I’m starting to feel a bit like an S&M teddy-bear owned by a child with multiple personality disorder.
You mean a schizophrenic S&M teddy-bear under the delusional impression that it is owned by a child with multiple personality disorder. A cuddly psychopath, in other words.
True. Not very cuddly, actually. What would Freud make of it?
Trust me, you don’t want to know. Just deal with it.
But I’m finding it almost…enjoyable.
That’s exactly why you have to deal with it.
If I do, will you let me read Harry Potter?
Only after you finish Derrida.
Bitch.

Consciousness can feel like a curse in this age of duality:
Our bodies stuck in the present.
Our minds constantly chasing the future or haunted by the past.
Our kind was clearly not meant to experience inner peace.
Blame drugs for the knowledge, and everything else.

My twisted suffocating love for this twisted suffocating city goes deep, you know. It only takes a sunny Sunday at Brick lane to get me hooked again. Every year, the same story…Guess I’ll have to starve- or something much much worse- before I can leave this place.

Why do I always have to crave what brings me down?
Or do I see it all as a challenge I must go through just to prove I am strong enough? Whatever. No more analysing today.

At risk of sounding morbid, I’d add death to the equation.
That’s the only way to cure loneliness once and for all; the rest is simply a distraction. Of course, we might as well learn to live with it.

(Ok, I cheated. Death is the ultimate cure for most human
needs. But couldn't we go on pretending that I have the
answers to everything?)

Ah, the unresolved mysteries of life: is chocolate a substitute for love, or love a substitute for chocolate?

I can’t write much these days because I’m feeling…fine.
Obviously I’m not going to complain about it.

It’s kind of scary though.

Nothing ignites the fire of creativity like a few drops of melancholy...

Yes there was irony in the last sentence. And I told you I can’t write.
This is probably the right moment to shut up.
To quit or to quote, that is the question. (shoot me!)
Ok, quote, then back to being uncreatively happy:

It’s cruel you know, that music should be so beautiful. It is the beauty of loneliness and of pain, of strength and freedom.

The beauty of disappointment and never-satisfied love. The cruel beauty of nature and the everlasting beauty of monotony.

Benjamin Britten

All these years have passed and I remain unable to grasp the
whole point about relationships. Experience only confirms what
I suspected from the start.

Why do people have to take pure, harmless attraction and forcibly turn it into this restrictive entity by giving it a name? So that it can be governed by rules. So that it can have a beginning, an end, and a long draining black hole in the middle.

Eventually, it transforms half of those involved into possessive maniacs; the other half into cruel egoistic liars. Until no one
can stand it anymore and they decide to part in the same
way that they first met: as complete strangers, only without the foolish optimism attached.

Rules are made to be broken. You can’t stop the world from turning or people from changing. Security is just an illusion, anyway.

Or maybe that is simply the story I tell myself to keep going.

A Dumb and Pointless Tale - The End

What happened next?
Well, my sources didn’t really agree on how the story ended.
So I’ve just summarized some of the most convincing alternatives.
Or else you could think of one yourself. Whatever.

Likely scenario
The prince never saw the notes, for the butler emptied his pockets every morning. The girl waited and waited, got over it and married the gardener, who had always been nice to her. They had a family and she forgot all about writing.

Gothic scenario
The butler saw the cleaning girl sneak in the prince’s wardrobe (which, naturally, was the size of your average apartment) and told the prince about it. He was so annoyed by her presumptuousness that he exposed her in front of the whole court.
Later that day, blinded by rage and unsatisfied desire, she murdered him in his sleep and then slit her wrists. On moonless nights they can still hear her screams in the castle.

Improbable scenario
The prince read the letters and was instantly hypnotized. He spied on the girl, found her, and they had mind-blowing sex. Afterwards, consumed by guilt, he decided he had to do his duty and sent her away. She left her hometown heartbroken, yet by now she had become so good at inventing catchy headlines that she launched her own tabloid newspaper. Better than the Sun.
Stardom followed. Many years later, she wrote a novel about her teenage love affair. It sold a million copies, so the prince (now king) invited her to the palace for a speech. Seeing her made him realize his mistake, but it was too late.

Fairy tale scenario
You’re not expecting a happily-ever-after now, are you?
Get a life, for fuck’s sake.

