This empty room no longer speaks of me. In a few days, someone else will call it their own. It will be filled with their sounds, images, ideas. All I’m leaving behind, a few stains and blue tac marks on the walls. Eventually, these, too, will be painted over.
Lesson No1: No matter how intense your existence, time will wipe off your footprints in the end.

Soon, I’ll be in a different room, one that’s both familiar and strange. Surrounded by Tolkien posters and anarchist signs, I’ll breath in the bittersweet smell of childhood memories. I will rediscover my magic chest of forgotten treasures: letters, postcards, notebooks. I’ll lie down on the bed where I had sex for the first time (thinking, “I could have done this myself”’).
Lesson No2: People come and go, furniture remains.

So am I running away? Perhaps.
Let’s say I’m going because I have no true reason to stay. Never cared much about my career, never lured by the promise of success. Yes, I do have a dream, only I vowed to keep it secret years ago. (My vows still had some weight. I was nine).

Facing the future can hardly be postponed anymore, but first we must deal with the past. A long and dangerous process; still, a voice in my head keeps telling me we shall be allright, after all.
Lesson No3: Optimism represents humanity’s oldest means of ensuring continuity; occasional flirting with its artificial reality is a prerequisite for staying alive.

Packing Ghostwritten, I had to reread at least a page. And came across another memorable dialogue:

I’m surprised at you. We both know there’s no such thing as love.
What do you call it?
Mutations of wanting.
(…)
But that’s lust. You’re talking about lust, not love.
Lust is the hard sell. Love is the soft sell. The profit margin is exactly the same.
But love’s the opposite of self-interest. True, tender, love is pure and selfless.
No. True, tender love is self-interest so sinewy that it only looks selfless.
I’ve known love-I know love- and it is giving and not taking. We’re not just animals.
We’re only animals.
(…)
We’re talking about love. There is no “why”. That’s the point.
There is always a “why” because there is always something that the beloved wants. Loving somebody means wanting something. Love makes people do selfish, moronic, cruel and inhumane things. To be in love is to be at the mercy of your lover’s desires.

Admittedly, I’m not half as perceptive as I (like to) believe I am. Making up countless excuses and hypothetical scenarios, when the reason behind my reluctance to move on is obvious: I have the tendency to blame it all on myself. Whenever things don’t go as I hope they will, I assume I’m just not good enough. This, if you wish, is egoism turned against itself.
Auto-psychoanalysis through blogging? Well, why not?

Luckily, life keeps reminding me I’m not the centre of the universe. Each half-expected coincidence constitutes one more proof of my inability to control what’s going on around (and inside) me. Sometimes I get what I wish for, sometimes I don’t; often, this doesn’t really depend much on my actions or on how good I am.

So, I think that maybe –maybe- it wasn’t all in my head this time. For a short while, at least, it might have been mutual; a shared connection; something which doesn’t happen every day. And even if I overreacted a bit, it’s simply another one of my flaws. One that I’m almost ready to acknowledge, perhaps also accept.
The circle has closed, then. And there’s so much more to come.

Now, why would you be interested in my self-absorbed monologues? You probably aren’t. Yet this is my world of words and you’re
here as my guest. A purely imaginary figure I bring to life when I require a particular kind of audience. In other words, I can do -
and write- whatever I want.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m talking about the fictional image of you. If the real you is here, too, it is only because you chose to. And you can’t even complain without confessing, right?
Which makes me smile a little. Totally unacceptable writer’s behaviour, but I couldn’t resist.

Loneliness is coffee without milk, music without lyrics, photographs with no people inside. It smells of bitter almond; it has the colour of moths. It tastes like strawberries and stings like wasps.

Loneliness has no substance or purpose; it’s just there. It is
the absence of a presence, but also the presence of an absence.
It has no antidote, no cure, no answer. You love it almost as
much as you hate it.

Loneliness is like your shadow. In fact, it is your shadow. Your constant companion that can’t be touched, changing with the light. Depicting it effectively is a skill all artists strive to master, yet few ever succeed. Sometimes it’s behind you, so only others can see it. Sometimes it is huge, making you feel powerless. Darkness doesn’t eliminate it, only extends it indefinitely.

Loneliness is the price we pay for being human.

