiff, spending too much time thinking if it’s going to be another mistake. The next thing you realise is that the footsteps have receded into a distance so you can no longer tell where you are and whether or not you’ve followed any steps. So you either turn back or you stand there. Pretending not to be lost, you do not hesitate to choose a direction, because you’ve always been good at making decisions. You know you can’t have it all.
You have a choice. By all means choose. You can go anywhere you want.

There is a bed on which you could sleep for ten years, but as soon as you are underneath the cover, the horror of thought consumes your essence by turning tranquillity and reason into slaves of the wake. You press your eyes shut so tightly, they begin to water. Monsters and noises are rain dancing on the top of your head like nightmares looking to set free. Your planet is getting closer, longing for your long lost company.

Nothing is quite as it seems because you never know the meaning of what you see or experience. They say it doesn’t matter, it just happens. It’s going to be a good day. So why care about the reason of it all?
But truth be told, you never cared.
You just have a myriad of questions of which the answers do not add up to the truth.

Not even the greatest minds in history made it any further, so why would you?
In the end they no longer questioned and that’s the key to mirth. They knew it, of course. The endless string of inquisitions was what made them miserable and despicable. They couldn’t help it. Everything comes with a question; one after the other. It’s hard living and not knowing.
While there are a great number of things of which we know the answer, there are places where we’ve never been, like on Saturn where you wouldn’t survive with merely helium gas.
They say Saturn’s rings are particles of a former moon that smashed apart in a collision millions of years ago. But Cronos prevailed. Titan actually has an atmosphere with gravity so weak, you could strap a set of wings on your arms and fly. Cronos will lift you up.
Only with a heat like yours you will survive the cold.
They say Saturday children are very much influenced by Saturn’s stormy weather. So far away from the sun, what did you expect? Only the cool autumn air can tame your heart and brain, so tender, so homely. With Saturn’s low density you will float on water. (However, where you are now, you will sink into the deepest abyss.)
When listening to the eerie sounds of Titan and Saturn’s rings recorded by Nasa you realise they are similar to the noise which you’d once heard during an unnerving afternoon nap some years ago. It was not the unplugged television after all.
Your first year on Saturn.

So many people have accidentally called me recently. By “accidentally” I mean, they have their phones in their pockets and somehow a movement caused a certain touch and unlocked their phones that way. How interesting. The phone is telling you that I still exist. I mean my phone’s ringing, isn’t it? It’s just a shame that when I pick up I am immediately teleported into your pocket. What’s more interesting, when I miss the call you then leave me a 4-minute voicemail with funny noises. The last voicemail sounded like Curtis preparing his suicide.

You remember when I said the William Tell game is not merely about trust? There’s a hell of a lot of fear involved, opposed to your own belief in yourself.  And it is self-belief that scares the shit out of me. Doubt is what we’re grown up with and it will always be a root in our conscience that we cannot rip out.

Fear is not always rational, but it’s there; it’s not something that we can simply dispel from every day life. If there is one thing that I’ve realized it’s that fear can be tackled in association with indifference. It begins with the question “Why?” and “Is the fear really worth it?” I know that we have instincts, too, and most of the time we cannot comprehend. But does the animal ever question the inexplicable?

I noticed that the only time you really express fear is in your dreams, which pretty much says it all, right? Fear grabs hold of everything that’s you, such as your guilt, your flaws and even your achievements and shakes them like milk. And now where has your balance gone?

Deconstruction is all about the significance of change, no, sorry, the certainty and inevitability of change. This leads us back to fear, as people fear change, no matter if for the better or worse. Change is a disruption of the clock of consistency. Move time by one hour back or forward and people already get uneasy and restless. But they don’t realize how easily it passes, it’s not even a jetlag, it’s just a little change. It’s not only your body’s clock that you need to worry about, but also your sense of perception and how wide you can open up your mind. For some people it takes a whole life to realize something. This will only happen once a change has entered their life.

The only person who is always hungry for change is the artist – he who cannot settle down. Once he is a victim of a routine like most of ‘them’, he becomes numb and trapped. This numbness is triggered by dull repetitions and swimming with the stream. If he swims the other way he’ll be referred to as the stupid person, the outsider.

In order to set himself free (at least for a little while) he shuts the door and sews his mouths shut. That’s when his face changes and he will no longer be able to hold back or keep that vexatious thought in his head. It’s sore inside his ribcage and he loves it, as suddenly he has come back to life. His vision has transcended into the eyes of illusions, but he prefers to call them inspirations.

