Doesn't the world suddenly feel complete, when you've discovered a story? Not invented, not made up, just stumbled upon in the corridors of imagination. A plot, one character or many, a crisis and a final resolution. Hold on to what you've found- you're now a rich person.

Don't let anything limit you; the possibilities are endless. Open your mind and heart, embrace your latest companions: a man who only speaks in rhymes; a pig that hates getting dirty; a little girl with flowers growing on her head...anything can happen.

Us lonely freaks living at the brinks of reality, all we have left are these ethereal journeys. Exaggeration flashes like a mirror under the sun, droplets of sweat glistening above your eyebrow, clouds embarking on vicious assaults against weather-worn mountain peaks.

The music of nonsense brings little comfort to saturated ears,
but when silence threatens to annihilate you, it may become your only hope.

I've belatedly realized that sex and friendship are totally incompatible. The first always manages to spoil the latter- and
vice versa. Some people might be able to combine them, but on my planet it never seems to work. How can you be friendly towards someone you're truly attracted to? And if you're not, doesn't sex with them taste like cold soup or warm ice cream or just something purely and utterly wrong?

Of course, I still support the practice- on a theoretical level. In an ideal world, we would only have sex with our friends. The people
we trust and enjoy the company of; the people who have stood
beside us in our worst moments and would never let us down; the people we can laugh with, speak our minds to, get reassurance from, feel safe around.

Instead, we prefer to experiment with strangers, which- after the first few moments of excitement- usually leaves us tired, confused, disappointed, hurt or enraged. Now, you could say that even passionate love eventually evolves into a kind of companionship resembling friendship. No wonder so many married couples complain about their sex lives.

OK, I guess I got carried away. Enough with stereotypes. All I wanted to say is...I think I'm growing old. I'm tired of shallow games and painful compromises. I want to be who I am, nothing more, nothing less. And I'm done putting myself in situations that are meant to bring me down, just to prove I'm strong enough to handle them.

From Ask the Dust, by John Fante

"The greying east brightened, metamorphosed to pink, then red, and then the giant ball of fire rose out of the blackened hills. Across the desolation lay a supreme indifference, the casualness of night and another day, and yet the secret intimacy of those hills, their silent consoling wonder, made death a thing of no great importance. You could die, but the desert would hide the secret of your death, it would remain after you, to cover your memory with ageless wind and heat and cold."

Let us start our own philosophical movement- we'll call it Cynical Existentialism. Put Antithesis at its core, make Scepticism its main principle, add the imperatives of Individualistic Anarchy to the mix, sprinkle it with traces of Romanticism and just a hint of Nihilism.

Encourage euthanasia and suicide- no one should stay alive that doesn't truly wish to- but ban all forms of organised warfare and institutional violence. Children should grow up surrounded by love, not locked up in prisons of lies and parental ambitions. Fuck advanced technology- who fantasizes of sleeping with cyborgs?

Uncover the twisted roots of morality, attack the foundations of order, allow society to annihilate itself, so it might be reborn from pure necessity, let anyone who desires to break free of its web simply walk away. Shatter all mirrors, for are they anything more than a means to imposing conformity, the all-seeing eye of Others constantly attacking the kingdom of Solitude?

Now find the hidden weaknesses of this Utopia and blow it to bits. Then you'll understand what it means to abolish certainty; then you'll know the beauty and vastness and sorrow of persistent self-doubt.

Would you compromise freedom in the name of companionship? Would you sacrifice vulnerability in the name of indifference? Miracles do happen, if only to prove that they weren't miracles, after all. Is discontentment the disease of modern society, or merely an innate human trait?

What if death is the answer to all our questions? Keep afterlife for your humble servants; all I seek is eternal oblivion, I'd give up remembrance for the chance to forget. Do you think your feet leave permanent marks on every path you follow? Do you believe that your voice will echo forever in the halls of the universe? Dream on.

They stood together in the darkness. “Think I haven't known desire?”, she whispered. “Flesh and spirit blending into one- think I've never experienced it? Might be it is you, who is mistaken, assuming love and lust are two separate things, talking to me of devotion, expecting me to take the reins and lead you where others have led you before.”

She turned, tears streaking down her face, to look at him- but he wasn't there, he never had been. On the other side of the river, he was counting the stars, praying for sleep, wishing she would lie beside him. “Why can't you let passion overtake you?”, he asked the wind. “Let attraction burn holes into your soul- why should we stay paralyzed behind walls of analysis and filters of virtual dissection?”

As the wind blew around her, she carved spirals of solitude on cold skin. “Cast your fear of rejection aside”, she screamed, “then you shall see: indifference is only a disguise, politeness has no place were physical contact becomes spiritual. Why can't we feel instead of formulating; embrace instead of examining; sink deep into this current of sensations rather than remain tied to the mast of a reassuring but fleeting projection of self-sufficiency?”