My life as a (luxury) 21st century nomad reached a peak in 2007.
A year of letting go: the habit, the hair, the relationship, reality
as I knew it, many other small- and bigger- things in between.
Time has finally come to leave the city, as well. (Going from the floods to the fires. If only they’d start burning the people who burn the forests. Seriously.)

Wherever the road may take us next, this is surely the end of an era. But I’ll stick to my grounds, always refusing to say goodbye
or bent my head to fate, choosing to dwell in a world of unfinished businesses instead of ever turning the page.
As if I have a thousand years left to live.

When people say they’ve had someone, they normally mean something physical. Which is a paradox, in a way. It’s common knowledge that, unless involved in a serious accident, we never
fail to take our bodies with us as we leave. Minds, on the other hand, have the tendency to linger.

Heart
by Margaret Atwood

Some people sell their blood. You sell your heart.
It was either that or the soul.
The hard part is getting the damn thing out.
A kind of twisting motion, like shucking an oyster,
your spine a wrist,
and then, hup! it’s in your mouth.
You turn yourself partially inside out
like a sea anemone coughing a pebble.
There’s a broken plop, the racket
Of fish guts into a pail,
and there it is, a huge glistening deep-red clot
of the still-alive past, whole on the plate.

It gets passed around. It’s slippery. It gets dropped,
but also tasted. Too coarse, says one. Too salty.
Too sour, says another, making a face.
Each one is an instant gourmet,
and you stand listening to all this
in the corner, like a newly hired waiter,
your diffident, skilful hand on the wound hidden
deep in your shirt and chest,
shyly, heartless.

Chaos weaves intricate patterns on the heavy tapestries of destiny. We’re hiding in the deep waxen forests of memory, terrified of the moment when tomorrow meets yesterday. Bodies like continents to be discovered, explored, conquered. Minds like the universe, ever-expanding and beyond comprehension. Long ago they taught us how to turn our sorrow into poetry, our powerlessness into music; skills we now rely upon for survival. But no one told us what to do with our fears, so we foolishly created gods.

Repressed, betrayed and abandoned, our dreams become stowaways on the dark high-speed trains of eternity. The driver keeps his eyes closed throughout the journey. Moonlight sonatas multiply above whispering seas as a thousand junky-angels gather on Desperation Bridge for their annual suicide conference. Stars rise and fall, mysterious paths appear before our unsuspecting eyes and we cry cry cry the velvet tears of rapture.

Will you look for me, when your illusions of control fade?

I used to look at Strangers
With curiosity
And sometimes hope,
Thinking it might just take a moment
For them to be transformed
Miraculously
Into friends
Soulmates
Lovers.

Now I can barely spare a glance
Or listen to their sad confessions
Knowing we’ll never be anything but strangers
Lonely
Unknown
Replaceable.
No chance of instant recognition
No magic spell
Will turn us into gods of understanding.
Frogs remain frogs,
Princes remain princes
And, rumour has it,
The golden ball
Finds life is easier down the well.

As for the princess
They said she’s only a mirage,
A fleeting image
-Probably some forgotten advert
For alcohol, or cigarettes.
One day they banned her from the streets
Afraid she might cause traffic accidents-.
Thus ends a tale of Beauty
And of Loss.

I’ve always hated my boring, common, annoyingly christian name. But I just realised that at least it starts with the right letter. Think of how many of life’s ultimate pleasures begin with c: coffee, chocolate, cinnamon, cakes, cookies, cherries, candy, cheese, carnivals, colours, childhood (and childishness), chess, couches, candles, camping, creativity, craziness, coasts, challenges, changes, contradictions, chance, coincidences, controversies, cynicism…-not to mention cannabis, cocaine and cunnilingus.

Ok, it is possible to do something similar with most letters of the alphabet, but trust me, it doesn’t get much better that. Unless you’re a serious, hard-working individual who detests surprises, stays away from drugs and never eats sweets. As well as a man. In which case, you’d probably still find some pleasure in conservatism, chauvinism, caution, celibacy, control, cholesterol, cash, cheques, consumption, cigars, cities, cars, congestion, church, calendars, career, conventions, corruption, criticism and…constipation.

Thoughts of an extremely tired, moderately hangover and blissfully slow mind. Your tolerance would be much appreciated.

