From Christopher Hitchens’ Letters to a Young Contrarian:

"A true believer must believe that he or she is here for a purpose and is an object of real interest to a Supreme Being; he or she must also claim to have at least an inkling of what that Supreme Being desires. I have been called arrogant myself, and hope to earn the title again, but to claim that I am privy to the secrets of the universe and its creator- that’s beyond my conceit. I therefore have no choice but to find something suspect even in the humblest believer, let alone the great law-givers and edict-makers of whose “flock” (and what a revealing word that is) they form a part."

No matter what people say, I don’t suppose I’ll ever want to re-live my teenage years. To prove my point (as if anyone cared), here’s an example of how I felt those days. Keep in mind that this is one of the optimistic, and only occasionally self-pitiful, extracts.

They’ve locked you in a windowless room. Today there is no you, there is no me. Free association challenging eternity. Smile to the lens of oblivion. The sun sets, and the ship will never come to take us away. I love the electric moments when tears freeze behind trembling eyelids, and the picture darkens.

Paranoia hiding at the edge of consciousness. I’ve come to believe that it is myself I fear the most, my reflection in the mirror, a face to face confrontation. What am I hiding behind all these veils of denial and apathy? Some strength, and weakness in immeasurable quantities. They must not find out, they must never know.

Why do we search for meanings and absolute values? Listen to the waves in the middle of the city, the dragons have fallen asleep in their ruined palaces. I have nothing to say, nothing remotely interesting; it was pure sorrow bringing my thoughts to life, all along. But if my words sound sad, is my sadness real? Perhaps it is nothing more than an arbitrary figure I conjured one night, when loneliness had become intolerable.

Do not lose heart; life itself brings down the solemn statues of time. Again and again we shall float to where the light its born. Words are symbols, symbols are dead ideas, and why did we let our dreams suffocate on the moon's darkest side? Do you believe that someday our nonsense will lead us to what we’re longing for?
Or have we destroyed that, too, by carelessly carving our stories on its delicate foundations?

Books are like journeys. Some keep you close to what you know, but help you see it in a different light. They're not particularly hard to get into, or to leave behind in the end. The good ones can be ingeniously funny, heartbreakingly sad, devastatingly ironic. They can make you think; you remain yourself, yet the thoughts are not your own. A very formative experience.

Other books are like long-haul flights; they take you far away to unfamiliar places. They're hard to get into, but when you do, they become parts of your life and it's oh-so-painful to move on. The good ones can be impossibly complex, strangely dreamlike, dangerously addictive. They can make you think; the thoughts are your own, only you are not yourself.
A most transformative experience.

Dear Imaginary Reader,

It’s been a long time since I last spoke to you directly. But there
is no space for misunderstandings between us. I know you’ re listening. You know I’m always writing with you in mind. Even though you keep changing, constantly eluding my attempts to
paint a clear picture of you.

In the beginning, you were simply the ghost of an impression- or the impression of a ghost. So vague, that it was hard for me to sustain this supposed exchange of words. Then, suddenly, you became all too recognizable. And, like most fictional characters, you were more effective when based on a real person. As I struggled to monopolize your attention, I grew restless. Inventive. Obsessed. Your presence inspired and limited me. I’d keep coming up with new ideas. I was stuck in the realm of what I thought would please you.

Lately, I’ve been watching you undergo another transformation. You’re losing touch with reality. But then again, you still bear a resemblance to something…tangible. You’re more mysterious, yet somehow you don’t scare me as much as before. I’m not afraid of your judgment; I don’t think you will ever lose interest in me.

You see, we are one, you and I. You only exist in my head. I only exist in your shadow. And I’ll never have to worry about rejection; failure; the harsh comments of a critical audience. Loneliness will fail every time she tries to weave her seductive web around my soul. For we love her, don’t we? She is the middle link in an unbreakable chain. Without her, our connection would be lost, our shared vision forsaken, as we’d sink helplessly in the thick liquid of contentment and idleness and banality.

Lately, Saturdays are coming to feel more and more like cover versions of Sundays. Dull, meaningless, suffocating. Heavy limbs, lazy thoughts; even essential activities require considerable effort.

And, like most cover versions, they're not even as good as the real thing. There’s more traffic on the streets. You’re forced to go shopping. People are seriously determined to have fun, whatever that means and whatever the cost. They hold on to the careless plans you uttered during the (less passive) week .Your desire to simply disappear behind a book is never respected.

So, the best you can do is drag yourself to the nearest armchair, where you kill time engaged in painfully slow and equally pointless conversations until they throw you out. This is why Greeks spend so much time in coffeeshops: the everyday-is-like-Sunday syndrome.

As for Sundays themselves, they have become almost pleasant, if only purely by comparison. But, in general- and no I’m not ashamed to say this as I’m sure it happens to you, too- the only thing that gets me out of my room during the weekends is the promise of …well, pleasure. Now I know why couples move in together.