I admit that I am scared of phones, because I hate talking on the phone. And if you ring me and keep me in your dark pocket without saying a word, I shall feel even more scared. Or seeing a miscall from someone that you used to like, but you haven’t heard from in a year, you get excited about the fact that they’ve called and it turned out to be a fucking accidental call. Is it sad to say that I listened to that 4-minute voicemail of nothing?

Fuck the phone…fuck the phone…I’ve lost coherence, I’m sorry.

What was I talking about? The significance of fear…

Teach yourself indifference, not necessarily apathy (only if you know how to get out easily), but indifference is a good friend to make. He is gentle with scars.

Thanks for reading my latest piece of fiction; I was surprised about the hits on my blog. Thank you. And, no. No, it’s not autobiographical, no. Also, I never studied medicine, either. Would I be booking coaches at a travel agency if I had studied medicine? I guess so, because patients would have died on my table and you’re right, life’s too short to be collecting more guilty conscience. I’m still attempting to eliminate them on paper. They slip through my fingertips.

Do you know why writers have it so bad? Did you know that when Bukowski wrote the screenplay for Barfly, he pretty much earned nothing? Fucking Mickey Rourke got the most money for simply pretending to be Buk on the screen.  Throughout my entire life I’ve refused to put my belief in pretense. But acting is art; it depends on how it comes across and how you view it. To me, acting is not creation, but it helps in distributing the creation and it gives the creation a universal identity.
Approach.
The way you approach that piece of creation is also a huge matter as it tells us about you. At least it should. I liked someone a year ago who was fascinated by creations and studied them like there was nothing better to do. He would debate about their meanings, analyse the creator’s intentions and apply the values to the world that we live in, but never would he tell me what those creations meant to him, how they shaped him and what he wanted out of them. All I knew was that he was running away from something, but most of all he was creating something. The only pity was that he didn’t show it to me.  He was a number 3, therefore one of the creative.

Do you prefer odd or even numbers? Odd numbers, of course. Imagine they’re people and you pair them up. One of them will always stand out and that’ll be you, because you suck.
You suck because you believe in something greater. You were born to think for yourself, have your own way and delve in your creativity, as you believe we are here to create and share.
But why of all people, is the creator the one who is alone? Of course you accuse him of pushing people away and that it’s his own fault, but here it goes, you’re the one that lacks of understanding. You know shit about this person’s needs. I admit he is not easy to deal with, but he has energies to release and if you get too close those energies will harm you. He knows it. Can you not see that he is only trying to protect you from him, you blind fuck? Of course not, the creative are the most selfish of all people.

Maybe I should set my quest to finding the stranger who secretly drew me at the cafe upstairs at Foyle’s. For a moment I felt special. I wondered whether I should sit still or play with my hair. That was a nice conversation; conversation through observatory power. Talking is overrated. If only you knew.

Or maybe I shall simply continue dreaming about good looking men who do not speak. Another quest of mine is to go to Montreal to find a guy called Matt whose surname is unknown to me. The only things I know about him is that he is Cancerian, too, and that he builds a tent in less than five minutes. The only thing he left me was the collection of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which I still haven’t read. Sometimes I look through each page to check whether he has left me any notes. He was one of the few who looked at me and understood me right away.

They say I have the tendency to set goals that are out of reach. Don’t you understand? What’s going to happen once you’ve attained your goal which was only within arm’s length? How can you be so unadventurous? Get married and stay the fuck away from me.  Dreams are to remain dreams, but you’re supposed to keep looking for them. I don’t know what the fuck people are talking about. If a dream comes true it’s never the way you expected it to be. It’s the feeling of yearning that counts and NOT fulfillment because it doesn’t exist. A human being is a creature that wants it all. The less we get the better. Give the child a toy and it will want another.
Create something that you cannot be and there you go you have a dream, a fool’s dream, which will outlive everything before getting forever lost.

It shouldn’t be that hard to simply let the fear go, whatever it is that you fear it will always come at you sooner or later, whereas the fear will not exist if you replace it with indifference. My former fear of spiders was pretty irrational, as they’d never done anything to me. It was their unusual leg arrangements and fat behinds which distinguished them from insects. I’ve never thought spiders were cute; they more reminded me of evil women, crack whores and other femme fatales.
I’ve read that arachnophobia is abnormal and can only be explained by a human’s instinctive reaction to danger. What danger? Unusual ugliness with eight legs?
As a crab, I have eight less, too, which makes me an arthropod. I undergo molting in order to keep growing, molt my exoskeleton and eat it while mourning over it. The past doesn’t digest well…

Do you ever wonder what it’d be like being an arthropod with no nociceptors? I would like to know for at least a day and then decide whether it’s worth being a mammal. Maybe we’re better of with only physical sensations: hunger, thirst and sex drive. What more do we need? Why do we have to talk and be plagued by pain that constantly needs expression? A centipede would merely keep crawling and a spider weaving. You’d never get the feeling that you’re wasting away and if so, it just happens, no last thoughts, no feelings whatsoever.

