Asking yourself questions you know the answers for.

Who else?
You.
Nobody else but you.
Is there anybody else besides you?
Why not everybody else but you?
Can there be anybody else besides you?
But why is it only you?
You.
What is it about you?
What makes you you?
Why this obsession over you?
Is there only one you?
Why this elusive nameless you?
You.
Who else but you.

The deaf and dumb gods.

A quarter past eleven, I’m reaching for the phone. I dial the numbers I can never quite erase from my mind; perhaps nothing ever will. I wait for the call to connect and look out at nothing outside the window. Even in the room it is empty and lightless. It starts to ring across the line; the droning drowns sounds of the marching band called silence. It sounds for a while longer and I start to wonder if anyone is awake. Then I begin to come up with excuses for the absence of life on the other side. It was late, but you always slept late. Maybe you were away, but you never left your phone. Maybe you were still refusing to talk to me, but you always forgave easily. I hear a click and your voice inviting me to leave a message. I don’t think about it before I do it; I speak, for the first time in months, because I want hear from you. I slur and mumble my words, a silent prayer to this god called you.

I don’t remember now, what I said in that message I left you. Too proud to have picked up the phone much earlier, I strangely still remember what you last said, long before, after you kept calling; searching for life across the end of other line but life didn’t want to pick up, your plea to an earless god. So you left a memo for me to return the calls. It’s my turn to do the waiting now; and the gods never answer the prayers, do they? You must be as deaf as I am or mute after all this time.

There is nothing else except my room and the telephone and the line that stretches from me to you. Between the two ends of this line is the stubborn indifference of two immortals and a blinding silence that extends for miles.

Jai guru deva om.

"Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup

They slither while they pass

They slip away across the universe

Pools of sorrow waves of joy are drifting through my open mind

Possessing and caressing me"

As the Beatles put it best into the song Across The Universe.

"Nothing's gonna change my world."

Amidst these giants,

I feel wholely inadequate.
Every person I have conjured a mere replicate of some more successful character.
William, Elsie, Tom, Sophie, Susie, Mag, Danny, Moore, that father figure, that faceless mother, and that tragic boy.
Products of angst.
Language, my medium?
The brush to paint the colours of my mind?
It is a broken one.
Broken and dulled by the waters of a lake called Vainglory.
Cry now and understand why she left you.
Know now, why she sent that postcard.
Economy of expression?
You squandered it.
Penniless.
Guilty.
I scoff at you now.
No, not hopeless.
Go.
Go out and earn your keep.
Don't return until you might have enough to lure her back.
Tempt her to returning.
Try.
I dare you to.
Afterall, what else have you got to lose?

On being impulsive.

Am I impulsive? What constitutes being impulsive anyway? Is impulsive buying new objects to toss into an already large pile of unused things, just because I feel like it? Is being impulsive bad? Is it wasteful? Do I even deserve buying new things for myself? Why should I buy anything I don't need at all when I don't earn any money for my own? Why am I even bothering about this? What the hell, michael.

Prat. = Culture snob.

Goodness, I am bored. Help.

"You bloody son of a plodding cow! Canis filius!"

I have decided after not much debating and more of playing on whimsical notions:

I will not write anything I don't believe in now, for the time being. (except maybe in essays for school, et cetera, because I believe in passing my As).

This means that I might possibly be writing in this unfashionably boorish way for a while but really, it hardly seems alot more different from how I usually write. So it's no big hoo-har, right? Right?

One interesting word I learnt today: 'Canis filius' means son of a bitch in latin.

I can't edit my post's font with this iMac thing which irritates me dearly because I so do want to type out 'son of a bitch' in latin with italics.

Don't-give-the-world-a-shit day.

I don't get it. There's this willingness to begin writing in me right now but I don't seem to be able to write anything. Somewhere inside of me is a small person hollering, agonizing, and prancing about, imploring me to write something, anything. Don't know where to put my first word, first step, or pretty much anything else for that matter. Life is treating me fair but I am not playing my cards the way I should, emptying what little talent and time I have into sinkholes of whatever, all too happy to drain away everything I offer into the unfathomably deep abyss of the what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. Writing like this is as unglamorous as hell and bloody un-arty but I don't give a flying fuck because I can't be bloody bothered anymore. Actually, on some level, I realise the pretentiousness of almost everything I have ever written. About time also. There is no way I'll be able to do any good, preaching about something I don't believe in. I won't kid you, it's fun writing like this; might be trash but at least I'm enjoying it (you're still reading up to this point so I suppose you might be also; in that case - hah!).

You know, one thing I've always liked is coincidence. Coincidence never ever fails to entertain me, however trivial it might possibly be. I feel like and should talk more about my life experiences with the subject but I won't because I'm getting tired of writing and tired myself. I might read this next time and find out most shockingly (quelle surprise) how self-indulgent this post is but since today is don't-give-the-world-a-shit day, I will have quite pleasantly have myself excused. If you have suffered up to this point reading this poppycock, I can't say I'm sorry; it's nice to know you're reading anyway.