Fridays, of course, are another issue entirely. As always, anticipation beats the actual experience of what you anticipated. Even when that is simply the possibility of silence, locked doors, switched off devices, a life-threatening quantity of reading material, and maybe an invisible waiter filling your mug every now and then.

Letterland by Sophie Hanna
(from last week's Guardian)

This poem is about language itself.
It uses words in the way it uses words
to demonstrate how those words might be used.
It sends itself up. It is hilarious.
For instance, the line, "I am a gibbering fool".
The line, "Fuckadoodledo".
It is hilarious.

The first time I read it I hated it, but the second time
I found more in it, more still on the third reading.
I wondered if it might not be about
not finding something easily,
or maybe not, ingeniously not.

I think it's about feeling inadequate
in highly charged emotional situations.
I think it's about time
and how we exist in time,
though when he says "shuttlecock", of course, he means just that
-shuttlecock.

When exactly did cynicism become cool?
I should have asked this question long ago, yet some changes
occur too subtly for anyone to pay much notice. How did it happen? There was a time when people resisted any attempt to shake the certainties around them. They detested unsettling statements; they would never consider the possibility that we’re only staying alive because we’re scared of dying- and feel compelled to keep justifying our choice on a daily basis.

Now, however, it’s so cutting edge. They approve. They encourage. Soon, catwalk models will be walking around with bubbles next to their heads, saying “Together we Starve” or, even better, “Buy
You Idiots”. Bibles will have “Lies” written on their covers and priests will demand bigger salaries or go on strike. Political campaigns will carry incredible slogans, such as “We’ll Take Your Money. We’ll Make Everything Worse.” As for bombs, they’d probably come with “Life Sucks Anyway” printed on them (hand-grenades are smaller so “Oups, Sorry!” should suffice.)

Anyway, all I wanted to say was…it is not fun anymore. I much preferred it when they used to think I was simply a disoriented
little kid, who said no to everything- and listened to the wrong kind of music. I mean, the whole point was to question what they took
for granted, to pull the ground from under their feet, not merely to follow the latest trend.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t see my self as a superior being. Rest assured I’m not Socrates reincarnated. And I don’t have the slightest desire to teach anybody anything (that’s what cynicism is all about, right?). It’s just that, throughout my life, I’ve had the shadow of doubt cast over me. So, I assumed things would be easier, if only I could share this sense of ever-present ambiguity.
Yet, alas, that is no longer possible.

Unless, of course, I switch to something else entirely. Polish my existentialism. Talk about the magical forces of the universe.
About the human capacity to take our destiny in our own hands.
The meaning of all creation. Dragons. Unicorns. Elegant polar
bears. Carbon-emitting flying carpets. Transsexual angels.
Fairies addicted to crack… OK, I’ll stop now, for obvious reasons. Let us stick to what we know best.

Something is wrong. Days rushing by. Fleeting images of places, faces and events. Where do they go? And our thoughts? Left unspoken, wasted, abandoned, slowly turning to stone. Until they fill our heads and the weight is impossible to bear; until they begin to roll in unstoppable currents, totally shattering our spontaneity.

I lied. I'm not afraid. With so little to lose, what is there to fear? I have so much to say to you, but there's no point, no meaning, no chance of unhindered communication. Beware internal cencorship. I keep repeating myself, moving in circles- and yet, I learn, or think I do. We go on, we let the sun dry our tears, we let the wind take our nightmares away. And we hope, we love, we allow ourselves to build castles in the air. For what else can we do, when life is nothing but a dream and tomorrow we may not be here.

Clichés and the customary existential bullshit.
Forgive me, it comes naturally..

In a parallel universe
Our roads never collided.
In a parallel universe
I'm not thinking of you.
In a parallel universe
Minds and hearts are well-guarded,
Every dream becomes possible,
All our wishes come true.

In a parallel universe
We are walking together.
In a parallel universe
There's no reason to lie.
In a parallel universe
There's no need for forever,
Every moment is permanent
And we laugh till we cry.

In a parallel universe
I'm not writing this nonsense.
In a parallel universe
All my verses sound cool.
In a parallel universe
I've discarded my conscience,
All my acts have a purpose
And I'm never a fool.

She had to admit it: she was scared. Of everything that was new
and unfamiliar. Of all the things she had absolutely no control over.
She felt small and weak and unimportant, a tiny, barely visible
drop in the ocean of life. Afraid of being judged, mistrustful even
of her own ability to stay afloat. She was sliding on a downward spiral, with no idea what was waiting for her at the base, only
that there was no turning back.

Perhaps it was for the best, sometimes it's easier when you're not given much choice; freedom's burden can be unbearable. Or maybe she really was free to do whatever she wanted, but preferred
instead to act as if her course was predetermined; persistently hiding her head in the ground like an ostrich, while innocently weeping for her lack of alternatives.