Dear morning

I hate mornings like these. Crawled out of bed with a feeling I haven’t slept. Feeling that I actually DIDN’T relax. I DIDN’T stop thinking. I opened my eyes without that refreshing feeling. The heart inside of me froze during the night, it definitely did. I lost the feeling of it. Cut out. I put my leather jacket, which doesn’t feel like new, put my shoes on and barge out of the door. It is cold outside or better said frisky as it is normal in this bloody town I am thinking. Not to be surprised, the moment the sun caught my presence it became bloody warm and uncomfortable, and I cursed the morning.  I continued walking only to enter the bank and as I am entering I am thinking that security guy wherever he is is probably checking me out right now and looking closely if I am going to pull the gun out. I watched too many movies. Though I definitely look like, or at least I definitely feel, like an eastern European. Pale, lifeless, leather jacket, could kill someone, no grace no posture no nothing, nothing nice. After I put all the money inside the bank I call the companies to pay the bills. At least that’s done but no sense of the accomplishment whatsoever. You spoiled idiot I think to myself, you didn’t earn it, you are paying bills, YOUR bills, goddamn expensive ones BARE in mind and want to feel like you did something. Go kill yourself.

As I am walking I am thinking, or as I am thinking I am walking. Everything seems so out of touch, there is a big glass between me and everything else and it seems this glass sucks the fucking marrow out of everything. I think about past, about future, about what am I doing what can I do what is there to do today tomorrow and it doesn’t make my heart boogie. Heart??! That was the organ which gave color to the world, gave energy gave enthusiasm gave life a nudge, a nudge, which becomes a rollercoaster ride, ups and downs, but its fun. I think it forgot to wake up. I can’t feel it. I feel like a drone, a robot. I pass by people, they all have same faces, and everything I can think of has the same gray trick to it. From movies I know people live like this, and I think how horrible it can be, I DON’T WANT TO BECOME ONE. Paradox as it is, I know! that I need the little morning cocoon to shatter that glass press the on button on my heart and all this requires a moment of silence of focus of self feeling out, finding that feeling and starting the beat again. But my cocoon right now is not a cocoon. It all drains.

However even though I projected illusions of despair, felt like a delusional madmen, I knew that they didn’t hold true, that if I just open an eye inside of me all these projections will shatter and the whole life will go to another frequency. It requires courage though sometimes just to live without effort pain and disappointment it definitely is easier to live like a drone a robot a burnt out smoked out cigarette.

I walked inside of Tesco’s, routinely bought the 4 things I need for breakfast, bread, meat, milk, cereals, went out, crossed the street after waiting for the parade of the pretentious looking cavalry policemen and women pass, entered a forgot-whats-it-called store, after a short time thinking bought some kitchen appliances and budged home.

Once I get home, I definitely need to sit down and relax I thought.

The ambitious

'bout: [Murakami]

Something deep gets wounded. So early and so deep, this wound gashes with blood, and continues getting opened throughout the years. He is deformed with this pain. Terrorized with it. He never again wants to feel like he did. He jumps away from it. He jumps too much. In the given circumstances he doesn’t look at his wounds with sobriety. He acts out of pain, in extremes. There he makes a cut. A cut away from his cuts. His refugee is in the will. The strength. The work. The challenges. The hardships. To go on, no matter the cost, to stay strong no matter the loss.  Its wrong, to himself. To build a character out of touch with his depth.  He lives without a heart.  Arrogant so his wounds are not felt. The motto is ‘you learn not to feel bad’, not to be down, not to feel hurt. Nothing is ever enough. Why? Because to be fulfilled you need the mind the body and the heart. So he keeps on. He tramples them. Pursues the girls, the career and everything practical. No emotions please. No romanticism. Because inside he is an idealist. These extremes. These extremes. Afraid of a part in himself. Buried so deep. So deep.

Dear Nagasava.

Mozda

Words were coming to his mind, but none of them was the one he was looking for. The stream of flashing images, symbols, forms, thoughts and opinions passed by his awareness but none of them was the meaning he was looking for. It was as if someone was hectically looking for a key in a wardrobe full of drawers completely filled with LEGO pieces.  After a minute of digging through his memory, he gave up, giving out a loud gasp.

He was walking down the busy main street. As the evening came the street lamps went on, and the whole street had a radiant yellowish feel. People were walking in groups, more often than not, girls all dressed up and guys with their eyes on the quick lay. The whole atmosphere reeked of sexual tension, or maybe it was just him projecting it. But one could not not notice all the testosterone staring around.

Storm:

Clicked. Something revolted inside of him, something very primal, instinctive. The air was buzzing with electricity under the clouds amassed in great quantities, the godlike grey cover stood as far as the eye can see. The street life was swiftly disappearing. People rushed pacing to get to their shelters, their movements evoked an image of a chaotic frenzy of an ant colony with the first sign of water. Plastic bags in different colours were playing the waltz, moving gently in an elegant fashion as if someone was pulling their strings. They danced around each other, silently , as if ignoring the incoming trouble. Occasionally, a child would stop and look with awe at the aerial ballroom, though it would take only a moment until an elder would pull it, dragging it by the arm towards their refugee. He heard an old men, sitting in front of a small shop, say "It has been quite some time, since the last time I saw such a beauty". His expression was of a young boy, waiting for an already planned mischief to happen, smile intertwined by amazement and terror. Somewhere far away it thundered, after the initial jolt he felt like the sound continued echoing throughout his hollow body.

It left him with a pulsating effect, all of his limbs were awoken in a sync. With the light completely dimmed, the street looked unreal, after all, it has never stormed in this city. This was something new there, and this change brought life with it, he felt alive. His heart beat with pain. Until that moment, he was a shadow of himself, or a mere others projection of himself which he fitted with grace. Though in comparison with the vibrating feeling he was feeling, it all looked as grey as the clouds. All of his inner wishes and wants started to resurface, and in this character came stability. It started to storm.

[words]Soul

We live in succession, in division, in parts, in particles. Meantime within man is the soul of the whole; the wise silence; the universal beauty, to which every part and particle is equally related, the eternal ONE. And this deep power in which we exist and whose beatitude is all accessible to us, is not only self-sufficing and perfect in every hour, but the act of seeing and the thing seen, the seer and the spectacle, the subject and the object, are one. We see the world piece by piece, as the sun, the moon, the animal, the tree; but the whole, of which these are shining parts, is the soul

emmerson

organise.1

Organise.

Oh.

That was the thing. I always wanted to organise everything, but I never wanted to put effort to organise things. It is troublesome. Damn, it is troublesome.

Can't delay it anymore, things seem to erupt from the chaos, and I prefer to put the effort to it than to self destruct, in a big purple kaboom. Things like that are fun, excluding the version when is it yourself kabooming.

Eh, now I am getting that writing itch. Time to shift that point of perception where the reality assembles, and explore new things.

be back.

fast.