uFAQ Volume 1 - un-Frequently Asked Questions : Porn star physiques, Mother insults and dating promiscuous boys and girls

Un-Frequently Asked Questions and some un-common answers ..

UFQA#1 - Why do Porn Stars have great Physiques ?

 One might think it is a professional prerequisite. As such it wouldn't be a correlation but rather a causality : The job requires a great physique, hence the actor or actress will strive to obtain a great body through nutrition and fitness. However, the problematic can and should be flipped as it is highly unlikely one strives for a great physique solely hoping to act in a porn movie.

Rather, and most probably, there aren't that many outlets for a girl or boy with an astounding body and looking to use that physique as a means of livelihood. Considered as such, modelling is one opportunity but much too competitive. The odds of winning a beauty contest are even lower. So the woman or man who spent time and money in the gym and on supplements is in search for ROI (Return On Investment) but see no viable opening.

Once confronted with the modelling and beauty industry's benchmarks they might realize they aren't part of the A-list. Hence, the 'reasonable' fall-back option is one of a high-paying, labor hungry industry a bit less demanding when it comes to body perfection.

UFQA#2 - How do I react when someone insults my mother ? 

Instinctively one feels she / he owes a lot to one's own mother. Anger and/or aggression are common reactions to 'mother insults'. One finds analogies between prostitutes and one's mother very insulting. One approach would be to consider prostitution a job like any other and hence downplay the insult. Another way to avoid a frontal position or a fight is to "rise beyond" the insult and consider it unworthy of attention.

The problem lies however in that the insult might be perpetrated in the presence of other people whose perception of that very insult is different. These might, on the one hand, perceive prostitution as a vile job, or might not see anything noble about "rising above" such an insult. In which case, one needs to "rise beyond" these perceptions as well, regardless of how much the opinion of these persons counts for one-self's esteem and in one's life.

Considering the complications this weighting process might ensue and the slowness of decision it might entail, a different approach is worth considering. Romain Gary, winner of the prestigious Goncourt price for French writers (twice !), tells the anecdote of how his mother reacted when he told her someone at school had insulted her and how mildly he had reacted:

"La prochaine fois qu’on insulte ta mère devant toi, la prochaine fois, je veux qu’on te ramène à la maison sur des brancards. Tu comprends ? (…) Je veux qu’on te ramène en sang" // "The next time someone insults your mother before you, the next time, I want them to bring you home on stretchers. You understand? (...) I want you back all bloodied"

In the instance where someone insults your mother, your reaction should be based on the fact you are the upbringing of the efforts of the person that is being insulted. You need to consider that insult not from the point of view of your present surroundings, not even from your own point of view. Even if that insult would not affect your mother, you need to regard it as an attempt of vandalism towards that grand act of love. It is an attempt to your very being.

If anyone insults your mother, do not over-think the consequences or recreate by contemplating what maturity means in such situations. The question worth asking here rather becomes: Why am I avoiding a fight ? Keep it simple:  If you can, send them bleeding to somewhere safe. If you can't, attempt to hurt them badly. If you're hurt, take your bruises and scars back home and smile back at your mother in tears, something somewhere, in a place you don't understand, is proud of you.

UFQA#3 - Should I date a girl / boy with a promiscuous past ?

Yes. Give yourself a second and consider your reaction when first reading this question: "A promiscuous girl / boy will let me down", "I'll be nothing more than a tool / toy". Now flip that reasoning. The promiscuous girl / boy chose you. Given their promiscuous past they should able to access a much larger spectrum of boys / girls by virtue of their experience and subsequent confidence and expertise.

Choosing you should be perceived as a great compliment. You have something no other prospect had. More so, to even consider the hassle of giving you time, it means none of the past boys / girls they dates had what you had or at least you might have something all the precedent ones never had. One other possibility is you have something nice and reminiscent of one or more of these precedents which in itself is also positive since, considering the cheer volume, that must be one extremely unique and sought-after feature. The future is looking good.

In retrospect and to push the reasoning further, now that it's obvious promiscuous girls and boys are a much more interesting prospect, you might have been selling yourself short if you've went out with a girl / boy who has only been with 3 guys / gals. The future is looking good however.

