the colorful goat is laughing too

You still cut right through me like a crystal tear on a Christmas morning...

Even after all this time, your eyes are clearer than everyone else's and I still have the uncanny ability to feel it when you are going to show up. The implications are obvious to anyone with half a brain, and they're laughing at me. (It seems that I have less than half a brain...) I am a misguided messiah at best, and at worst, a revolutionary girl who ended up getting stabbed by the witch princess at the duel for the world.

But I grew up. Thank you, I suppose, for the memories and everything. I .. am not mad anymore.

Θέλω να κλείσω τη σκέψη σ'ένα μαύρο κουτί

Last Friday, I was at a bar with some friends from the university and suddenly, some guy from my class walks up to me and says something to the effect "Wow, look at this, we've got a celebrity here". I had never thought of myself as a fucking celebrity and although it did make me smile, I didn't hold on to it at all. So next time I go to a bar and people don't wet themselves with anticipation to get my autograph, I think I will be okay.

This incident, however, did make me wonder what it would be like to live life undefined by the past. You would really LOVE everybody. But that could be potentially harmful, right? Because there are some people with which interaction has been proved to hurt you. Sometimes I can see it in my mind, that some people around me have large red post-it notes above their heads that say "this person might hurt me (again)". What are you supposed to do with them? If my yoga teacher is right, the answer is to love them too, but from afar. It's kind of scary, loving somebody who's hurt you - but it only makes you a fool if you expect something.

But my mind can never leave a perfectly simple and all-encompassing set of instructions alone, so it quickly, and really, against my will, started examining the particulars of loving someone from afar and how it's possible to love without inviting them back [fear, dread]. As it always happens since the beginning of this year, the examining refused to put an end to itself, taking a life of its own in my head. I hate it when this happens, and it's every day.

After some quiet struggling with how not to struggle with my mind, the idea came to me, that since I can't stop living in my head for whatever reason, the only thing that's left to do is make my mind a more pleasant place to dwell in. Give all the recurring thoughts a nice home and some attention - the kind of attention you give to a neighbour when you're in a middle of a job. Say hello to every figment in the morning and tuck them into kitten baskets every night. Think of them as cute furry animals who really don't know better than to tap my shoulder with their paws whenever and wherever. Residents with a license.

This way of thinking made me laugh quietly and it worked, too. When I woke up the next morning, I said good morning to the figment, but it didn't wake up. I thought I had it all figured out for some precious, quiet moments, when a strange thing I had read crossed my mind: "Pretending the elephant isn't there or that it's a cute bunny might feel good temporarily, but is potentially harmful. What you really need to do is to safely get out of the jungle." I tried to resist this, against my better judgment, convince myself that it's not applicable here... but I really don't know. Either my mind is trying to sabotage me now that I've found a solution, or I haven't found one that will do more good than harm. Realistically speaking, a sane person wouldn't have to resort to putting imaginary black foxes into thought-boxes and feed them imaginary chickens to stay sane. So I suppose my mind is broken and any mental scheme I try to execute on my own is doomed, because I am both the patient and the doctors and we ALL have our sets of problems.

I give up, officially. I will not take my mind seriously again.
(I might as well get certified while I'm at it.)

The problem with the world

lies in the unchallenged perception that value should be sought after for the sake of value. You can substitute the world "value" with any other end-goal the world generally views as worth pursuing, like happiness, wisdom, good looks, peace of mind... But if you are really happy, do you really care about clinging
onto the image of yourself as a "happy person" (tm)? If you are really calm and content, do you enjoy thinking of yourself as a calm person, or do you enjoy the silence? What is a good looking person without an admirer? What are words of wisdom without anybody else to hear them?

The value is within everything you do and not in the fact that you do it. Likewise, when you fail, the only thing really lost is an opportunity to create something of value. There will be more. Lasting pain and suffering are unnecesary, but inevitable when one focuses on the fact that they didn't manage to do something and not on that something.

If everybody could grasp this concept we could eliminate egoistical pride - because somebody who's out there having fun or doing something well wouldn't need to think of themselves as better than everybody else - they'd just enjoy themselves. We'd also eliminate jealousy - it's never the actual qualities we pathologically envy in others, it's the fact that THEY HAVE THEM and WE DON'T. Finally, we would be able to let go of guilt and regret over past mistakes - it was only value that was lost. We can cry our hearts out (and sometimes we should) but, after some point, being disappointed in our own disappointment.. just .. doesn't make much sense.

An exercise in futility

Counting the ways you, I, them can put me in a destroyed mood, is what puts me in a destroyed mood to begin with. Sometimes it's so hard to be aware of what's changeable and what should be left alone... of how actions sometimes affect reality and sometimes merely unveil it. I will never know. But I will let you go away if you want to.

In fact, I firmly believe in letting people do whatever the hell it is they think they want. I will not blame a soul. All these things I carry with me I don't need, I will shed them. I will find a way.

It is tempting to attempt to fix the shattered image of another or even your own. But glue doesn't hold and the glass will cut you. The problem lies not in breaking down, but in not seeing breaking down for what it is.

