If I fall, I shall fall bravely

I can’t think of anything that’s more difficult than the attempt to connect yourself with other people. It’s even easier talking with faces that emerge from your bedroom wall at night time; except that you feel a little bit scared, as you don’t know what they want. My dreams have been weird lately; I can’t see anything, I only hear people talk even when my eyes are open. I suppose I’ve been at too many crowded places lately where I don’t hear a single word, can’t grasp any coherence or meaning or see the relevance of being there except for getting chewed and swallowed by a mass of chit-chatters. And yet…

I haven’t seen the beauty of this year’s autumn, yet. The leaves are still summer green, which makes me think that something is not yet finished, therefore we cannot move on. Whatever it is, bring it to an end: kill it, smother it and let me move on… Unfortunately, it looks like I won’t make it to Edinburgh this autumn.

Why would I read my Chinese horoscope every day although hardly anything applies to me and I don’t believe a word? Well, horoscope does inspire me in a way (not in a self-fulfilling prophetic way); it helps me in becoming more optimistic sometimes. Ever since the day I made friends and enemies with Schopenhauer, I lack on positive thinking and the bright side of life is nothing but an ephemeral sweet taste on my tongue, which I cannot enjoy because I know it will go away. This doesn’t, however, mean that I am a pessimist or a cynic and I know darn well how to defend myself. I see many beautiful things, but it doesn’t mean I want to share them with you or anyone (, although I will at some point). I will show what it’s like being in love and not knowing it, not realizing it, not wanting to realize it. I am no realist, either; I approach everything without expectations. So whoever wants me to speculate, will end up hearing some paradox. If there’s no evidence, there’s no truth in whatever you are looking for. This is why I don’t trust biographers, especially those who have never known the person they’re ‘biographing’ about. If anyone ever dared writing about me and my life after my death, I will haunt him/her until he/she loses his/her mind and becomes me. I’m on about possessing their wretched bodies.

I smile a lot behind your back. If I love you, I smile at you through Plexiglas. If I think I care about you, I text you this “:)”. Again, does this make me a bad person?

Hate is usually spite-driven and when your dear friends tell you to let go, you say it’s not possible, because it’s not you holding on to the hate.  (This is a lie, now that I admitted, there’s no need to elaborate is there?)

The only good thing about going out is watching beautiful, charismatic men and imagining waking up beside them.

I am very close to knocking on my new neighbour ’s door and tell him that I need to fix his goddamn squeaking bathroom door with Johnson Johnson’s baby oil. But my dilemma is: I don’t want to introduce myself tonight. It’s a boy apparently, and I don’t feel l look good enough tonight to knock on any boy’s door to say “hello” or “I need to fix something in your room!” Confidence, you bitch.

I’m on the verge of fighting this evolving obsessive compulsive disorder which is in my head. It is a very inappropriate family heritage (from my mother’s side). This is why I won’t ever let anyone call me a mother, except in my short stories, where a so-called Laurie is the actual me as a mother.

Is it paranoia or low confidence? Why does it matter? And who cares? What’s so fun about knowing my fears, if I can’t know yours? I’m sick of elaborating and my constant attempt to motivate you and push you seems to lead me towards a dead end. I don’t even know where the hell you have brought me. Where is my fairy tutor of life when I need him?

I don’t think there’s anything worth preserving about humanity – except music and fiction. There’s nothing the future species should learn about us, except untrue stories based on truth, perfection, love, passion and hatred. And they won’t know whether what they read is based on real life. They will think Sister Carrie was a hard working woman, Dorian a narcissist and that Arkham Asylum was a real institution for the crazy. But there are so many different Batman stories, many suggesting an ambivalent background and they won’t know which to believe. Don’t we feel the same? I think life has always been like this – nothing but lies, false beliefs and (the only optimistic) existentialism.  Existentialism makes us ask fewer questions about what we don’t know. The important thing is you. It’s all about you and having control over yourself.

I’m trying hard not to slip. Taking triple caution is not life, but paranoia at its finest. If I fall, I shall fall bravely…

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