Essential Bohemia

Ancient Cynics, African fulas, wandering medieval poets, eighteenth century literary Hacks, the beat generation, Hippiedoms, Gypsies, the Beat generation, Burners, Rainbow people, contemporary alternative squatters ...

Though the origins cannot be traced, it feels the world has always had and will never lose Bohemia. Gypsies in french are called "les gens du voyage", meaning "the people who travel" or more literally, "the people of travel". For travel is the very nature of their lifestyle. It's never about the destination. It is all about the journey and only about the journey.

Can Bohemia survive in our world ? That's the wrong question. Bohemia is a life choice that carves its way into and through existence. The world has nothing to say and nothing to do with its being. It emerges within it like an essential alternative and an eternal alter-ego of the sedentary urban men and women who calm the urge to move and dumb it down with walks in the parks.

The question is rather : Can the world survive without Bohemia ? What happens the day where our essential reminder of a possible otherness disappears. What happens the day where alternatives are not there to make sure we understand it is a choice we're making. An escapable choice. That fatality is a low-life excuse and that life has no remote control. One needs to get his ass up and go change it.

Recovering lost synesthesia

In his "Jacques et son maître", Milan Kundera explains the difference between a "rewriting" and a "variation". And the excellent François Ricard goes on to add in the postscript how some artwork is an outwards epopee while "variations" are an inward meddling. Kundera, in effect, single-handedly introduced in literature what Mozart presented to the musical world when he created his "variation" of Beethoven's work. A variation is a reflection on the artwork itself through another artwork. You need to think of a tasteful hairdresser re-designing a beauty's hair and looking at it in the mirror as if he re-created the creature itself. It is his now. That is a variation.

Then, in parallel, Brain pickings adds its review of Alexandra Horowitz's "On Looking: Eleven Walks with Expert Eyes". And this terrific passage where Horowitz re-explores the city with artist Maria Kalman:

The artist seems to retain something of the child’s visual strategy: how to look at the world before knowing (or without thinking about) the name or function of everything that catches the eye. An infant treats objects with an unprejudiced equivalence: the plastic truck is of no more intrinsic worth to the child than an empty box is, until the former is called a toy and the latter is called garbage

A friend mentioned during a discussion yesterday how kids don't box things. And it's true. Stuff don't have words yet and the brain hasn't organised everything into lattices for easier latter access:

The perceptions of infants are remarkable. That infants reliably develop into adults, who for all their wisdom or kindness are often unremarkable, blinds us to this fact. The infant’s world is a case study in confused attention. … The world is not yet organised into discrete objects for these new eyes: it is all light and dark, shadow and brightness.

Children see things as blocks of brightness and shadow with no frontiers. And in many ways, that is reminiscent of a neurological condition, Synesthesia:

Infants, in fact, seem to experience synesthesia as a baseline sensory given. (Perhaps MoMA's Juliet Kinchin touched on a bigger cognitive truth when she reflected that "children help us to mediate between the ideal and the real.") But, eventually, they grow out of this wondrous multidimensional awareness, which William James called "aboriginal sensible muchness," and we, the sensible and selectively attentive adults, emerge

And the question is how to revive this condition, once one reaches adulthood. For in many ways, it is a lens to look at the world without ever being bored of it again. “If you don't like something, change it; if you can't change it, change the way you think about it. ” says Mary Engelbreit. And "variations" in many ways are a lens. A remix of the world around us. A way to revisit, with one's own taste and mind another's idea or a given idea, only through different lightings.

And it's no mystery, like everything else, industry is key. One has to put the time into it. No lens is innate and one needs to develop it time after time, after time ...

Of natural selection in populations of public bikes

Who says evolution is limited to biological creatures ? See here Paris' Velib bikes. I challenge you, I dare you, I double-dare you to find public bikes during the day as good as the bikes you find very (very) early in the morning. Often they'll have deflated wheels, broken pedals or emit all kinds of strange sounds.