There is no sound in letting go, it only feels like open eyes underneath an air-condition (machine).

I let go.

Κεκτημένη Ταχύτητα

I am running out of steam. I am running out of time. I have long ago ran out of tears. I want a real exit. No room is sound proof enough for me to stay. I'm speeding off to nowhere, knocking things down in the process. Following or being followed, but never walking side by side, rarely creating, hardly ever truly dealing with anything. Raising dust and rumble for nothing, a sacrifice of time and energy to a ghost I've made real. For a reason.

I can't find the exit because I don't want to leave. There's always another door for me to open, and no matter how damaged it looks, I will ignore the screaming inside. I will put on music and flap my hands up and down. This has to STOP. I can mute the music. Can I mute the thoughts?

Have I gone too far, in my mind, Brett?

I'm sorry, I was alone with my thoughts. And they deteriorated (like they always do) to the point of imagining what I would do to shock others, and mostly myself. Totally ignoring the fact that I will NOT do these things, not the way I imagine them at least. Pointless, circular wanderings that occupy my mind, sever my touch with reality and incorporate themselves to my ever-lingering world of disgust.

What am I? A poster child for the disaffected and the reality-intolerant? Huh? And, how, exactly, do I escape from escaping?

Why do you folks walk that way?

My concentration shatters into a million tiny little pictures. Of shapes and curves and straight lines, of flattened hair and ?-tinted eyes and I have to piece it all back together in order to stay shane.

I want to wake up. I want to drown with my clothes on, for a while. I want to disappear into a green park which can be seen from above on the rooftops, but which you'll miss if you walk right outside. I want to eat something warm. I want you to call me Persephone.

And I don't want any more inside information, no, I'm done with them, folks.

The archetype & me

I had a really random dream last night, about a guy I've talked to maybe once. We were just sitting and talking and working on some project together. I woke up in a nice mood, presumably, it had to do with the light that had filled the bedroom from the windows my parents had opened.

I want to wake up like that every day, but I can only sleep in the dark.

I lie facedown and turn pages, I can feel my bones on the matress, I realize; I am looking more and more like her every day.

There's no crowd in the streets and no sun

Idle days pass by between books, bedcovers and cherries. I watch shadowed curtains ripple, lulled to sleep by the unobtrusive sound of air condition. (I, not the curtains. They never sleep) There's much to do, most of it compulsory, but books are beginning to make sense. It's a relief, among all the spoken words that don't.

I now realize that I have only one piece of a puzzle so giant I walk on it and see it spanning everywhere. How can I expect of myself to make sense of things? It's impossible.Everything is interpretation. Clarity comes again a little too late for preserving an avɑ̃taʒ for long, but less so than before. I shall be able to create and hold on to worth soon. I know.

I also know that I am not this four letter word, I am another. In my head, every day. There's my piece.

In my own Summer

I hate the furnace of the city. I hate its burned white, the swarm of cars and the noise.

I even hate the small, off-center streets with their trees, because they're uneven and narrow and cluttered. With randomness. There is a dusty car with a framed photo on top of it. There is a wall with open wounds painted over with vibrant colors. Why must I be witness to all of the sickness radiating from the structure (or lack thereof)? I just want to get my books, go home and deal with my states of mind.

The observer

All the songs of my life sting at the edges and sit down like rocks at the pit of my stomach. So does my prose, blue-tinged and ultimately devoid of hope. I live with the feeling that, innately, there is nothing worth bothering about in the world. The feeling that perceived goodness can and will come back to bite you. And that evil will fill you with a sense of nostalgia.

Children play merrily with a football at the parking of my house. Two of them have identical haircuts, all of them have no care in the world. Their mothers observe them from haphazardly parked cars, sporting classic "I am a working mommy " short haircuts. But, why the hell am I observing their hair? Why, WHY am I so acutely aware of the fact that I'm observing their hair?
I look at the scene, take in the sounds of laughter, the smell of summer, their hurried motions, the feel of warm bread and salt on my hands, trying to drown out the awareness of it all. The football smashes into the closing door, and for a moment, I have suceeded.

A reflection in sepia

There's always something sinister about streets with ruined buildings. It's like the dead houses disintegrate into the air, into the ground, like the deadness bleeds into the plants and the walls nearby. Animals act strange in those streets, their wide eyes fixed on invisible points, or they avoid them altogether. The wind blows strangely and the lighting is warm and orange, like it's old light, a reflection in sepia of earlier times.

There is a point at the street down my house where, precisely today, precisely at the time I was passing by, I could see the moon risen above the rooftops and at the same time, look at the traffic mirror in front of me and gaze into the downward slope of the street behind. I felt as if I was standing at a huge X on the ground, where two lines cross, where I could see things that are hidden. A place where I could see the most of the world. The coordinates would be denoted as Xopt, Yopt. Or rather (X,Y)opt. It would be a function of time. T(x),T(y).