To be human, I see no purpose other than to create. The standard human pattern that you follow, if uncreative, is not of my interest.
You create in order to de-clutter the shit that you were born with. This is the purpose of our lives.
We are born and this is who we are. People never change. Some people are born with more deep thoughts than the others – let’s call them artists, artists burning to express these thoughts, but unable to share it with anyone even if he wanted to. Artists don’t have it easy. You find an artist working part or full time in a bar, a restaurant or in retail. Throughout the day they dedicate their efforts to nothing in order to pay for rent and food. Only in the middle of the night this creative energy unravels his pain, anger and recklessness triggered by his views on the unevolved world. These artists, let me tell you, are angry for good altruistic reason. They long for truth and they know the truth. And yet the world turns its back on them. So the artist dedicates his life to opening your fucking eyes. See Bill Hicks, see Alec Empire, and listen to all suppressed voices, but does the majority care? Of course not. Whatever you say, it’ll fall on deaf ears.
This walking ignorance with no ears or eyes, but feet that conform to the marsh of others…

My fear of red tartan patterns, however, wasn’t as irrational. When that big fat man in the tartan suit stood beside my bed at 5 in the morning, I jumped. But instead of harassing me, he slowly floated into the ceiling. How could one’s imagination hurt anyone? Nonetheless, tartan patterns still hurt my eyes.

Why would you say I’m special as I am not? Can’t you just give me a feeling I’m worth being faithful to and we’ll leave it at that? As long as someone is being cheated on he or she is not special in any way. Got that?

Recently my dreams have been coming in broken fragments. Have you ever had that before? It’s as if you can’t live life quickly enough. There is not one moment that seems to last. And it’s very sad, I know. It’s the dynamic of London town to which my mind and body have adjusted to. It’s very sad, I know.
Sometimes I close my eyes and I see a bid grey screen and think of classic black and white movies with Lugosi. I prefer dreams like that to broken fragments.

I envy those who love this city and its dynamics. This is where you see that everyone lives his life their way. I envy your way, your happiness, luck and all, but furthermore, a lot of you deserve it. Therefore I am not saying anything. I am a nice person. I know that people deserve what they deserve.

I discovered the art of not eating after 6pm, no matter what your bed time is. But then again each digestive system, each bowel has a different pace. It depends on how balanced your mind and body is. I know all this.

Why I feel so low I have no idea. In the true sense of the word. Nine. Is the highest alone standing number and I am it. Think about it. The highest. Invincible.
I think I was made on my parents wedding night and it was autumn. They have planned me well; I was to be born in the year of the wood rat. Wood rats have a very bad temper, so look at me. You don’t know me. You will never know me as a person.

You hear so many fucking sirens on Saturday nights, why? It’s nothing but alcohol. I hate the effect of alcohol in other people’s veins. I hate it with all my heart. But right now what I hate most is Ian Curtis, the liar, the cheater. I hate the song Atmosphere, I hate it. Yes, it used to be my favourite Joy Divison song. But he lied. He walked away… in silence. Big big time. You don’t tell others to do what you won’t. Little coward piece of shit.

Here you are listening to me complaining about the heat. Above 15°C oh my…
You hate that and during winter I was listening to you complain about the cold. If only you knew how hot it really is. We’ve been walking for so many years, have you not warmed up yet? Are you seriously that cold? My condolences.
I constantly find myself walking fast, but where to? Not important.

You follow your passion, you follow your desire. But don’t follow people.
The more you know that they’re there, the more translucent your own being becomes. I don’t know if it makes sense to you, but it makes sense to me. And I wish it wouldn’t.
It’s ok to believe in God, just don’t hold the Bible to your heart.

What am I talking about? I’m empty like a shoe box.
I blame the Nociceptors. I blame them.

If I say I’ve written and read more words than I’ve spoken, will you try to change that? It’s not that easy. I may have once said ‘Get me to speak six hours straight and you’ll have found a place in my heart’, but this no longer happens. There’s no one that allows me to be me anymore. The last person was Sam, but he’s no longer here. I do not enjoy talking, I never have. The problem is that people are not as respectful as they think they are.
If you notice that I’m talking (as in speaking) about things that I do not wish to talk about, you’ll have probably led me one step closer into madness. I might hate you for it, but no worries, I will hate myself a lot more for it. Right, we’re not getting anywhere, are we?
Shall we just shut the fuck up and do our thing? As in do what each of us is interested in? Only talk to those who know the right thing to say?
Now a German would say: “Einfacher gesagt als getan.”

