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.

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.

Let me tell you about the intense moment when romance meets perversion, affection becomes pornographic, flesh and spirit overcome their unbridgeable gaps, and the only way of gaining control is letting it all go...

Actually, no. Don’t let me tell you anything. Some things are better experienced than recounted. If you’ve been there, no need for me to explain anything. And if you haven’t, descriptions shouldn’t really make much sense. Overwhelmed by a desire you’d forgotten you possessed, leading you to alarmingly familiar places, chaining you to faces you never thought you’d set eyes on again.

Don’t ask me where it ends. Or why. Or how.
I suppose we’re all better off without that knowledge.

Winter approaching, and don't you sometimes fantasize of hibernation, a deep sleep to rescue you from the torment of dark freezing mornings? But shorter days and falling leaves mean little to the fossilised forest; in short, you must go on without talking too much as complaints will not be tolerated.

They walked alone again, in a mist that tasted like iron. Strong winds and merciless sunlight had polished their skin, hardened their features, made their hearts more difficult to reach. Determined to forget, their chosen paths leading to opposite directions- backs turned and therefore not destined to clash, though the earth is round and all roads may converge if followed for sufficient time.

Thus spoke unyielding optimism. In reality, we all know roads rarely converge- our lives are simply not long enough. After a while, you must be naive not to get the message, you must be blind not to see the obvious, I told her, yet she looked through me as if I was invisible. So I began to wonder, who is the prisoner here, and who's the guard? Could reason be paving the way for emotion or is rationality just another evolutionary flaw?

Another trip, another airport, another all too familiar landscape glimpsed from above. Am I ready to face yet another past I ran away from? Never and always, having learned by now that the city will haunt me wherever I go.

Ghosts don't scare me anymore, I've come to appreciate their persistent, though delicate, presence . A worshipper of ruins, an obsessive collector of memories- my stubborn, ordinary self. Constantly attempting to resurrect what has expired; in love with all that wasn't, but could have been, if only...

In the end, I refuse to give it up, my pointless quest, doomed from the start. Perfect yesterdays cannot be preserved in brine, and withstand exact representation. In fact, their perfection is little more than a side-effect of their transience; flawed, mundane images idealized after they're lost.

Still, I won't quit, won't seek oblivion, because who will I be- who will you be- stripped of our cheap souvenirs, and ugly monuments, and cheesy songs reminding us of our days in the sun? Aspiration may instigate progress, but it is nostalgia that makes us human.

"As a writer, as an artist, your effects constantly elude you. You have a glimpse, an inspiration, you write a paragraph and you think it's there, but when you read back, it's not there. Every picture painted, every opera composed, every book that is written, is the ghost of the possibilities that were in the artist's head. Art brings back the dead, but it also makes mourners of us all."

Hilary Mantel

Losing it is so terrifyingly easy. I’m talking about control. Rational thinking. Self-restraint. Resistance to external influences. And all the rest. What I’ll say today may or may not make sense. It’s ok, I’m only aiming at is some kind of release from internal pressure. Striving to put my priorities in order. Remind me what they’re supposed to be. I do have priorities, right? Am I making the exact same mistakes? Will I weep tomorrow? Will I never learn?

Bollocks. If I sound helpless it’s only my latest attention-seeking strategy. In fact, I don’t need to be saved. I can survive without having my questions answered. Though I’d appreciate it if you tried. The truth is…throughout my life, these strictly disciplined days, my little rules and subtle defences, they’re nothing but excuses.

When I take off the armour, all my soul longs for is danger, disorder, unpredictability. The raw panic grabbing your mind when you know what you’re doing is wrong, will probably get you in trouble, a voice in your head screaming turn back now before it’s too late, and you pretend you’re listening, following orders, while secretly letting the sea take the oars, hoping the wind will carry you as far from the shore as possible, counting on the storm to overtake your will should fear make you change your mind during the journey.

First thing they teach you is those little games. Play hard to
get, they tell you, because we only want what we can’t have.
True enough. But the things you get and decide to keep are not always the most expensive ones. Ignore their foolish advice, I’d suggest. Pretension never adds value, it barely disguises inadequacy till the end of the chase.

Once, at a party, I met this guy. We exchanged a few words, then I was leaving. Such a shame, he said, so I replied, why don’t you come with me? Could have been a disaster. We stayed together
for five years. Simple as that. (My shyness, it seems, is surprisingly selective. Other people leave me lost for words. They’re not better, just harder to reach. And, naturally, I want them more. But winning is rarely the triumph I imagine.)