This is a time for shifting chairs in balconies and climbing up on rooftops. I want the concrete to dust my clothes, scrape my hands, warm my core. I wonder if my psycho neighbour will chop me into bits, then shoot me in the head and feed me to his baby boy if I dare throw a party.

Squee, Caroline

Today I woke up in peace with my arms hanging loosely from the bed. I hadn't waken up before the alarm clock in such an okay state for weeks. I got dressed, didn't bother with taking care of my hair or washing my face and went to the university. I talked to some people, paid some amount of attention to class, drew a couple of stick figures of the people around, got a sandwich, then went to the city for some paperwork. I walked and thought at the same time, while the sun was beating down. It's still possible to walk outside during the day, there's no heatwaves in the air or anything, there's just this glare that gets in your eyes and the burning of the sun on top of your head.

I checked out a comic by Mr. Markador, who seems to have an adorable sense of humor. He was cutely awkward in person, the way I think I am sometimes. Is this kind of behavior, making comments that are off-beat, noticing and making sense of stuff that nobody else notices, conducive to authentic self expression? I think so. Why do I have to appreciate traits in others before I tolerate them in myself?

Debate

Common sense is ridiculous in the sense that it's not common at all. The use of this phrase relies on the assumption that a)most people can think logically without being swayed by fear, desire to make-believe or other emotions and b)that what most people say must be true.

Neither of this assumptions holds water, and "it's just common sense" should not be, by itself, a serious argument.

Trips, part II

Lisboa is every bit as unkempt and uneven as Athens. There are old stone houses with rose gardens below the concrete bridges and faded white marble monuments scattered around the city streets. The train stations are functional half-ruins, the actual trains splattered with graffity and moving about like noisy snakes, constantly switching levels on the mess of hills, fields and industrial areas that make up the city. However, there's a difference in how the air of the city weighs in on the people inhabiting it. In Lisboa, traffic jams do not vibrate with discontentment and people of a color different than white walk with the smile of belonging there.

The Portuguese are, apparently, very fond of sweet treats, especially of the baked kind. In every stone-cobbled corner, you can see the shiny metallic tables of a "Pastelaria", the rather peculiar word for "candy shop" in portuguese. It sounds rather peculiar when you put the accent on la, anyway.

Trips, part I

Some stories linger needlessly for some time after their epilogue. Identify them for what they are: stories that are over and no longer significant.

Choices and opportunities in life are like food. You don't have to eat all that is offered to you, some of it may even be bad for you, and, in order to eat what you want you may have to ask for it. Only then will you be able to enjoy your meals and maintain a semblance of control. Likewise, in life, if you only take whatever comes your way, you will only succeed in collecting an array of random experiences, which will inevitably shape you into something unpredictable. You have to select from the opportunities presented and pursue what you want instead of waiting for it to bump into you.

On the brighter side, travelling with the plane today was fun. We flew over Corfu, Italy, the Alps, Switzerland. There was still some iced snow left in the creases of even the most hill-like of mountains. I've never seen mountains so green before - it's a hue I didn't know existed. Geneva looked pretty from above, small houses with red roofs and flowers on the window panes. I got to try chocolate with pieces of lime inside. Actually, it even had traces of apple and pineapple, but it looked greenish like lime, like the mountains, come to think about it. I kept the package. Mom didn't give me a strange enough look when I fawned over absinthe-filled chocolate snacks. Ignorance IS bliss.

On the journey from Geneva to Lisboa, the view through the clouds looked positively Alladinian. You know, the part where he and Jasmine fly through Arabia's night sky and sing of discovering the world together.

Journey was pretty much hassle free - thanks to the practical bags and to the appropriate clothing. With only a jacket to carry around, I didn't have to parade like a trademark tourist with several blouses and overcoats tied at the waist. I also didn't get to experience the upmost humiliation of taking my shoes off at passenger control. It is a pity really, I had matching socks on this time.

The kite looked like a disintegrated corpse hanging from the telephone wires

Writers tend to elaborately describe the features of the characters that belong to a certain ideal. A woman will have gracious, elegant hands and a man will have strong and muscled arms. No man will ever be described as having a thin wrist, unless it's to show how poor and hungry he is or if he's somebody weak, just before he is victimized. Describing only what one finds attractive and in tune with archetypes leaves out so much, it encapsulates the character instead of freeing him, giving birth to another stereotype that always feels the same to read.

The problem with education

Are we to be forever damaged by what happened when we were 16 and too young to know better? Why do we, regardless of our parents best efforts, grow up to be defenseless? Is it a necessary process, or can it be avoided by being like everyone else? Is it because so much effort is spent on creating normal people rather than people who are content with their uniqueness? We are taught how to be good and match society's contemporary ideals rather than to be happy. Sad.

Post-rain

I liked how post-rain world has sharper, brighter colors.

There was a guy with a tattered rainbow umbrella and an equally tattered black suit whom I saw smiling at the people yesterday, while begging for money. I walked past him. I saw him again today and almost dropped the contents of my wrap to give him some money. I watched a shop assistant arrange the front window of a store and the first thought that came into my mind was "hey, they got a moving manequin".