So there I am sweating out my temperature every night. It’s awful. But you know what the strange thing is? It feels more like I have drooled all over myself or as if my urine has escaped my bladder and is now perspiring through my pores. Yes, I am disgusting…for expressing how certain things really feel.
Another thing: I believe that sometimes I unbutton my pyjama and touch myself in my sleep, because sometimes in the middle of the night I stir and find my pyjama unbuttoned and the morning I wake up, it’s all buttoned again. Strange, isn’t it?

I still cannot grow accustomed to the face of reality. Do you ever get the feeling that you’re wasting away while in the middle of it? Even if you are a good actor or your way of thinking and concept of socialising are the same as all the others and you go out drinking with them because that’s what everybody does?
Am I being rude? I don’t think I am.
I believe we are all the same, but each of us just has a different taste and I happen to hate all your tastes, because I don’t think you have any. Nonetheless I respect you, so show some respect back.
I have quit blaming people for what they did and do. I understand that there is no point; however, I cannot stop hating them, for this is the only way to maintain my source of energy. I need that kind of fuel, as the other sources are way too simplistic and weak.

What I love about Bill Hicks? Why I cannot stop talking about Bill Hicks? I am using Bill Hicks, you see. I am using Bill Hicks as some form of a template in order to fully pull myself together and just say I don’t care and even if I lose you as a friend, I don’t care. Just don’t make me feel like I have to keep my likes and dislikes to myself. I want to tell you how much I hate kids and spring, how much I dislike being among people drinking (don’t care about drugs) and admit that I find amusement within very filthy things and laugh about dark humour that might be too dark for you. I don’t like how you tell me to smile while I do not have the same reasons as you to do so. I have my own reasons. It’s not that I do not smile at all; I simply don’t find you funny or in any way smile inducing. My family makes me smile, genuinely. My dogs make me smile. Bill makes me smile; it’s not that I’m all negative like you all think I am. And yet, it’s you that makes me feel like I’m all negative, which I truly am not. Mostly I just cannot stand your questions, such as the h-a-y?-question. Honestly, what is this? Why would you ask me a question that gets asked the most every fucking day? It makes me wonder what the fuck you want to hear. Or how do I answer you truthfully without triggering another similar question? These days I would do anything to dodge the h-a-y?-question. Anything.
The h-a-y?-question leads towards a string of other unbearable questions.
Questions are supposed to be interesting. Questions are supposed to educate. Questions are supposed to bring you closer to the one you like. But these days every day questions make me want to kill myself. Nothing but repetitions and the art of waiting, as in waiting for everyone to shut the fuck up. But you know they will not.

I had turned 14 when I realised the irrelevance of the h-a-y?-question. Not knowing who I was, what I was supposed to do and say and what I believed in and how to interact with people. At least I knew what I wanted, but not how to get it and I still don’t. And then I came across John Lydon’s autobio, which had taught me to think for myself. He taught me about the values of individuality and honesty and what the real kiss of death was. Sometimes when lonely, I believe that I want to taste that kiss and sell my soul on top of it, but losing my individuality forever is too much of a risk.
I haven’t finished building the emergency exit, yet.

I hate control freaks, each single one of them. And yet I presume that he has turned me into one. There is only one way to find out, but the sad thing is that after five years I still haven’t had the chance. On the love front, I don’t know what I have become. But I will find out. Hopefully before the completion of the fire exit for I want to be ablaze with him.
The scars will look beautiful on the two of us; they will remind us of the invincible heat that we have released to burn them all alive – all those fucking lizards basking in the sun.

My freckles will all be gone; particularly the triplet on my cheek, which looks like I have dirt on my face. Yes. Dirt on my face. My meaningless tattoos will fade. When I saw Lisbeth going to the tattoo saloon to have a tattoo done on her bruised ankle, I thought about my own reasons of getting myself tattooed. I understand.
You feel better and relieved by flaring up the pain that someone has inflicted on you. It’s ok if you do it to yourself…by your own choice, but it’s not acceptable if someone practises pain on you against your will. This is easy to understand, right? You want to make it your decision. Your very own.

So, why am I scared of being who I am? Am I scared of losing my job? Scared of losing friends that are no friends? I am no longer scared of spiders, so I guess I am making progress after all.

London, oh London, I know it’s not your fault, it’s the people’s; all these people who make you. I know I said I stopped blaming people, but read this again, I am not blaming anyone. I saw a bum on the street reading Kafka and now I believe that in each gumball candy machine is a pearl.

So.
Does a fucking pessimist talk like that, you piece of shit?