All I’m saying is, chill out everybody. Shed your masks, put your feathers aside. Break these empty rituals. Or just keep me out
of them. Might as well stay at home and read a book, like I’m
inclined to do anyway.

Dry earth welcoming the rain like your heart would welcome serenity, only death would put you at ease yet you’re still not ready to die. Wishing again someone would tell you what to do. Not sad, not enraged, not paralyzed by destructive emotions, just wondering, questioning, curiosity digging holes into your skull, pushing you forward till your flawed mortal flesh is spent, worn down, broken.

This is not what I wanted to say, why do my words always stir up dark feelings? It wasn’t meant to be this way, our urgent need knows nothing of pessimism, it is the will to live, not to give up and simply wither away. Struggling to leave a mark behind, make a sound loud enough to disturb the forces of the universe, though deep inside aware of the effort’s futility, acknowledging infinity's unassailable armies. Sooner or later silence will take its toll.

The certainty of an ending filling your nights with ghosts of wasted opportunities, but also blessing you with a sense of raw desperate freedom. On we go, either walking backwards or stretching to see what lies beyond. A pointless task, for the future is ever undecided and the past changes colour the more we dive into its ashen seas.

When she first met him she thought he was just too irritatingly adorable, like a cute spoilt child aware of its power over people.
She could sense the latent magnetism between them, yet assumed it would be purely physical, should it ever be allowed to prosper. His self-assured arrogance, sometimes cleverly disguised as humility, didn’t frighten her for she’d dealt with it in the past (and probably been a little bit like that herself.)

But such presumption would only make her fall more dramatic, in a rather comical way. Totally unprepared she arrived, only to discover there was more behind what met the eye. She hesitated; felt compelled to take a closer look; was momentarily seduced by the underlying promise of a certain challenge. (Mysteries attracted her, especially when they couldn’t be easily dismissed as folly, or when she dared to invest in her ability to resolve them first.)

And the game was lost before she’d even summoned her defences. So much for underestimating people through arbitrary categorization.

Surprisingly, I’ve already developed some kind of appreciation for this village of five million people, where everyone knows everyone else, taxi drivers are experts in politics, complaining is a way of life, and the summer seems to stretch indefinitely.

Yes, I’m talking about dirty, overcrowded, dysfunctional Athens. Not simply the setting of my childhood or the holiday destination it’s been for the past few years. This is a city I’m exploring from point zero, as if all my knowledge of it was nothing but a dream. Though I’m not yet ready to settle down, life here no longer frightens me. Even if I do come back in the end, it won’t be as tragic as I assumed it would be (me and my eternal dramas).

For now, I’m enjoying the luxury of not having to leave until I’m ready to, the possibility of making long-term plans, and above all the freedom of being a...tourist: Totally useless when it comes to dealing with bureaucracy, approaching employers or just finding which bus to take (no chance of relying on the internet for guidance), but curious, uninhibited, keen on smiling at strangers, opening my eyes and ears and nostrils to take it all in.

From Hunter Thompson’s Rum Diary:

“Sometimes at dusk, when you were trying to relax and not think about the general stagnation, the Garbage God would gather a handful of those choked-off morning hopes and dangle them somewhere just out of reach; they would hang in the breeze and make a sound like delicate glass bells, reminding you of something you never quite got hold of, and never would.

"It was a maddening image, and the only way to whip it was to
hang on until dusk and banish the ghosts with rum. Often it
was easier not to wait, so the drinking would begin at noon. It
didn’t help much, as I recall, except that sometimes it made the
day go a little faster.”

I saw the moon rise
Over the rooftops,
Another city
That never sleeps.

One day I vowed
To tame my passions.
Another promise
I couldn’t keep.

Beautiful words.
Did I believe them?
The heart was hopeful
The mind was wise.

Do you remember
That summer evening?
Hope is our fuel
And our demise.

Where will it lead us
Our heartless wisdom?
How did it fool us
Our fleeting youth?

I never hated
The smell of silence,
I’ve always doubted
Their sullen truth.

Athens 2007: After a concert for the benefit of those affected by
the fires, a priest comes on stage. He requests a minute of silence in the memory of the people who died in the blaze...as well as that of Luciano Pavarotti! Even worse, none of those present appeared to find the situation absurd.

