Θυμάμαι ένα πρωί σε ξένο σπίτι με κόσμο πεταμένο σε έπιπλα. Ο καθένας ξύπνησε μόνος του και εκείνη έφυγε, κι ας ήθελες τόσο πολύ να κάτσει. Και μετά έφυγα κι εγώ, και ήταν πολύ πρωί για να καταλάβω ότι έλεγα, πρακτικά, αντίο.

Είναι δύσκολο καμιά φορά, όταν απομακρύνεσαι περπατώντας από μια συναυλία, να προσδιορίσεις πότε ακριβώς σταματάς να ακούς τη μουσική και σου τραβάει την προσοχή ο θόρυβος του δρόμου. Τα βήματα σου σε οδηγούν, αργά, αμείλικτα αλλού, μα δεν το καταλαβαίνεις γιατί αυτό που σε χωρίζει δεν υπάρχει.

η γάτα στο φωταγωγό

'Πάντα αυτό κάνω, ενώ έχω συνολικές αντιρρήσεις, συμβιβάζομαι.'

Την ξέρουμε την αλήθεια κάθε στιγμή, και μπορεί να βγει στην επιφάνεια ξαφνικά, μέσα από ανούσιες συζητήσεις για ανούσιες επιλογές.

Η αλήθεια ψοφάει τη στιγμή που γελάς και λες ότι δεν υπάρχει πρόβλημα, μπορεί το σάντουιτς να μην είναι όπως το θες (γιατί δεν ασχολήθηκες) αλλά θα το φας έτσι κι αλλιώς. Αλίμονο στους απανταχού πεινασμένους που χαχανίζουν στο κινητό και κανονίζουν να σκοτώσουν ένα απόγευμα ή μια τετραετία έτσι, επειδή το υποσχέθηκαν. Και είναι τόσο εύκολο να κάνεις υποσχέσεις! Αρκεί να ξεχάσεις να πεις ότι δεν είσαι σίγουρος.

Εγώ πολύ θα ήθελα να κάτσω όλες τις υπόλοιπες μέρες να κοιτάω το κινητό μου και την οθόνη μου και να φοράω αυτά τα κομμένα γαντάκια και να πατάω κουμπιά και γενικώς να περιμένω με ανοιχτές αγκάλες. Αλλα δε μπορω επειδή υποσχέθηκα να φυγω, κι αυτό εν μερει επειδη φοβομουν οτι θα καταληξω να κατσω μόνη μου με τα χερια ανοιχτα στο κρυο και, γαντια ξεγαντια, στο τελος να με φαει η μαρμάγκα.

Κι ετσι, τελικα.. ισχυει αυτο στην πιο γενικευμενη, οχι αναγκαστικα ροζμαντικη εκδοχη του.

4:04 - Life not Found

Sitting by the fireplace, listening to mom rambling how she never does anything for herself, while 'your father has his tennis sessions and yoga classes', I become slightly enraged. So whose fault is it? His? Mine? I've had my taste of the unfair and I did not like it.

I wonder if that's the future. I wonder if I will sit with some young kid one day, trying to think it all through for them, make them see the surefire way to riches and happiness all laid out in front of their eyes, if they would only listen. And then I'll say, 'Son, you will waste half your life trying to figure out what I'm telling you now. So shallow up your youthful pride and do what needs to be done and do it well.'

Kids these days, they like the protection, the clean clothes, the 24/7 support, but try to give them a little bit of direction and they suddenly remember they're supposed to be all independent and follow their own path and stuff like that, which is ridiculous, frankly, when they clearly can't even tell the business end of a fork from its handle. Rebellion without responsibility can not be real.

However, if he says 'I'd rather waste 90% of my life if it means the rest 10% is spent living', then I'll know he's not a kid anymore.

Lost in the Super Market

Going to the super market is a ritual. It's a way to be alone with a multitude of mostly harmless information. It asks questions like, what's the average price of mayo on this self, not including the 'light flavored' jars that nobody really likes anyway or which is the greenest item on this corridor you could be seen wearing. There are things that scare me and only me and things that amuse me to tears always, like that bossy can of milk. There are inconsistencies I don't care to fix and optimal paths I never follow. Going to the super market, I am reminded why I shall never ever ever grow up.

[The carbon dioxide from the refreshment I got makes my nostrils flare up. Yup, it's cancer.]

Before the Now What

Days pass colorless between intentional mistakes and unintentional cruelty. I lie awake at night thinking of the portrait of my soul - is it too late? Soon, things will change, and I would like to be remembered as someone kind.

I dream about you very often, now that I don't speak to you about things that don't matter, my soul reaches out for you. You have done spectacularly well for yourself, I admire that. I know now that I shouldn't have bothered with technicalities. I want to speak close to your face again. Your darkest hour is over, for now, and you know what, although you might not think it, you shone right through it too.

I have little time left before things around me fall apart. I see it, everyone drifting away, getting their act together, planning their future, creating. And I feel I need a major push to get going, because the crossroads are close and my direction undefined. I want to pursue... art? I dunno. I want to try pursuing art.

But most of all, I want to do something that makes a difference. I want to improve my life in many areas. But I still can't muster the strength to clean up after me properly. Old people struggle to walk half a mile - and I am young and perfectly capable (to be incapable).

Love cannot save you from your own fate.

Behind every single lingering bad feeling is the disappointment for a scheme that failed in ways unaccounted for. Even if it was a scheme to make someone else happy. For all my talk of honesty and straight-forwardness and what not, I don't have it.

I always scheme, to get what I want.

the quick brown fridge jumped over the lazy bridge

[sx]

I wanted to get satellite Internet access on board just to be able to sign in as caroline@sapiokaravo and include a witty pm about the bomb threat and subsequent thorough search of the ship by officers and scuba divers. Oh well, boredom and lack of battery life made it impractical to do so.

When you lean on the ship windows looking out for a long time, counting passing jellyfish -23- and then, you get bored of observing them muffin-like creatures and decide to look back inside to check on your stuff, it feels like you are on DRUGS. Passenger seats spinning, cabin rotating, straight lines moving in a wavy fashion - not that I would know what it's actually like to be stoned, but I bet it is something like that. Unless the movies have it all wrong again like they do with the slitting your wrists part.

I painted my fridge brown yesterday - not because I'm fond of the color, or fridge decoration, but simply because my parents wanted to cover some scratches and I'm the most qualified person to operate a paint brush in the house. Brown is an unfortunate choice, but a necessary one, seeing it's the only color of paint we have in the village and, hey, it also matches the rest of the furniture. That this color renders the fridge invisible in low light, thus making late night navigation in the kitchen a frustrating ordeal for the hungry, I can grudginly accept. That this particular hue of brown gives birth to unwelcome implications in the presence of food, I can tolerate. What I cannot put up with is the knowledge that the very act of painting the damn fridge robbed me of being present in a defining moment of sport history. Fuck you, fridge! You won't be all that smug and smiley when the first thermodynamic law catches up with you!

:D