e(-)motions

What is it exactly that generates emotions?
What makes emotions the ruling and dictating factor of lives?
What forces the output of emotions to be the paramount purpose for existence?

So many around me exist, thrive, succeed, fail, impress – like a shooting star does when you manage to get a glimpse of its trajectory, proving true once again to our vile nature by wishing for something against the death of a star – and perish.

Complicated words, complex behaviors, convoluted texts, an overflow of facts, data, theories and opinions, beliefs and wishes, all rushing down on the sponge that is humanity, attempting to impress, to stand out with a known, planned lifespan of a glimpse.

And we absorb, all of it… so fast and so much that it is impossible to keep up with it, so we retain nothing.

I am baffled. I once dreamt of writing. I now dread the prospect of ever getting around to do it. Not because there would be no room or no point for such an action but because of the imminent oblivion.

Transient is the name of the game today, and the root source of the problem. Nothing is here to stay, so nothing is well and thoroughly done. It’s here today, was there yesterday, it will be gone tomorrow; if it reaches the sky great. If not, it falls without a marked difference; but with or without one, it will fall….

Like emotions; they come, they cause havoc, they may or may not make a difference and they disappear. And then… then they are forgotten, making space for a new set, a new cycle.

How odd…

You begin…
You develop…
You dream…
You plan…
You act…
You fail…
You try again…
You fail…
You change approach…
You act…
You fail…
You try again…
You succeed…
You forgot why you tried in the first place…
You regret…
You change tack…
You act…
You fail…
You wander what’s the point…
You try again…
You succeed…
You don't care…
You keep trying…
You forget…
You keep trying…
You regret…
You keep trying…
You realize…
You accept…
You die…

A sinking feeling is filling me…

As I drive into beautiful Edinburgh and make my way to the hotel, I am overwhelmed by my own thoughts…

I look around, and the city is basking under the sun; rare as it may be, it is as beautiful and breathtaking as any sunny, beach resort. The impressive, yet natural mix of medieval buildings with modern touches grasps me; sending my soul to stories of old and my mind to wanders of new…

An old man, well in his sixties is standing tall, in a kilt outside the hotel…
Every breath you take by the Police is playing on the radio; every time I listen to this song I become nostalgic and reminiscent…

I dare ask him for directions, of all things I can’t find the parking. He gently and soothingly talks to me, in a deep Scottish accent and a deep gurgling voice. I cannot but smile and think that he is a man of patience and knowledge… I feel even worse about myself, and my choices…

As I park, I wander what else I have missed; how many more opportunities have I lost, whatever other wander have I overlooked in my monotonous and limited approach to life?

A group is glancing at me, and yet again I feel my age, more cumbersome than it should, worse than it is, yet in full effect. It is not my perception that is wrong; it is my interpretation that messes the balance. They smile, and I wander if it is a pleased or a mocking smile. Dwell not; move on…

I almost have tears in my eyes. The energy of this beautiful country always gets me. And it always reminds me that I am weak and that I have lost…

I go to my hotel room. A posh, semi luxurious room, smelling nice, clean and surprisingly dry… As I look out of the window of the room, a rotten feeling, a sinking sensation of despair grasps my soul.

I am laughing as I observe the lock on the window room; apparently, under corporate social responsibility, the hotel cannot have anyone committing suicide and risking the lawsuit of a fall from an un-attending window!

I hate all, everything and above all myself. I am exactly what is wrong in this world.

Someone that knows, understands, can make a difference yet chooses to be part of the system hiding behind the pretexts of “resource” constraints, lack of ability to sustain without the system’s embrace and worse of all, someone with no faith…

I guess they were right, the window was a good idea…

once upon a time...

Once upon a time, I had a dream… or at least I think I had one…

In fact, I am pretty sure I had many dreams…

As time passed, I struggled to realize the fact that it is extremely unhealthy to have such things. You run the risk of developing critical thinking and then you know what follows… You reject being institutionalized, you rebel, you form your own opinion, you talk back to those that know better for you than you do and other such obscene and ludicrous behaviors… And that leads to alternative behaviors, leads to stress, leads to doubts, leads to rejection and other nice fat titles…

Nonetheless, I maintained the illusion of having dreams. I opposed the notion that I would – as so many before me – fall prey to the machine and its system. I fought back! I attacked! I defended… I won a few, lost a few, but in the end, it was pretty much a draw… But as with any struggle, any fight… it is never about how good you are, how big you are, how mean you are or anything…

It’s all about how many of you are there… I found out the hard way that numbers win, not the best, not the right or righteous, not the wrong, not the good, nor the evil – there are no such things… Only numbers… She who controls the numbers controls the fate… If 1000 of you fuckers say that black is white, and 900 of them fuckers say the opposite, you will have a stand still… for a while… eventually though, the prevailing opinion will be that of the many… and then the argument will be forgotten, and you will move on… and so on… Until next time someone comes along with a new statement….