In other words, my experiences with greek television never seem
to end well. To recover, I had to watch a documentary about the reproductive rituals of grizzly bears. Their love life is so sweet
and simple, I felt like crying.

Picture this: The male displays his strength, then plays the fool by lying on his back, while the female sits nearby, looking rather bored. When he comes closer, she casually moves away, so that it takes him three days to actually get to touch her. After that, they’re all hugs and nose-rubs and foreplay for the next couple of months. Next mating season, they’ll both find somebody new. Jealous?

They met again, two strangers with a long disputed history. Half-completed plans, sentences left unspoken, words which should have never been uttered, lies, broken promises, memories of joyful days now lost forever, polluted the silence between them. Their minds were already on separate paths, struggling to leave the ruins behind and move on, move forward, never looking back.

But their bodies still fit together like pieces from a puzzle. Soon they entered a realm where everything was alien in its warm familiarity. They sensed the promise of oblivion and embraced it, desperately, seeking to forget all that was, all that had been and all that would inevitably follow, delaying the moment of truth as much as possible.

Afterwards, they had nothing more to say. The wave had come, swept them by with its irresistible strength, lifted them high in the air, then left them tired and confused on some wild, foreign land, having suffered the loss of the secret channels connecting their souls, sadder and lonelier and lighter than they’d ever felt before.

The poets withered and died; the fools lived on. A hollow silence covered the desert as antique airplanes took off, never to return. Did you ever smile for me as the wind carried me away, she said, empty words, for their souls had been moulded into golden statues, magnificent but devoid of passion, movement, imagination.

Old witches starred in curiosity when the sun rose backwards for
the second time that day, nodding their heads in recognition: wisdom doesn’t always come with age. Give me back the fireworks,
she screamed, I never dreamt of peaceful walks in the park,
though his back was turned and his eyes were shut and his face seemed carved in stone.

Night fell, hiding their hopes and fears and memories, keeping them safe from the knowledge of their own mortality and from visions of that raging fire burning deep in their still half-innocent hearts.

Ever since I read it, years ago, the following poem keeps knocking on the door of my mind at regular intervals. Each time, depending on what’s going on in the background, it changes colour or unfolds
to reveal a different meaning.

Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire,
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if I had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

A friend insists she’s in love with a person she met online. They’ve been chatting for three months now, and are planning to travel together in January. After endless hours of my life spent in front of a screen, I still find the situation quite absurd. But the more I tried to disagree, the more persuasive her arguments sounded.

She said she’s met so many guys in person, but no one is like him. She said they communicate perfectly. From what I’ve known of virtual communication, it can be a sign of actual understanding, no matter how detached. Perhaps they have the time to learn important information about each other, before getting properly involved.
They may open up without risking much.

Not to mention that, when you only see a particular side of somebody, imagination can easily fill in the gaps. The result
might be the perfect partner- half fictional, half real.

In the end, there was only one question she couldn’t answer-
and quickly dismissed as trivial. I, however, remain convinced of
its uttermost importance: How can you fall in love with someone
you’ve never even…smelled?

Wouldn’t it be nice to bring down all the barriers, if only for a
while? To say what’s on your mind, what’s drawing you here,
what’s pulling you away…

Imagine, a whole day dedicate to Openness, people encouraged to express their thoughts honestly, without fear of any consequences, as if they’re on a plane about to crash. Comments, complaints, secrets, arguments, past lies, unshaped wishes and dreams, disguised compromises; they would all rise to the surface as we’d empty our overfilled deposits to start again.

Taking any appropriate action would be strictly prohibited that
day: no dismissals, lawsuits, divorces, violent attacks. Then,
just before going to sleep, we’d all take a magic potion to wipe
the past few hours from memory. The next morning, life would be
as it always was- apart from the occasional, strangely familiar though inexplicable dream.

Do you think we’d still sense the difference? A certain feeling of weightlessness? Would the temporary release from guilt and repressed emotions make us better people? Or we’d become much worse, totally careless, uninhibited and dangerous, without the heavy accumulation of regret holding us in place?

No I don’t believe in character-forming restraint. Being
ourselves would be a welcome alternative to routine pretension, notwithstanding the monsters we’d have to face.

I’m doing it again, shuffling my priorities until a random path
is opened before me. Passing the time like I’ve always done, in
the most self-destructive of ways. On the whole, not an entirely unpleasant experience.