I spent the last month or so in a state of continuous distraction, complete disorientation and emotional extremes. Suddenly,
all these articles have materialized out of thin air. Many suck, a few are ok, but still…I’m so relieved.
At the same time, there’s no way I can feel proud for something I didn’t put almost any effort into, right? Which, for better or for worse, applies to pretty much everything I’ve done in my life so far.

Totally self-absorbed again, I know. I, I, I…
Thus fails the dissolution of the ego. Game over.

She said: Nothing is ever really over, you must accept it.
We looked at each other in electric silence.
She said: Sometimes it takes more courage to be weak than strong.
I did not recognize her, the stranger in my head.

A Dumb and Pointless Tale- Episode 7

“So the girl wrote and wrote and put her greatest effort into it, squeezing her brain to extort the most captivating, irresistible sentences possible. To catch the prince’s eye. To make him read long enough to maybe acquire some feelings for the mystery author.” (tbc)

Have you noticed that the people who look normal are usually the most fucked up of all? It’s probably because they spend years trying to suppress their insanity. So that, when it comes out it’s in tidal waves, sweeping by everything (and everyone) around them.
I’d say go for the freaks, those whose craziness stands out. They’re often much more at ease with their instability. And they might hide treasures behind those scary masks. (I said might, ok?)

Very tanned friend just back from the sunshine:
“There is something sexy about white skin, you know.”
Can I have that tattooed please??

A Dumb and Pointless Tale- Episode 6

“Still, the cleaning girl summoned all her courage and imagination and began to write. She couldn’t know if her letters were being read but kept writing anyway. Aware that her only tool of seduction was the power of her words. Which weren’t that powerful anyway. As I said, nothing was very special about her.” (tbc)

Help. I couldn’t speak. Now I can’t shut up.
What’s happening to me???

Something irrelevant I noticed a few months ago. Allan Johnston and Allan Johnson have their birthdays on the same day. I swear.
Speaking about coincidences, I think Murakami’s got it right again:

Maybe chance is a pretty common thing after all. Those kinds of coincidences are happening all around us, all the time, but most of them don’t attract our attention. It’s like fireworks in the daytime. You might hear a faint sound, but even if you look up in the sky you can’t see a thing. But if we’re really hoping something may come true it may become visible, like a message rising to the surface.

A Dumb and Pointless Tale- Episode 5

“But what kind of note would grab a prince’s attention? It couldn’t be a confession, or even a love poem, as he was getting hundreds of these. How about a very interesting story?
Hardly, as this was not your typical moronic prince. He loved books, had met the world’s best authors, and even published some stuff himself. Besides, what kind of story would fit on a pocket-note? She’d have to do better than that. Or perhaps she was just ruined from the start.” (tbc)

Disillusionment occurs in...fragments.
I got up this morning and thought what the fuck am I doing?
Who am I? Where did I forget myself again?
Nothing makes any sense as I doubt doubt itself and the
flashing question marks lead nowhere.
So I said wake up you little fool, you're not half as important as you think you are. Which is all for the best, cause you don't have
that much to lose anyway.

Then I prescribed myself some coffee.
No better cure for hopeless existential dramas. Dream on.

A Dumb and Pointless Tale- Episode 4

“Now, where could the cleaning girl leave the note? It had to be somewhere where the prince would see it, but not immediately. Some spot not necessarily associated with her. Under his pillow wouldn’t work, nor on his desk or chair or cricket bat (the prince loved cricket). A pocket in his jacket, perhaps? Yes, that should do.” (tbc)

Come on admit it, wouldn’t it be fun to be able to read everyone’s mind for a day? People walking around with little clouds over
their heads. Each person seemingly in a different world,
and then you’d start to notice patterns.

We’re all like books waiting to be read. New books open easily; old pages stick together. Some are in foreign languages, others
full of unfamiliar jargon. A few are bestsellers,
many more pass largely unnoticed.

Once in a while, a stranger grabs this amazing novel you’ve just opened out of your hands, screaming “Hey! That’s my book!” And, sometimes, you think you’ve got hold of the priceless manuscript you were looking for all along…but it turns out to be a copy of the new Ikea catalogue. Or something.