Only problem is, that I had a dream… and my dream did not want numbers nor did it entail them…it only wanted peace and quiet. Isolation. Independence. Nature. Trees. Animals. Freedom. And apparently, my dream was a threat to something. Because the effort invested to stop that dream from happening is a shock.

Nature got annihilated; freedom got suppressed and controlled with any means necessary. Independence became a trading commodity. Animals became a spectacle, killed when they dared to look back or claim their own – their habitats wiped out, their skins turned to luxury goods, their bones turned to powders for a limp dick bastard or for curing a diseased fucker, their teeth and claws symbols of virility and strength of the mighty hunter (apparently shooting an animal from 1km away with a high velocity sniper rifle is a true and mighty indication of strength and cunning) – and commercialized as soon as a hint of benefit or control via them (protecting them for example), surfaced. Isolation is either a luxury of few or a punishment of many – again, depending on what prevails at the time…

I gave up my dream. I lost it amidst the marketing campaign that surfaced, telling me that a new cause has arisen, needing my contribution… Please donate here to show your support….

Tell me, oh mighty, ruling and dominant species of the earth, dare you release a pack of wolves, a pride of lions and a couple of panthers in the midst of one of your mighty cities, take away the guns and let the score be settled fair and square?

I have a new dream now… I dream of the annihilation of the human species, the greatest of plagues and the most incurable virus of them all… But like all dreams, I am positive that it will be commercialized, exploited and twisted in its own way…

Time and time again...

(Written in August 1999, during a lucid moment of sanity, before one of the most violent moments in my life so far that changed perceptions and repositioned several bones, feelings and opinions in a rather violent way… proposed soundtrack Pantera – Drag the Waters)

Things are repeating, in an endless loop…

Delusions…disillusions…
An endless vicious circle, than hurts the most when you fall under the fallacy of thinking and eventually believing that you escaped it…

Fear… it grasps your very soul, sucking your energy, your hopes your dreams. But you never know it is there before it is too late.

You keep things hidden for a reason, but that reason is always wrong when expressed and confronted and no matter the intention or the goal, it hurts like grasping a two edged sword… and when it is violently jerked free of your grasp, you look at the gushing cuts and the spurting blood in awe, never before realizing that pain can be so liberating…

As you leave your fading moment of connection to the living, you remember only the good things… this is why pain and death are liberating… Because like it or not, it makes you remember and think of the good things you experienced…

And here I come, demonizing your good times, your pleasant memories, your loving thoughts….

A harbinger of misery and truth, of pain and freedom… a harbinger that you though you wanted to see all your life and at the crucial moment of confrontation you are tormented from the realization and acceptance of reality….

You will suffer…. You will hurt… You will remember…. And you will cry…

All in the hope of redemption…
All in the hope of exaltation…
All in vain…

I am coming… I am furious… I am angry… I am violent… I am fair… I will hurt you only as much as you deserve, and I will receive only what you are right and deserve to dish out… I have only one message for you…

Leave… or suffer and learn. Either way… I am coming.

Are writing and typing the same?

Type: write (something) on a typewriter or computer by pressing the keys
Write: mark (letters, words, or other symbols) on a surface, typically paper, with a pen, pencil, or similar implement

I proclaim they are not… Typing is a means, a medium to express ones view…

Writing, though, is a completely different story. Although it can serve the same purpose – and more often than not, it does – it is also a method of depositing one’s soul. Any if it is even further defined as being the writing on paper or other means based on natural origin resources, then it is a way to apportion all the sins and abuse we have inflicted.