Error. You’re losing control. One more time. For no particular reason. Certain infatuations are starting to overlap. A clash may be inevitable. Don’t know what I want, so I try to get it all,
but whatever I manage to get hold of loses its desirability
in the blink of an eye.

First golden rule of dominoes is you have to remember where you started from or the circle will be broken, penguins will fly, highlight the sunlight and the pine tree isn’t even hallucinating. Sorry for infiltrating your universe with synthetic colourants; the initial plan was to jump on the stray bubble as it was casually sailing by.

No, said the animated stranger, we have unfinished businesses
to deal with, don’t forget to feed the hedgehogs in your brain,
and he dissolved into thin air.

Human existence is such an interesting mess…

Last extract from Cloud Atlas. I’m doomed never to write anything remotely interesting, cause he’s written it all before me.

"The lovelorn, the cry-for-helpers, all mawkish tragedians who give suicide a bad name are the idiots who rush it, like amateurs conductors. A true suicide is a paced, disciplined certainty. People pontificate, “Suicide is Selfishness”. Career churchman go a step further and call it a cowardly assault on the living.
(…)
Cowardice is nothing to do with it- suicide takes considerable courage. Japanese have the right idea. No, what’s selfish is
to demand another to endure an intolerable existence, just to
spare families, friends and enemies a bit of soul-searching. The
only selfishness lies in ruining strangers’ days by forcing ’em to
witness a grotesqueness. "

When I was 16, my boyfriend at the time insisted that my room looked like it belonged to a 12-year-old. Quite funny, considering how close we both were to 12, but his comment must have hurt me, otherwise why would I still remember it?

In the meantime, and thanks to a tendency to (over)reclaim my surroundings from the persistent embrace of anonymity, furniture has been rearranged repeatedly, decorations have been modified, replaced or disposed of, and the walls have been painted twice. (Lesson: a dark red ceiling is not exactly uplifting.)

The result? Well, my room still looks like it belongs to a 12-year-old. And guess what. It probably does. And that’s perfectly fine with me.

Since I’m once again indulging into self-affirming narratives, the following hypothesis won’t be entirely out of place: Perhaps the extreme shyness/self-consciousness haunting my nights and paralyzing my days is simply nature’s balancing gift.
Imagine what a narcissistic arrogant bitch I could be.

When she said I’ve got nothing to lose, they both knew she was lying. What she should have said was, I have something to lose, but I’ve lost so much before it doesn’t really matter anymore. Which would be closer to the truth, though still a misleading statement.

If she wanted to be completely honest, she’d simply say: I understand that my chances are slim, yet I am forced to take the risk by powers beyond my comprehension.

The risk was insignificant. The loss was almost tolerable. The disappointment was exaggerated; the fear was not. Fear of
days to come and her inability to trust anybody, not as a consequence of past events, but mostly due to her general scepticism towards other people’s motives.

Polished by real-life experiences, her scepticism now shone like a dark mirror. Whenever she looked into it, she saw her face beneath its mask of hardness, and instantly knew she was no match to the ruthless cynics of this world. Her power was purely defensive- and she didn’t want it any other way.

Some pictures are worth a thousand words.
Just don't ask which words I had in mind.

No, I don’t really have that much to say anymore. As I’ve confessed before, inspiration necessitates the presence of a certain…lack. You desire something that’s out of reach, so you attempt to recreate it in a parallel reality. A very common state of mind for us hard-to-please humans. Still, life occasionally keeps us too occupied for melodramatic self-reflection. Are we happier this way?
Or just shallower?

I won’t pretend I’ve got all the answers. Time flies; we’re never completely satisfied or we’d find no reason to keep trying; we’re never totally hopeless or we’d quietly walk away from this world. Perhaps we have forgotten what we'd been waiting for, but we’re still here, and that’s what matters in the end.

What is the written equivalent of small talk? I’m struggling to keep the monologue flowing. Not an easy task for a stubborn- though often inadequate- perfectionist. Being around people on a daily basis brings out a different side of me. More at ease, possibly more superficial, yet capable of dealing with real life situations efficiently- unlike that terrified, introverted snail I tend to become in solitary and sun-starved periods of time.

The snail thinks more, lives less. It carries the weight of the universe on its shoulders. It might be wiser, but moves too
slowly for its own good.

See, I did it again.
Shutting up is, indeed, harder to achieve than talking.