As you may have noticed, acknowledging defeat is not one of my strong points, especially in some aspects of life. Not necessarily the most important ones, but the ones upon which I’ve somehow come to rely for self-assurance. Let’s not comment on the futile stupidity of my choices. Still struggling to accept myself for what I am. I’m not talking about love, of course; I know me too well for that.

Isn’t it interesting how a superiority complex always goes hand in hand with an inferiority complex? Forgive me for not being more specific, but as you must know, such confessions can be quite embarrassing. Try to see them as parts of an experiment in mental emancipation through continuous humiliation.

Anyhow, I suppose that losing a little was absolutely necessary,
and slightly overdue, too. An inflated ego won’t take you very
far and I have a long long way to go.

They sent me this joke today. It’s not very funny, but it is so typically greek it makes me laugh. Can you believe that someone bothered to actually translate it into english? (no it wasn’t me)
Now if it sounds a bit racist to you, I assume that you aren’t greek (enough). Please see it purely as a form of cultural experience:

A man dies and goes to hell. There he finds that there is a different hell for each country. He goes to the German hell and asks, "What do they do here?" He is told: "First they put you in an electric chair for an hour. Then they lay you on a bed of nails for another hour. Then the German devil comes in and whips you for the rest of the day.”

The man does not like the sound of that at all, so he moves on. He checks out the American hell, as well as the Russian hell & many more. He discovers that they are all more or less the same as the German hell. Then he comes to the Greek hell and finds that there is a long line of people from all nationalities waiting to get in.

Amazed, he asks, "What do they do here?" He is told, "First they put you in an electric chair for an hour, and then they lay you on a bed of nails for another hour. Then the Greek devil comes in and whips you for the rest of the day.” “But that is exactly the same as all the other hells. Why are there so many people waiting to get in?"

"Because the maintenance crew is always on strike, so there is no electricity and the electric chair doesn't work. Albanians have stolen all the nails from the bed, and the devil is a former Government employee, so he comes in, signs the register and then goes to have his coffee and play backgammon all day.”

Encounters with some people resemble extreme sports: intense, memorable and adrenaline-fuelled, but if they lasted too long they’d probably cause permanent damage. With others, it’s more like a stroll in the park on a clear summer day: they begin as nothing special, but can leave you feeling more at ease and secure and deeply satisfied than any 100ft jump ever will.

We spend our lives looking for kicks, yet happiness lies in
those peaceful moments.

Don’t know how I ended up reading three books at the same
time. I’m normally very faithful to my stories, and hate mixing
my drugs. Blame it all on this bizarre un-summery summer.
Whatever, since I have nothing interesting to say I might as
well go on with my quoting.

“You’ll come to angular rages and lonely romages among Beast
of Day in hot glary circumstances made grit by the hour of
the clock- that is known as Civilization…You’ll grow numb all over
from inner paralytic thoughts, and bad chairs- that is known as
Solitude…You’ll look at a wall of blank flesh and fritter to explain yourself- that is known as Love.”

Yes, I know romages is not really a word, but I won’t start correcting Kerouac now. Rummages, romages, what difference does it make.
(I just corrected him, didn’t I? Another case of hubris..)

Getting used to places, people, situations is so incredibly easy. An invaluable quality to have; and quite dangerous, too. Our life-saving adaptability is exactly what turns us into junkies. Or should I say addictability? It’s pretty much the same thing.

Latest specimen of incredible feedback:
“If you didn’t write well, you’d probably be a disaster”.
Taken out of context, it’s even more appropriate.

When you learn to love yourself through another person, can you ever be complete on your own? I said I need to be free, I long to be me again, I must embrace what scares me the most. Here I am, facing my own reflection in deserted rooms. Shadows of the past will come to hunt you no matter how far you run.

My decision. My decision…It wasn’t supposed to be that hard. I’ve tried pretty much everything: weeks of solitary confinement, endless hours of analysis with friends, altered states of consciousness, desperately clinging to whatever came along, turning common events into tragedies just to keep my mind focused on the present.

Months have passed; I’m still trapped behind impermeable walls; the silence is deafening. Nothing to wait for, no one to share those countless little things that remain unspoken. Will we ever be innocent again, so open to life’s thrills and beauties and dangers? Growing up is all about building your defences.

And will I ever shut up? Look at me, such a lost case: a loving misanthrope, an innocent deceiver, a romantic whore…

Isn’t it strange when people keep insisting that sex should be
seen (or had) purely as an end in itself? Sorry to disappoint you,
but I don’t think it can ever be more than a means to something
else (unless you’re too drunk to know what you’re doing, and then
it doesn’t count, does it?).