The night saw it all, and said nothing, for it had witnessed such scenes a million times before. So had the moon, but the moon understood; the moon shed tears for all the lost moments, the unbridgeable gaps and the strained figures struggling to cross them. The moon mourned, because the figures could fly if they chose to; they dragged atrophied wings in their wake, only they had never dared to look back..

The moon wept.
It began to rain.

They traveled with the speed of light, they rode on rays of sunshine, they changed form in spinning images while moving from one dream to the next. Their blood flowed like lava in molten arteries, their hair was in flames, smoke marked their passage on early morning skies- a new day dawning, but they're already miles away. On their shoulders they carried humanity's forsaken memories, they weighed their worth in nostalgia, they exchanged glimpses of a fading past with generous pieces of freshly-baked oblivion.

Time is a man made concept, time is the nourishment sustaining everything, it is the promise of our demise, it is the foundation of the universe. Time is only one dimension among infinite others, yet the world revolves around Time. How can I trust you, knowing our lives are written in Time's script and we cannot resist the Call luring us higher, further, away from all we once held near? How can I doubt you, when the desire to believe is stronger than even the need to protect myself?

When I write, I lose myself; when I write, you and I melt into one; when I write, the earth stops turning and the oceans freeze. After a while, it does not matter if my words are beautiful or if you’re truly drawn to who I have become. Words are more than letters on a page; each one of them contains a whole continent, a door to a universe of unexplored connections and newborn memories.

On paper, our worst fears seem insignificant, sorrow is transformed into pure energy, frustration sustains the will to live, abandonment gives birth to a million possibilities. For the briefest of moments, the creator truly is god- it makes no difference whether the end result will be a masterpiece or a spiritual disaster.

Whatever entity or accident brought us into this world, we were only given three gifts: drugs, the knowledge of our own death, and a limitless imagination. Call them curses, if you wish, but it is they that make us who we are; it is they that define the nature of humanity itself.

From Bukowski's Ham on Rye:

"Every time I see you you have a drink in your hand. You call that protecting yourself?"
"It's the best way I know. Without drink I would have long ago cut my god-damned throat."
"That's bullshit."
"Nothing's bullshit that works. The Pershing Square preachers have their God. I have the blood of my god!"
I raised my glass and drained it.
"You're just hiding from reality", Becker said.
"Why not?"
"You'll never be a writer if you hide from reality."
"What are you talking about? That's what writers do!"

We spend our lives fussing about trivialities, fighting for impossibilities, weeping over the ruins of broken promises, attaching our expectations to the unexpected, pretending that the secret to fulfillment lies in the heart of all the things we cannot reach. We walk around staring at the ground, forgetting how bright the stars shine, how the horizon turns red at sunset, how the trees change into their autumn uniforms. Consumed in shallow acts of socializing, hiding our deepest desires to protect fragile egos, seeking to attain immortality by preserving our souls in formaldehyde.

Till, one day, we'll leave this world behind, and what shall remain? Only a few fading memories; stolen moments we could have experienced, but wouldn't dare; oceans of tears we were to proud to cry; wrinkled bodies rotting behind shiny armour; screams of despair echoing above deserted highways; adolescent dreams frozen like sculptures of ice, already melting. No big words or grand victories, none of our precious dignity, no trace at all of the pain we endured to stay in control, not even a bleak reminder of our supposed strength and unmatched bravery.

If you were to die tomorrow, would you really wish to take back what you willingly surrendered, expecting nothing in return; would you feel ashamed for seeming weak, childish, clumsy, loud, obscene, confused and imperfect? Or would you simply mourn for the joy, the sorrow, the fear, the danger, the passion you could have cherished, letting them mark your ephemeral flesh with the beautiful scars of a vulnerable but vibrant existence, instead of locking yourself in cold rooms- flawless, composed and alone- whilst time kept pouring in like water on a sinking ship?

When something ends before it begins, how can the cycle of misfortune be broken? An attempt to break the silence...and you end up saying too much. Two people staring at the waves, each of them locked in a separate cell. It could have been perfect, it could have been something new, but here we are, holding nothing but air in our arms. A fantasy almost realized, then silence. Back to the world of disillusionment and shattered ideals.

If only I could write about it. Write and write like I used to, create my own happy endings in my head. But there's no fire burning in this hearth of inspiration- just ashes and lukewarm coal. At night I wander in empty streets, begging for a sparkle; all I get is drops of autumn rain. Release me, I've been trapped in this world of perpetual self-doubt and unbearable discontentment too long now.

How am I ever going to fly if my wings are tied with strings of negativity? How can I love, if no one seems able to withstand the madness of my affection? Why do we always let our insecurities come between us?

Nonsense. I fear I'm little more than a frustrated narcissist, gradually and painfully coming to terms with the fact that uniqueness- or even real communication- is merely an illusion amidst this pandemonium of six billion hysterical voices, all screaming for attention.