Rereading more David Mitchell. Of course I've got an obsessive personality, but that's anything but news. One day I'll meet him somewhere, I know it. From Cloud Atlas:

"How vulgar this hankering after immortality, how vain, how false. Composers are merely scribblers of cave paintings. One writes music because winter is eternal and because if one didn't, the wolves and blizzards would be at one's throat all the sooner."

Back to a city of ghosts. Strange, that the setting of my childhood dramas and teenage rebellions should remind me mostly of one thing, one person, one way of life. I- we- used to fantasize
about this moment, when time (and space) would no longer be
an issue, when joy wouldn’t have an aftertaste of quiet desperation.
Then, as the dream began to resemble a possibility, I was overwhelmed by insecurities. My determination to see it through evaporated. I gave up.

And now all I can do is walk around disoriented, surrounded by threatening what-ifs and could-have-beens, constantly sensing that something’s wrong but unable to put my finger on it.
And all I've got left is a burning, though purely rhetorical, question: Who’s to blame for the fact that every single time I acquire
strong feelings for something- for someone-, the road is laden with obstacles? Bad luck? My ill judgement? Or are the obstacles what makes the feelings so strong in the first place?

More random stuff:

Midnight
And my thoughts sound off tune again
Like the wind.

We’re waiting.
Just waiting,
Filled with anticipation
And doubt,
For the ghost of eternal recurrence
To rise theatrically
Over empty streets.

The stars don’t care if we’re looking
Yet you’re still struggling
To make your voice heard.
They threw you in this pointless game,
Your audience,
The saddest bunch
Of witches, pirates, miners.
The bet? How long you’ll stay alive.

Cold days are coming
To the poles of light.
What are you looking for?
You say you’re thirsty
They say oblivion has run out.

Remember to put windows
In the castles of your visions.
The day might come,
When you are forced to jump.

What is life if not a trip that has already began?
No going back, all you can do is sit back and enjoy the ride. Some people reassure you that it’s worth it, that what you’ll see will be wonderful, unique, mind-opening. Others warn you of the dangers: delays, bad weather, terrorist attacks.

You know that you must take everything into account, yet follow your own route; wear your seat belt, but resist the urge to close your eyes in fear, whatever happens, or you might risk missing the best parts.

Let it be. Let it go.
Only time can ever show
What shall stay. What shall fall
And the meaning of it all.

Yes, I was composing stupid little swimsongs again. A childhood habit. Another week here and I'll be five again.

It’s so easy to understand why they use water in rituals of catharsis and rebirth. Walk into velvety seas, emerge slowly, blue skies reflected in your eyes… you’re someone new. Until they taught you how to see yourself as a Body and a Mind, you were whole, open, capable of pleasure and pain.

The maize is left behind. It was never my dream anyway. Had
to prove I could survive its darkness, and to a certain extent I did.
As the sun embraces me I peel off my snakeskin of cynicism. It
will grow back soon enough, but for now I’m allowed a break
from everything that’s hard and harsh and soulless. I’ll let my
self be hopeful, innocent, naïve, until the time is ripe to embark on different challenges.

Sometimes I think it would be nice to communicate this feeling.
It’s not like I haven’t done so in the past. Breathtaking moments they were, yet always shaped by the certainty of an imminent Ending, making them all the more precious…and devastating.
Real tranquil happiness I’ve only known in solitude; either dark, enclosed and melancholic or moonlit, awe-inspiring, elevating. Solitude nonetheless.

To be alone is not to be lonely. Beauty doesn’t need to be shared. Still, long ago they instilled in us the hope of mutual understanding,
which we can only ever pretend to overcome.

The double-edged, suffocating blessing of having other people’s happiness depend on you…But then again, caring about others
is what makes us fully human; what disrupts this process of egocentric reflection and auto-exploration and self-justifying analysis that knows no limits. Existentialist ideals achieved via (almost involuntary) socialising.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to adjust to constant distractions. The phone rings. I’m forced to make up the focused answers I lack. Charlie the cat demands my attention. Tasks need to be completed. Now. My wardrobe is filled with someone else’s clothes- a hint, perhaps?
And of course, the heat is mind-numbing. Why do I feel more alive when I can’t think properly? Ignorance truly is bliss, but knowing without giving a damn is even better.

By the way, who gives Blogger the right to translate itself, and where on earth did this absurd greek word for blog come from?

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...

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.