The butterflies gathered in the enchanted forest for their Daily Conference on Immortality. They would also discuss the installation of a lunar-powered generation, to ensure parties could go on unaffected throughout the night (notwithstanding their general ignorance on the subject of parties).

It was all dj Moth’s idea, and he never tired of recalling it. Dj Moth considered himself very cutting edge; he liked to dye his wings purple; sometimes he slept hanging upside down like a miniature bat. Strictly speaking, dj Moth wasn’t even a moth, yet he thought he could easily pass for one, dark and mysteriously cool as he was.

The trees were not invited to the conference, but eavesdropped anyway. Afterwards, they felt most inclined to gossip- and struggled to resist the temptation. Trees do not approve of meaningless conversations, or other similar group activities. They were irritated by the butterflies’ constant buzzing; they were outraged by their typically grandiose and improbably far-fetched plans; still, they preferred to keep their contempt to themselves.

The trees were also puzzled by this whole immortality issue. None of them had a clue what it was all about, though, naturally, this could never be mentioned without sparking considerable controversy. Trees, after all, are supposed to know everything.

From Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet:

"There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all; ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this question with a strong, simple I must, then build your life in accordance with this neccessity..."

Three weeks at a job and I’m already leaving. Unwittingly, I came to the painful realization that I can’t spend the rest of my life writing mostly imaginary reviews of bars, clubs and restaurants I’ve never even heard of. Not to mention convincing news releases about such exciting products as the armani phone. (I had to write the last one three times. It just didn’t sound happy enough.)

Naturally, I was tempted to put up with it for a while, mostly
because it was so…well, hilarious. Sadly, I am not some kind of comedy character, meaning I had to think of the future (oh no…).
To prove my commitment to utter seriousness, I'm moving to a
rather conservative newspaper.

This shall be a clash of wills: Am I going to become a religious law-abiding citizen? Will I dye my hair blond, wear suits to work and get married within a year? Or will I succeed into secretly adding tiny but potentially explosive elements to the mix? (A subtle revolution? Who do you think you are, you idiot?)

Anyway, I do apologise for abandoning my much-preferred surrealism, only to delve in reality’s realms. One last admission before I return to my old familiar self: They were right. In this country, you hardly stand a chance without connections.
Does it get any uglier than that?

Yet maybe- I said maybe, ok?- things can change. I mean, it would be such a shame to permanently abandon this beautiful place to these terrible people.(Oups, am I now turning into an advocate of ethnic cleansing, before even setting foot in that newspaper? Someone please get me out of here!)

If all us were presented at birth with a book that lasted a
lifetime, and a cat that couldn't grow old, then we'd never have
to suffer through a cold empty morning, a sad lonely evening or
a tired sleepless night.

Would that diminish our...humanity? I won't pretend to know the answer. But who wants to be human, anyway?

Fluctuating moods. Questions bring questions bring questions…
How often can you blow it all apart and then rebuild everything from scratch, without getting so disoriented that it is impossible to function? How many times in one day can you lose the meaning of life, then discover a new one as if nothing had happened?

Clearly, positive thinking is not something I am particularly good at. I used to fantasise of suicide long before I learned to fantasise about sex (though, admittedly, these two are peculiarly alike, especially if seen as means of escaping). Which leaves me struggling with yet another irresolvable paradox: How on earth can a sworn nihilist like me be so persistently, so irrationally, so unnervingly optimistic at the least appropriate occasions?

The following lyrics have been permanent residents of my brain for months now. Only I was in denial when it came to acknowledging it. But there’s not much to lose anymore, so here they go. (I refuse, however, to mention the band’s name. That would be too humiliating, even for me.)

Lately I've been wishing I had one desire
Something that would make me never want another
Something that would make it so that nothing mattered
All would be clear then.
But I guess I'll have to settle for a few brief moments
Watch it all dissolve into a single second
Try to write it down into a perfect sonnet
Or one foolish line.
Cause that's all that you'll get
So you'll have to accept
You are here then you're gone…

So long ago. Yet it feels like yesterday. A song enough to stir up memories half-buried in the mind's desert. Images of repressed terror, substance-fuelled obsessions and emotional abandonment.

Reminiscing of a time, years ago, when the only thing that could get me out of bed every morning was the thought of that same evening, the moment I could lose myself again in a spell of unnaturally deep sleep. Oblivion. Getting high just to stay alive. Staying alive just to get high. Content simply to watch the days go by, bringing me another step closer to the person I thought would make everything right. How naive to expect someone else could carry my burdens. How innocent to invest in his assumed magical powers.

We grow old. We learn. We never do. We refrain from making the same mistakes. We try out new ones, instead. I'm stronger now, not so easily affected. My sadness has been freed of its destructive tendencies; my fear has lost its flavour of paranoia. It's allright if I wasted my adolescence feeling like a wise grown up and acting like an ignorant kid. Memories are ours as we are theirs. No desire to change the past resides within me.

Impressions of bittersweet nothingness floating in an empty room. Let us breath in this colourful air- there is no core, no certainty, no underlying principle- let us cease our restless tussling. Time continues its frantic journey; we're dragged along, and little else seems to matter.

Inspiration drawn strainingly from the absence of a certain ghostly presence. Now desire has faded, even stubborn persistence has begun to wield, I fear my river of words will gradually run dry. Already mourning for them, my sleepless nights of longing and frustration, the melancholic mornings of depth and solitude and harsh painful realization.

Mental labyrinths born of infatuation, boredom and scepticism; their loss regrettable, nonetheless. For anguish remains always preferable to apathy, and we are naught without our brief moments of ecstatic, all-devouring insanity.

Looks like I've finally got a job. In truth, it's more like exploitation, but at least I found it myself. (Sometimes I wonder which will get
me killed first, curiosity or pride.) Having a sense of purpose feels like a welcome change, but by evening my back aches and my clothes stink of cigarette smoke.

Too hyped to sleep, at night I lie awake and think of possible alternatives. Why not abandon this job thing, look for an old, rich husband instead. Later poison him, if necessary...Yet, alas, it cannot be that way. While faking it is not an issue- neither is murder- living off someone else's money for the rest of my life is.

Mr Ego strikes again (though I detest gender distinctions, and stereotypes in general, my ego is most definitely male). So I guess I'll have to shut up and deal with life in its present state. Oh well,
it's not that bad, after all...

And now it's time to break the silence. An intentional silence, something like a hunger strike, not striving to satisfy a demand but to bring relief, to break a habit both destructive and empowering.

Our eyes have been made to adjust to the absence of light; darkness is not our enemy. So our souls may get used to the absence of all we thought we needed; loss is not the end of fulfillment. Rather, it is a means to achieving a new sense of purpose.

Pay attention, this spell can easily go wrong. Recite from the book, adding your own words as necessary. Hope was not an unwelcome torture, it was a struggle for control and power. It was an ideal, the promise of an unrealizable dream, providing us with the strength we needed to go on, adding spice where there was only monotony.

After giving up on hope, we shall move our quest elsewhere, find another object of idealization and despair, learn to draw inspiration from a different source, perhaps not as effective, at first, yet soon we shall discover a way to transform it at will.