Why ? 3 reasons I presume:

1. The travellers who make long voyages by bike across the city or even into the suburbs are very select of the quality of their bikes. They need a trustworthy mount and hence choose the best
2. Having to travel long distances for long times, they need to wake up early and will often grab the best bikes to head to their destination.
3. You end up with good bikes relocating at very specific areas at veyr specific times. The best are near residential areas at the outskirts of the day (very early or very late) and near the working areas during the day (where the voyagers park to go to work)

The Public bike species is evolving as we speak. The worst bikes are getting worse because they're mounted by the worse cyclists (the amateurs who travel short distances) and the best are preserved near the stables of excellence where long-distance travellers pamper them to stand yet another day of power-biking. 

Choose your camp and choose wisely !

License to weird

I've been aware of the importance of permission givers in carving behaviours ever since I read Gladwell's 'The Tipping Point'. It applies to youngsters looking up to their older cousins to pick up smoking but maybe reading as well. It's ubiquitous in fashion and art. It's at the forefronts of revolutions and riots. But I didn't realize it applies to weirdness until I read the following:

"We may stay quiet about our affection for daffodils, for instance, until a reading of Wordsworth endorses the sentiment, or suppress our fondness for ritualised, solemn snow-viewing until the merit of the practice is confirmed by Natsume Soseki"

The Architecture of Happiness

So, it seems some have been waiting for it. Well. Congratulations! You got it! Your very own "License to be weird". "But I did nothing  to earn it". Exactly you weirdo. Here's the document that'll allow you to shout aloud your love of diesel smell, your amazement in front of a washing machine, your fear of the space between the top of your closet and the ceiling, your enamorment with the redness of meat, your astonishment when graced by a breeze of air in the middle of an alley.

Congratulations, you are now officially licensed to be weird!

The light garland in your guts

There's probably a sweet spot for risk taking. Right around your mid-twenties where you've seen just enough to know that old people can be dumb, ignorant and that their opinion can be useless and wrong. You see yourself growing up, solidly becoming yet another dumb mtf. But these are the times where you don't want to be yet another dumb mtf. And a certain madness is still embedded in you. It's a function of the time left to make up for any mistakes you might do at this stage in your life. You've been an animal in a cage for some time, forced to fit into document templates and work hours and discussion ethics. So you voice out your difference.

Here you are on the Barcelona beach with a light in your eyes. And the light comes up your nostrils, down your tracheas and into your stomach. Which can't handle it. And spits it out to your guts. The water is cold. You're shivering despite the burning sun. The lord himself won't throw you in. Yet you must. You should. You have in the past and if you don't, it means one thing only: You've changed. For the worse.

Chicken.

Here's a kid, foolish little thing, running into the water. Screaming out the freezing horror out his lungs. You're over-thinking it. Again. Guts are a muscle. And yours are getting weaker. Remember the roller-coasters of the past. The ones that took your heart and squeezed it until it slipped away. You've survived. Many times again. Remember. Remind yourself of what it means to be stupid. Of the beauty of turning off your thoughts. Take it away.

Raymond Radiguet meets Ted Hughes

Raymond Radiguet is the genius few people ever heard about. Deceased at 20, all it took was a single novel to pencil in his immortality. Cocteau probably had his role to play by comparing him to Rimbaud. But Radiguet didn't really need it. The confusing lightness of his style sewn with seams of subtlety and profound yet discrete humanity rages through the reader soul in this incredible passage from "Le diable au corps". Excuse the amateur translation but this is exceptional. Radiguet (or the narrator) kissed the now married Marthe whose husband is at war. She's the one who pulled his head to her lips. And now she's asking him to leave. But wait ! He's the one apologilizing. See ? The kid trying to play a man who's fighting off the kid inside but still doesn't know how to react:

My tears of rage were getting mixed with my tears of pain. That is how the fury of the caught wolf hurts just as much as the trap. If I had talked, I would've insulted Marthe. My silence worried her; she saw it as a sign of resignation. "Since it's too late, was I making her think, in my clairvoyant injustice, I'd like him to suffer". In the fire, I was trembling, my teeth were chattering. To my real pain, which was spurring from my childhood, childish feelings were adding up. I was the spectator who didn't want to leave because the ending didn't please him. I said:"I won't go. You mocked me. I don't want to see you any more"

He doesn't want to see her any more. But he doesn't want to leave ! And there and then came to mind that beautiful excerpt from Ted Hughes' letter to his son about everybody's inner child:

So everybody develops a whole armour of secondary self, the artificially constructed being that deals with the outer world, and the crush of circumstances. And when we meet people this is what we usually meet. And if this is the only part of them we meet we're likely to get a rough time, and to end up making 'no contact'. But when you develop a strong divining sense for the child behind that armour, and you make your dealings and negotiations only with that child, you find that everybody becomes, in a way, like your own child. It's an intangible thing. But they too sense when that is what you are appealing to, and they respond with an impulse of real life, you get a little flash of the essential person, which is the child. Usually, that child is a wretchedly isolated undeveloped little being. It's been protected by the efficient armour, it's never participated in life, it's never been exposed to living and to managing the person's affairs, it's never been given responsibility for taking the brunt. And it's never properly lived. That's how it is in almost everybody. And that little creature is sitting there, behind the armour, peering through the slits. And in its own self, it is still unprotected, incapable, inexperienced. Every single person is vulnerable to unexpected defeat in this inmost emotional self. At every moment, behind the most efficient seeming adult exterior, the whole world of the person's childhood is being carefully held like a glass of water bulging above the brim. And in fact, that child is the only real thing in them.

Pure mental explosion!

I'll never own anything

There's this little gallery near the gigantic national museum. And inside is a little painting by Mit Senoj I'd pay £30,000 for. I'm putting a number while recalling Manet's aspargus story. Edouard Manet had painted a "botte d'asperges" which a collector sees and acquures. Only some days later Manet receives a cheque from the collector with some extra money saying "This painting has given me so much pleasure, I believe the price I paid wasn't fair". Some days later the collector receives a package with a small painting inside signed by Manet. It's the picture of a single aspargus. And joined to the painting a note saying something along the lines of "cher monsieur, I had also forgotten to join the last aspargus". This beautiful back and forth is deeply defining of what art is I believe. It's a respectful enjoyment of another's piece of work. So when I see this "Miss Sphingidae" by Senoj, I can't help but put a price equal to my enjoyment. Still however. I wonder if I woulf buy it.

I imagine it off that wall and on my sitting room wall. And I feel the enjoyment is no longer the same. When you pick a flower in a forest, you own it but you lose it. Life flees its beauty and it soon dies. If you don't pick it, it'll live longer but will also eventually die. Only you won't be there to witness it and the only memory you'll have is that of its eternal beauty. I'm thinking it even applies to relationships. You lose a person, be it your compagnon or your spouse or your husband, the second you feel it's here for good. The second you stop consciously trying to make her/him yours while deeply knowing that this is a fleeing moment. What I'm trying to say is that beauty might be a fight against forgetfulness and enjoyment the mature realization that nothing will ever be yours.

Fleeing folly

Still the feeling souls are crashingLoud old noise of falling hopes Buildings crumbling from the inside No one listening to the screaming Squeamish boys on each two sides Stones caressing bare white bones Music screaming from outside Let it sing and sing it shall Wonder's lost and war remains Fighting souls play gladiator Losing spirits dilute and fade Large life figures reunite The choir is ready, let's get going Monsters give your own voice out And make the chaos feel your shouts

Martha Nussbaum's take on emotinal freeze / fight / flight

Dear Sugar, thank you

First of all, thanks to brainpickings for an incredibly touching text. This is Cheryl Strayed's latest book. An excerpt of one of her "Dear Sugar" answers to readers. Read, breathe.

Your assumptions about the lives of others are in direct relation to your naïve pomposity. Many people you believe to be rich are not rich. Many people you think have it easy worked hard for what they got. Many people who seem to be gliding right along have suffered and are suffering. Many people who appear to you to be old and stupidly saddled down with kids and cars and houses were once every bit as hip and pompous as you.

When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn't 'mean anything' because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.

The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people's diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.

One Christmas at the very beginning of your twenties when your mother gives you a warm coat that she saved for months to buy, don't look at her skeptically after she tells you she thought the coat was perfect for you. Don't hold it up and say it's longer than you like your coats to be and too puffy and possibly even too warm. Your mother will be dead by spring. That coat will be the last gift she gave you. You will regret the small thing you didn't say for the rest of your life.

