Τρίτη, 21 Φεβρουαρίου 2012

ο καθηγητής είπε, είσαι χαμένος σε αυτήν την κοινωνία

you have one day and a blank sheet of paper
nothing more. just that. what will be the first words to conquer your mind at the challenge of that white paper?

I wonder.

 I can remember myself at the age of 12, and I can remember myself at the age of 7. But the way I remember the last two years of my life is quite different. As if I started existing at the age of 16 and since then I can't stop. I don't know how such a thing could ever happen, but in all honestly I don't remember those days , I don't remember the way certain ideas blossomed in my head, oddly, it feels like I suddenly woke up one day, and everyhing was there, planted and rooted well, and all I could understand was only the way everyting made me feel. So I sank. And even though all this time I thought I was only thinking, in fact, as it turns out, overthinking every little tormenting detail to the point of distortion, that wasn't the only thing. I felt everything. Everything. Until I was numb, my brain and my will had been sucked dry before they were even given the chance to act at all, and always this mental picture of myself crawled up on a cold naked wooden floor, helpless and most excruciatingly hopeless and weak, would haunt me. And sometimes I would think to myself that for some twisted reason, the "universe", had chosen me to carry the burden of half the world, laughing at the irony of this possibility, because, if that were true, all the forces of the universe were dead wrong to recruit me for this job, as I was dangerously prone to becoming the weakest and most self destructive creature in the whole wide world and during all the centuries. Ultimately, the "universe" and all the astral forces were not wrong. They just changed their names to Luck, leaving me with my jaw on the floor to deal with the reality that everything in our human lives, everything that has happened and is yet to come in my life, is absolutely and positively random.

 Two years, the worst years of my life, wasted, lost in the abyss of my pit dark cave of a mind and in fruitless, anxious thoughts about things that I shouldn't have forced into my head until I was at least at the middle of my doomed life.
 Two years, that have left me with very real and evident scars, but have taught me not to be ashamed of them. Those two years is all I know. In two years I have lost myself countless times, and found it again and again, I have made mistakes that have propably failed to teach me anything, and even though most of the time I am pushing my mind below the suface of the deep dark ocean, suffocating myself, I know that the waters I am sinking into are the Truth. My truth. And when lucid and, when waving politely at my old friend , Chance, I can say that I am glad for those waters devouring me..

Σάββατο, 18 Φεβρουαρίου 2012

i have to find a way to love people who cannot love me back they way i need them to
i have to find a way to be willing to rip out my heart and force it in their hands


always is always and always is valueless

  I can't quite remember when it started. All this time has gone by so fast until today. And even though most of the days are intolerably long I can talk myself into believing that I am just a fraction of a second away from everything. Any minute now, I can be far away from here, or still here, just in another chair or sitting position for that matter. Or I can be home, sleeping, having dinner, amazed at exactly just how quickly the minutes between anything and everything else diminished and finally, counted zero. I don't mind time and infinite hours. But I feel like time has deceived me, whereas it always cared for the broken hearted to mend their hearts back together, of course after it has collected its price of every life-sucking minute all those people have so gullibly endured. For me, it simply feels as if it is running out. It is just numbers, the one after the other, and days, and months, but nothing more. 

It was not a particularly cold day, as were all the days of the first two weeks of November, but it was getting dark and the sun could no longer bother for some warmth. The train station was brightly lit, and in her mind, all the people crowding the platform were unnoticed, as she was focusing on something across the street behind the opposite platform. However there really didn’t seem to be anything there, but after once in a while glancing around her, her gaze would always end up locked upon the invisible object of interest. She was wrapped inside a heavy, and maybe a size or two larger, black coat, sitting on top of her right leg on those awful steel seats. All train stations in town had these seats, five or six of them together, always unfortunately placed on those spots in every over ground station where the protective ceiling-installations, if one could ever really call them ceilings, were leaking when raining. Her face was ashen pale, except for her lips, red of the wine, and she had visible dark circles under her eyes.
As one of the many trains that had passed before her eyes stopped in the station she remained in her seat but now her eyes were not fixed on what would have been the mystery spot across the street through the open doors and large windows of the railway car, but she was following with her eyes one of the, now fewer, people in the platform. She looked carefully, with devotion, and smiled to a young man, who sat silently next to her, never taking his eyes off of her. He smiled affectionately and swiftly raised his hand to the side of her face, resting the tips of his fingertips on her left cheek for some time, taking her by surprise for some reason. After a little while she looked away, started talking nervously, even though the way her body was just slightly leaning towards him showed anything but awkwardness. They left the platform shortly after sharing a kiss, a kiss only a married couple would exchange, with impeccable familiarity to each other’s motions and certainty, but without it being mechanical, or a shallow gesture. Not at all, it even seemed as if when putting his arms around her he terribly feared the possibility of having her taken away from him, and as if she was warned somehow that she was touching him this way for the last time, closing shut her eyes, trying to will away a well buried torment. They walked away slowly, like they didn’t have a destination.

  There are many myths surrounding night time. Maybe far too many. But there is something about darkness. When everyone goes to sleep, and hides behind walls that rudely deny the lights of the cosmos, protecting the artificial flares that tarnish the canvas of charcoal black, I can almost feel the earth breathe.  As if the sun and the cosmic bodies all align in a sacred conspiracy to force us into being alone for a while. I never want to sleep. I mean, I do want to sleep, most of the times more than anything else that, when not sleep deprivated, could ever tempt me, but I am almost afraid to close my eyes. I wait until my eyes start to feel somewhat oddly swollen, until every mental defence and control is made useless by the so many hours occupied by all the other meaningless crap that goes through my mind during the day. Then my mind either just becomes utterly idle, or it makes me think I am insane. Literally, insane. Then I drink coffee, and then I write. After that, at some point it dawns on me that in four hours, more or less, I should be walking out my door so I convince myself to go to bed. I lie down, and the nightmare begins. But, I am wide awake.