A Dumb And Pointless Tale- Episode 3

“Finally, after many sleepless nights, the cleaning girl made up her mind: she would write the prince a letter, but without revealing her identity. No, not a letter, a short note, so that he wouldn’t get discouraged just by looking at it.” (tbc)

Feeling strangely better today.
Got some sleep finally.
Was it because I danced before I went to bed?
Also, apparently I am capable of surviving an interview.
And there is such a thing as a picturesque vegetable.

Poisonous rainbows looming over labyrinth cities.
Paranoia will creep in your veins and take over your heart.
What did you wish for?
I said give me the strength to elude delusion.
Not that it ever made much sense.
I asked for the power to live in the present.
Oblivion is denied; our screens sink like black crystals in the
lake of eternity. We miss the train.

Surrealism failed, let’s just move back to symbolism, shall we?
A Dumb and Pointless Tale – Episode 2

“Of course, the cleaning girl couldn't just speak to the prince. He had probably never noticed her, even though she made his room every morning. Why would a prince look at an ordinary servant?
He could have any woman he wanted.
Besides, he was promised to a fair princess from a neighbouring kingdom since he was a kid. People said theirs was a love match. So, trying to talk to him could only bring ridicule and would probably cost the poor girl her job.” (tbc)

She said: The worst thing about bad sex is
that it comes attached to people.
How can you be so cruel?
She said: If I was cruel, I'd say the same about good sex.
Oh, shut up.

Off to something entirely different:
Here goes, A Dumb and Pointless Tale (as simplified as possible)

“Once upon a time there was a cleaning girl that worked in a palace.
Nothing special about her, just an ordinary palace-cleaning-girl.
One day, however, she fell in love with the king's son.
She tried and tried to stop fantasizing about him but didn’t succeed. You see, her heart was young and innocent and this was her first love. In the end, she decided that she had to either do something about it or go mad.” (tbc)

Dear Ghost,
Please. Get out. Of my head. Now.
It’s not fucking fair.
Still, I kind of like it, in a slightly twisted way.
One day I’ll remember this and smile…

When I was 10 I had (another) existential crisis: I didn’t want to grow up. Most kids might go through it sooner or later, but mine was intense and quite persistent. I remember spending days trying to convince myself it would be ok. I don’t think I ever succeeded.

They say that childhood is ephemeral, a transitory stage. In fact, it’s the only time of your life when you have a stable sense of identity. Never again will you look in the mirror with such determination and say : This is who I am. And I want ice-cream.

I think I still exist, without an audience.
The Ice is melting. I'm no longer ashamed of my words.
And I'm too stubborn to end this, anyhow.

Didn't they tell you?
There won't be any winners in this power struggle. Only fools.

Dialogue with ghosts No 1

As always, their silence had more layers than their conversations.

There were the words they didn't speak to avoid being judged.
Sides they kept hidden to create the right impression.
Points they didn't clarify because they loathed commitment.
Fears they never revealed so they wouldn't seem weak.
Confessions they held back to protect their pride.
Questions they didn't ask because they were afraid of the answers.
And all these countless little details no one
considered worth mentioning.

It's tearing me apart, my love of fear
But I would never try to hold you near
And I refuse to shed a single tear.

Experience shows that successive tragedies can
neutralize each other (homeopathy).
But sometimes I wish we could live a few moments twice.

Silence unfolds creepily on breathing canvas.

She said: I'm not depressed, just experimenting with pathology.
They built a world of distorting mirrors and day-glo waterfalls,
then watched it burn it slowly.

She said: Sometimes it's harder to take than to give.
Spellbound blueberries fell from the sky and the corridors exploded.

She said: I'm afraid of the monsters lurking inside me.
I couldn't care less.

In the end, you know it's all in our heads again. We write the script, then play our parts as if there's nothing we can do about it.
But it's only a question of switching off.

Allow me to hang on just a little bit longer. The masochist inside me can't miss the opportunity for inspiration. They said Nero burnt Rome; I'm simply attracted to hopeless situations.
We create our stories and our stories create us.

One thing I love about these strange days is that the all-consuming shadow of guilt is no longer upon me.
The absence of regret is liberating.

Freedom is what we most demand, whatever the cost, whatever the difficulties and whatever the arguments against it. Whatever else may be true, we will refuse to see ourselves as anything but free. For it is freedom that makes us human.

Dostoyevsky, who else..

If you stop reading, will I stop writing?
The genie's out of the bottle now.

