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 watched him convulse, and there was nothing that we could do. Afterwards, we took Joey to the vet only to get a confirmation that he was not sleeping. You don’t sleep with your 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, 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, though. Everything that would take me away from people seemed very normal at that point in my dream.

Anxiety has a tight grip on my mental and physical presence, triggering fragmented and pathetic words coming out of my mouth. My ears and eyes become obtuse like wood and broken glass when I listen to others as if I’m not there, but they are talking to me, so I guess 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-talk.

I want to talk about your scars instead. Yes, I still want to talk about them. If you say no, it’ll mean you are more scared than 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 the agony of expression causes all this. You speak perfect English, but instead of telling people about yourself, you use your eloquence to hide within your interpretations of your interests rather than show 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 if you want to cover up your 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, go to your room, 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 that 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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