à la recherche du temps perdu

Twilight

I shouldlddldldlddddlddldddddlddldlddldldddldlllddddlddd...
I am stuck after the verb. Prolonging the sound may hide
some of that. Feeble attempt I'm sure. You look at me
and you see that ambition, this dream, this utopian world
living in my hope, ultimately convincing you of my special
persona in this world. I spend so much time convincing that
I can't even complete a decent sentence to myself. 'He's
only hurting himself,' I hear somewhere and it's probably right:
masochism of the mind, my subconscious making me suffer at night,
my conscious during daytime.

The moments between day & night are the best ones. My conscious and
subconscious (the former tired at night and awake in the morning
and the latter vice versa) discussing something I am no real part of.
These two moments a day are very brief, but that's when I can fly.
I don't need goals then, I can be myself,
I don't need to suffer from the blunt knife's cuts in me,
I don't exist then, it seems,
I'm not dead, I'm love.
...Les extrèmes se touchent...
and I am untouched.




Everything has become so abstract these days. There’s this guy who offered me to watch some porn and jerk off to it together. He says he and his boyfriend have sex twice a day and on top of that, he masturbates twice/thrice a day too. And someone called me obsessed once. I kindly ignored his proposition. This other guy, a nice one who lived at my hostel, wants to fuck me too. He says he’d have me any day of the week. It’s funny that now that I have reached a sexless phase how all these propositions seem so surreal, so pointless. The very idea of it is abstract and I perceive it like it is something I am not capable of doing. Maybe I’d have given in some time ago, and I may give in in a couple of weeks/months. But for now, I just steer away from it all. I didn’t enjoy it last time, so why would I now? It hurts even, having to resort to “that” again.

In the midst of it all you see me being struck down with the flu and pretty much not interested in anything. The loves of my life, where are they then? Sure I dream about them. So vividly Number One came into my dream last night, living a coexistence in Sydney – looking for a place to live together. And nothing was wrong. Nothing would ever be wrong anymore. Vivid cruelty of my dreams. Mental masturbation of the dead. I was taken aback by the fact that my subconscious could so truthfully paint an image of him with all his mannerisms, the way he says things, how he held his guitar. Everything seemed so real and in my weakness, I let myself go. And suddenly you notice what’s wrong...:
Time’s absence in that dream... Timelessness.

It’s a life of dedication I lead. Dedication to the past. I am a communist conservative.

Someone taught me some Icelandic this week: “takk för lint typpi”, meaning:

“thank you for your limp penis”.

"oh, you're welcome..."

Randomness of thought

today I am a hot pancake,
tomorrow I'll be yoghurt,
and and after that maybe chocolate.

it's all about incentive, you know.
People do it when they cannot be who they want to be. Or who they are. Or pretend to be. Or Whatever.

My head is full of snot. Now there's a philosophical point.

Snot is like love basically.
It doesn't matter if you blow your nose or not, the snot will keep coming. Dripping tap.

foreverandeverandeverandever...
It's like the Duracell-bunny.
beating his drum.