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

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

A Dumb and Pointless Tale- Episode 5

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

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

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

A Dumb and Pointless Tale- Episode 4

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

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

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

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

A Dumb And Pointless Tale- Episode 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dialogue with ghosts No 1

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

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

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

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

Silence unfolds creepily on breathing canvas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dostoyevsky, who else..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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