Pleasure, procreation, love, companionship, acceptance, communication, self-expression, money, power, recognition, employment, temporary oblivion, relief from boredom, breaking norms and taboos, revenge, punishment, showing that you care or that you’re (still) capable…the list goes on and on.

The only difference is that some ends are more acceptable than others, always depending on the context. What I’m trying to
say is, well…maybe we’re all prostitutes, in a way.
And there is nothing wrong with that.

Here, I wish I could reassure you that my irrelevant observations
do not, by any chance, constitute an attempt to justify past or future actions. But they wouldn’t call it subconscious if its motives were open to scrutiny, right?

Looks like we might be all right, in the end. The clouds have dispersed, the days of twilight and sleepless disorientation ore over- for now, at least. Finding myself again, more self-sufficient than I’ve ever been, no relying on external sources of warmth, support, approval. Still prone to errors, but they only serve to make me stronger. And, anyway, perfection is no longer on my to-do list.

Does this sound a bit like a just-out-of-rehab speech? Oh well..

Who was it that described writing as a form of death? For us, it’s also Life; the painful life of unintelligible entities, of internal chaos and external disarray; the lonely life of disembodiment and surgical rationalizing. So we live and die on pages and screens, we exist in stories within stories within stories, and somewhere somehow we lost sight of the boundary separating reality from fantasy.

Of course I’m repeating myself, that’s ok. It is all part of the process. The mind moves in cycles and refuses to follow its own empty rules, or any imperatives of linearity.

More from Ghostwritten (this book is killing me):

"Does chance or fate control our lives? Well, the answer is as relative as time. If you're in your life, chance. Viewed from the outside, like a book you're reading, it's fate all the way."

Maybe everything is accidental; patterns are nothing more than tricks our brains play as they struggle to deal with what they are unable to grasp, predict or influence.

Yet sometimes you just can't shake off the feeling (or the cliche) that it's all connected, somehow. Yesterday and tomorrow, reality and fiction, your thoughts and other people's thoughts...

Is randomness or repetition the main principle of human existence?
Don't you ever wish we could simply stop wondering?

Behind this deceiving veil of transparency we call waking consciousness, creatures from our unspoken dreams await. Underneath our feet the roots of infinite ideas are spreading, fragile mental artifacts swept aside by the broom of time. But when the game is over, only they might be left behind; our single chance to get a glimpse of eternity, to leave an indiscernible mark in some remote corner of the Milky Way.

How would you like to be remembered?
Me? Not at all. Let oblivion cover my footprints with snow. For it is not my whish to linger here any longer than necessary. Immortality is for those who can still invest in the possibility of redemption.
What a sad waste of imagination and hope…

Ok, I lied. So what? No more rules. I'll blog whenever I feel like it. There's always an audience, real or imaginary. And why would I want to restrain myself? The point of gaining control is to lose it.

I shot my rational side long ago.
No, it didn't kill it, only made it wilder, and more defensive. Occasionally it resorts to incomprehensible forms of self-mutilation. When feeling threatened, it hides its head in the ground. It even has the tendency to forget it's supposed to be...rational.

What if it was all a test to see if you could have me? Does it make any difference? Meaningless questions.
Why me of all people? Was I special? An easy target?
A little bit of both, I'd like to think. Aren't we all?

I chose to take the risk as I'm choosing not to regret it.
I'm also choosing to dramatise it, humiliate myself by writing about it, then get over it and not care. No sadness, no bitterness, just a tiny bit of irony. And obviously a lot of reflection. Excessive amounts. I'm not worried, the sea will wash it all away.

Dear Ghost,

So the time has come to bring this to an end.

This situation is quite peculiar; normally I refrain from expecting- even less demanding- anything from strangers. Don’t get me wrong, the only thing I ever wanted from you was time. A few more moments in the sunshine, unburdened by the shadow of tomorrow.
Can’t have everything, right?

Well, it’s good to know we’re opting for scenario No 3 (ok, without the mind-blowing part). It was my favourite, from the start. I’m not ready to die yet, and I’m fed up with compromises.
Launching a tabloid will be a challenge, of course…but, hey, it can’t be harder than being a king.