True, you may be experiencing the same range of emotions whilst typing as you would be doing whilst writing, but when all is said and done, there is nothing but soulless characters arranged in a set way… No traces of those emotions…

Write and cry, I will see the teardrop, the spot it fell a testament of the importance and the overwhelm…
Write and smoke, I will see the residue of ashes and the impact of the smoke on the letters, the stopping of the tremor and the flow in your handwriting, the relaxation effect of the nicotine in your body and your soul…
Write and eat, I will see the testaments of your appetite, the crumbles and the spots of your gluttony…
Write and experience an orgasm, I will see the lines and the peaks, the hedonistic climax and the gradual loss of control…
Write in anger, I will see your hate in the depth of your lines, as you punish the paper instead…
Write in pain, and I will know who caused it though your pressure points and via your fainting courage whilst you transfer it on paper…

Write and I will know you, type and I will know words. Your choice!

Ludicrous

I wish I was...

I wish my life wasn't...

I wish you weren't...

I wish I didn't wish!

Dead end...

Look at me now. I am broken. Mentally and physically. But I still endure, the immense pain and pressure applied.

I spit on your dreams and principles and chose to retain my own. Filled with honor and ethics, principles that are obscure and skewed, saturated with vices and imperfections, they still remain higher and purer than yours.

You are rags; remnants of the use from a butcher attending a parturient woman, forcing a vile miscarriage and you are treated as such, day in day out. Deprived to the extreme of any meaningful aspect of life and living, mandated to live in a certain manner.

I am broken. I no longer chose to survive, not in your world. I despise you, your principles, your priorities and above all, your lies and deceptions. You dare think that I cannot see through them because I no longer choose to act against them. I cannot find peace; I now know that.

The dream is gone, fading as the time slips and drains through my fingers, agonisingly slow and granular, each grain gone a chance forgotten and an opportunity missed. I can no longer remember what I fought for. Alone, I stand and gaze around. Units in isolation look back at me, with a question, a query all over their face and deep in their eyes. Few, and far in between, as if strategically and tactically based from a master setter, purposely disrupting the flow of the trend, essentially being, and through their existence re-enforcing what they hate, by being alone.

Another dead end.

I see that; I feel the need to coil everyone around a pole of gravity… only to realise that we are firmly planted in our position, carefully weighted down with mundane and meaningless worries and constraints. Like quick sand, our trap is ingenious. We move to complain, to protest, to oppose and stand up against our demons, in an attempt to survive and escape our wrongly perceived reality. And in doing so, we further plant our selves deeper in the clutches of our trap.

A master trap.; a perverse conception of a mastermind with a planning horizon far deeper than most can even consider it exists. I feel like I am in a maze. And there is nothing worse than knowing you are in a maze; all you do then is trying to find the way out.

Bullet…

I walked to the center of the square… Filled with people as usual, tourists walking around, trigger happy and full of readiness, eager not to miss a single instance of their magnificent visit to this metropolis. I still look at them in disbelief. I am still puzzled by the fact; I always hear how I am just used to it… But I never had this; I can never understand it and I can never see the joy in it. I never expected what would come next.

Right there, right in the middle of that busy square, jam packed with crowds – some deserving to live, some deserving annihilation – I stood, and I started chanted. A mystical, deep, regurgitating chant, filled with sinister messages and primordial fears. As if by instinct, the mass formed a clearance around me, continuing their business as usual. I got lost in the chanting, and I lost track of time. When I next opened up my eyes, I could feel something cold touching my forehead.

A weird creature, a mixture of human genes with those of a rat, stood in front of me pointing a gun to my forehead. I should have felt something; fear, anger, stress, panic, something. Void. Nothing. Emptiness. I stared back at him; he mumbled something that I was unable to comprehend. I continued to chant, looking back into his face. I observed a strain in his face, looked at a magnificent transformation and heard the click before I felt a cold sting on my forehead…

There and then, my problems have been resolved, as a result of upsetting an average humanoid specimen during its touristy stroll…

Left alive...

Gushing wounds all over my body, blood dripping to a soaked ground filled with remorse, despair, anger, regret and pride...

Pain is there as well...

But no memory... as always, I am left wandering... is this my blood? I hope it is the blood of my enemies...

It turns out that it is the blood of my friends.

Doesn't say much about me; I wander if it says anything about my friends.

Was it a fight of support?
Was it a fight of dissagreement?
Was I too late?
Was I the cause?

Does it matter?

Left alone to fend for what I love and like, only to realise that I don't have something to love and cling on to other than a pair of blue rays pointed at me, defying my nature and my very existence.

Defiance... what a rare and thrilling emotion.

I will destroy everything and everyone that will come between me and my dreams...

Too bad that the only thing that is between is myself...