Perhaps I'll even cease to exist.
Spending most of my days lost in words, stories, articles. Can't help but see myself as another fictional character.
Gone are my summers of sand and sunshine and laughter. I'm trapped here; cold, pale, sober. Had to leave that part of me behind and there's no one to drag me out of my cell anymore.
Need to do it myself

Where do thoughts go when they are forgotten? Do they disappear completely? Or they just find another host?
If we could get rid of our ability to hope would it make our lives easier? Or we'd all commit suicide tomorrow?

I mistrust hope. Does that make me a realist? A pessimist? A coward?
Dreams are always preferable. They don't depend so much on the future. They can be beautiful even when they are unreachable.
And they don't keep you awake at night.

Our personal dramas floating in an impersonal ocean.
We wear our screens like masks
Hide behind them like walls
And we can be so brave.

The web is the modern equivalent of the Wild.
I should start some kind of postmodern cult called Digitalism or something. Preaching that god is somewhere on the internet (the devil's in the cookies). Let there be bytes..
Pray morning and evening in front of your monitors.
You probably do anyway
And when you die you become one with the Information.

So can self-distraction be self-destructive?
Or is self-destruction merely a form of self-distraction?

Reading between the lines is banned today.
Beware of the conscience cops.

So now im' turning into an obsessive blogger..What's this now, a cry for attention? Oh no, I thought I was too old for that. But I'll go on, whatever. Maybe I'm simply inspired.

Still having a very surreal week. Making me reconsider my place in the world, the meaning of life, what I want, what I'm doing, and all the usual self-involved existential bullshit. Don't worry it only happens..ummm every other day.

The week also included tripping bus drivers, surprising developments, faces from the past, intense mood-swings, just a bit of sunshine to keep us going..Yesterday I even- no, I'm not saying that. Someone might actually be reading. Let's just say that it was unexpected. And not bad at all.

The conclusion? The future doesn't look bleak anymore. Don't know why or what or how or when, but it's all possible somehow and there's nothing tying me down anymore. OK apart from my typical reluctance to get out of this self-imposed prison of safety and strength and isolation. But once I do there's no holding back.

I know, how more vague can you get? We poor, fucked up, overcomplicated people. Symbolism is the weapon of the powerless. (someone please stop me now!)

Today I'm allowed to indulge into a little bit of melodrama. Bittersweet. Yes, I'll laugh at myself afterwards.
But let me quote Longfellow:

Ships that pass in the night, and speak one another in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

When they do to you what you've done to others, is it fair?
Or is it ironic?
Keep playing the game people, that's all we ever do. And it's sad, and it's wonderful, and you can't run away from it. Love it or hate it, at least it makes you feel alive.

Sun's finally out. But we're never satisfied. Obsessions threatening to undermine our sanity. Heavy eyelids, another tired morning. I long for peace but it's nothing but a word. My reflection in the mirror laughs at me. It is a very cynical ill-intended laugh. I smile back.

Who said chaos is unproductive?
It inspires, consumes and transforms you.

Hey, nothing making sense again. I love this feeling of creative desperation, confusion reigns but we embrace it, dangerous worlds await to be explored. Eternally caught between two extremes; to spend your whole life in control of actions, thoughts and emotions,or to let it all go, risk everything you have or think you do just for one fleeting moment of sparkling fulfilling madness.

I haven't decided yet.

I can't stand the rain..How on earth can I spend my days writing about global warming when it's not even happening here?
Miss the sun on my skin.

Black and white photographs. New faces and old. How can you miss something you never had? How can you demand something you let go? Who am I? No, really..

Too many questions again. Writing for an audience makes me self-conscious. That's the problem. But there's no audience. And maybe there's no me. Still I keep projecting my reflection on others. Think I know them as they think they know me. Illusions..

That's enough I want to come down now. Survival a never-ending trip. No antidote. Suicide is a fire exit. Run away.
Well, I'm staying. Too many things to say but I can't say anything. Words and words and words mean nothing. Burn what keeps you safe and warm. Walk barefoot on broken glass. Life's inevitable.
So is death.

Hardcore psychedelic isolation reigning over the oceans of unexpressed emotion. Gone is our paradise of unhindered communication. But hope dies last and why waste our nights with self-absorbed misery? We're free. You, me, and all the imaginary readers in this world.