Anyway, no more obsessive blogging for me.
While it is no longer possible to stop, I can at least slow down until it ceases to be an addiction. To say that I understand exactly why you kept reading- or even why I kept writing- would be a lie.
Still, it definitely made the whole story worthwhile.

Now before I start throwing up at my own melodramatic bullshit,
I’ll say…No not goodbye. I’ve said too many of these already.
How about, hope we’ll see each other again at some point.
This is the Digital Age, after all.

Superficial discussions, games people play because they think that’s how it's meant to be, the pointless process of socializing, wear your mask, say hello, thank you very much, ignore the longing in their glances, as they pretend your smile is real.

When we’re all human, flawed, temporary, and what we yearn for is some peace of mind, the warmth of skin on skin, a break from shallow interaction, a silence that’s deeper than any words can be, eyes that actually see what they look at, even if only for a moment, then goodbye, that’s it, the flow of life carries us away and we run run run cause there’s no other way to live or love or die..

From David Mitchell’s Ghostwritten :

“What have I done? Where does this myth come from?”
“What myth?”
“The one that plagues all men. The one that says a life without darkness and sex and mystery is only half a life. Why?”

I think I’ve seen your face before.
It must have been
The bloody battle between Good and Evil.

I can’t recall whether you stood beside me
Or at the opposite side of the fence.
Did I ever aim at you? Did you ever hate me?
Or did you stay with me until the end?
I can't remember who we fought for,
If we won.

So, please, remind me, were you there
When we discovered
That every night, while we were fast asleep
-The innocent, the wounded, and the dying,
Ready to fall, yet human, and afraid-
Our generals would walk out in the darkness,
Our enemies would come back in their stead,
Having exchanged handshakes, and plans, and some appraisal,
Pleased with themselves for fooling us again.

We never noticed them.
They were our leaders
And we were there to follow, not to doubt.


No hidden meanings here.
I have no clue where all this came from, or why.

Can’t say I didn’t see it coming.
To a certain extent, I feel relief .Like I’ve just come down from a long, intense trip, seeing things clearly for the first time.
Persistent irrational hoping can be a serious disease.

Still, the irony of everything amazes me.
It is as if, throughout our lives, we get to act in the same
film again and again and again. Only each time you get a different part. Yesterday you played the victim, today you are the villain, tomorrow you might be the hero…or the badly-paid extra
who dies in the first scene. The worst thing is, they don’t even give you some time to practice.

So, you may be wondering what comes next. But there are other questions you should be asking .Such as, How do I get out? When will I learn? And, more importantly, Who the hell is watching this?

Let pride be our shield and cynicism our fuel. It never ends.

Nostalgia seizes your mind when you least expect it.
Do feelings fade or evaporate?
Life is just a long process of letting go.

Danger. Toxic emotions. Nuclear desire. Beware.
When they say be careful what you wish for, is that what they mean?
Watch the traffic lights set in the distance.
No, I don’t have any idea what I’m talking about.
Unsuccessful attempts to sound poetically deep.

It’s the sun. The sun. Blowing our minds away. Every second spent in the shade is a second wasted. Concentration fails. My screen frowns on me. Abandon ship immediately.

It’s august for fuck’s sake. I’m supposed to be on some island eating watermelon. I miss mosquito bites, salty skin, vicious wasps at seven in the morning, hair that can never be combed again, melting condoms, sand in our food and ears and underwear, drinking gin cause the water ran out, 24-hour soundtrack courtesy of the waves, stolen figs and rotten tomatoes, endless nights watching starwars on the sky, intoxicated singing by the fire, stupefying afternoons praying for a breeze, loosing your socks and lighters and phone and mind and not even caring...

What on earth am I’m doing here?
You foolish, useless, indecisive loser. Get out now!

Confusion reigns in the halls of ethereal substances. Fire exit signs are reflected on frozen oceans. Look outside your window, see, the world has turned upside down while you were asleep, now only you’re left hanging there in the middle of nothingness.
Your shadow is banging on the walls, screaming “let me out!”.
The universe doesn’t care about futile human battles.

So, Wake up! For in the end what do we ever own but these fleeting moments, when we stand naked in the sun, bent by the wind, and time keeps slipping like sand through our fingers.

If nowhere can be anywhere, shouldn’t everywhere be somewhere ?
There's nothing unique about your ideas, you know...