Blame the nociceptors

It shouldn’t be that hard to let go of fear. Whatever you fear, it will always come at you sooner or later, or you can replace it with indifference for a while.

My past fear of spiders was pretty irrational, as they’d never done anything to me. It was their unusual leg arrangements and fat behinds that distinguished them from other insects. I’ve never thought spiders were cute; they reminded me of evil women, crack whores and other femmes fatales.

I’ve read that arachnophobia is abnormal and can only be explained by a human’s instinctive reaction to danger. What danger? Incomprehensive ugliness with eight legs?

Like a crab, I have eight legs, too. This probably makes me an arthropod? I undergo moulting to keep growing, moult 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 want to experience that for at least a day and then decide whether it’s worth being a mammal. Maybe we’re better off 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 always needs to be expressed? 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 any interest.

You create to de-clutter the shit around you. Some of it you were born with. This is the purpose of our lives.

We are born as who we are. People never change. Some people were born with a greater capacity for thoughts – let’s call them philosophers and artists—burning to express their thoughts and feelings but can’t always share them with everybody. Artists don’t have it easy. You find an artist working part or full time in a bar, a restaurant or retail. Throughout the day, they dedicate their efforts to nothing but pay the bills. Only in the middle of the night, this creative energy unravels their pain, anger and recklessness, triggered by their views of the world. These artists are angry for a good, altruistic reason. They long for truth, and they know the truth about themselves. 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. Listen to all those suppressed voices, but cares? Whatever they say, it falls on deaf ears.

Sometimes, the artist creates something universal but also personal. It’s universal enough to connect with individuals on different levels.

My fear of red tartan patterns, however, wasn’t as irrational. Yet I’m tired of bringing up over and over.

How could one’s imagination hurt anyone? However, tartan patterns still hurt my eyes.

Why would you say I’m special when I’m not? Can’t you make me feel that I’m worth being faithful to, and we’ll leave it at that? If you cheat on someone, they are not special, are they?

Recently, my dreams have been nothing but broken fragments. Have you ever had that? It’s as if you can’t live life quickly enough–you keep jumping from one fragment to the next. Not one moment seems to last. And it’s sad. It’s the dynamic of London to which my mind and body have adjusted. And it’s sad.

Sometimes I close my eyes and see a big grey screen that reminds me of a black and white movie with Lugosi. I prefer dreams like that to broken fragments.

I envy those who love this city and its dynamics. This is where everybody lives their life their way. I envy your way, happiness, luck and all, but furthermore, a lot of you deserve it. Therefore I am not saying anything. I’m kind enough like that. I know that people deserve what they deserve.

I discovered the art of not eating after 6 p.m., no matter what your bedtime is. But then again, each digestive system, each bowel, has a different pace. It depends on how balanced your mind and body are. Diet.

I have no idea why I feel so low.

Nine. It’s the highest alone standing number, and I am 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 woodrat. Woodrats have a terrible temper, so look at me. You don’t know me. You will never know me.

You hear so many fucking sirens on Saturday nights; why? It’s alcohol. I hate the effect of alcohol on people. I hate it with all my heart. But what I hate most right now 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 time. You don’t tell others what to do if you won’t do it. Coward–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?

I always find myself walking fast, but where to?

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 persona becomes. I don’t know if it makes sense to you, but it makes sense to me. And I wish it didn’t.

It’s ok to believe in God, but don’t hold the Bible to your heart.

What am I talking about? I’m empty like a shoebox.

I blame the nociceptors.

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