Say thank you

The resounding sound of the beating heart of the upbeat man

Your heart awakens the dead. It cheers people up. You pass by a crowd and the crowd stops to listen to the beats your chest emits. You are the tambourine of life and energy and liveliness and joy. You are the sign of better days. Hope is the badaboum badabim that chimes through your torso. You are a buddhist gong slapping eveyr soul on the face, with a hand. A sound with a hand. An old hand. At the end of a smiley, tanned old man whose seen the sun and loved it so long he came back with a grin and a smile to slap the slow gloomy living cemetary of big cities. His blunt smile just made the reaper hide his scythe and hide his noseunderneath his cape. Glow upbeat man. Glow with your old youth. Your beautiful rock solid crystal joy

Ink-rease

It has a power far beyond what the sum of its parts might lead you to expect. Since when are a limited amount of plastic and cheap metal capable of yielding unlimited output and unbound creative content. Well it's the moveable part, the fuel of this thing, the unreliable stuff, the uncertain factor that makes it all come true.

Ink incorporates your idea
It encapsulates your intentions
It increments your thoughts
Increasing your potential impact

Woujdan

Woujdan veut dire existant. Woujdani veut dire mon existence donc woujdan, normalement, veut dire existant. Ou alors l'existant

Al woujdan. Mawjoud veut dire présent. Ali mawjoud. Ali est présent. Ali mawjoud houna. Ali se trouve ici. Wajada veut dire 'a trouvé'. Ali wajada. Ali a trouvé. Que woujdan se réfère à l'être et qu'il soit proche de mots tels que mawjoud et wajada n'a rien d'un hasard.

Woujdani. Mon être. Comme si woujdani était le contenu d'un mawjoud qui serait le contenant. Woujdanou Ali mawjoudon houna. L'être d'Ali se trouve ici. Trouver et se trouver quelque part. Comme si le 'se' de se trouver était la réponse à la recherche. Comme si le 'se' faisait en sorte qu'il n'y ait plus besoin de trouver et de chercher pour trouver. Il se trouve ici, pas besoin de le trouver. Il est là. Ali est là, ne cherchez plus. Ne trouvez plus. Ali est là.

Il a traversé la ville entière et s'est retrouvé ici. Ici là où il se trouve. Wajadna Ali. Nous avons trouvé Ali. Ali mawjoudon houna. Ali se trouve ici. Et alors ?

Alors si l'être doit être une entité qu'on localise. Une entité trouvable. Alors on ne peut être si on est perdu ? On n'est pas si on n'est pas trouvable, visible, là, ici. Ne puis-je être que si la conscience d'un autre me localise, me voit, me repère, me trouve ? Ne suis-je que si les autres me perçoivent ? Et puis je choisir la réponse à cette question ? Car la réponse même à cette question détermine si je peux, oui ou non,y répondre. Si je ne suis que si les autres me perçoivent alors je peux décider si c'est réllement leur conscience qui déterminera mon existence. Mais il faut être pour décider et ca je nee sais pas, je ne sais pas si les autres me perçoivent et me permettent d'exister. En même temps, je ne sais pas encore si leur perception est déterminnte pour mon existence. Donc je ne sais pas ce qui détermine mon existence et de ce fait ne sais pas si j'existe et ai je peux répondre à la question concernant ce qui détermine mon existence puisque je ne sais pas si j'existe.

Strange loop

Aria

Are we immune to regret ?

Here she is. She missed her life. Every opportunity that presented itself, every possibility of overcoming her status quo. Each time it looked so close, each time it slipped between her fingers. How absurd. She could've have it all. She's sweeping the floors now. Too much hesitation maybe. Too much questions and confusion. Lost, alone.

Yet here she is. Smiling. It feels as if she's made the right decisions. All the way, all along. The possibilities are ever present but that's all they'll ever be. What she is is what she has. This cleaning water she can smell, this swiping cane she can feel, this floor she can see : dirty then clean. This is the reality she transforms. It is hers. The parallel universes of endless possibilities can sing their tempting syren songs but their notes cross her ears only to rebound on her heart's barriers.

Her cleaning cane is a magic cane. It is the stick with which she stirs the soup of her reality, the nourishing mixture that floods her soul. She is the cleaning act she carries out, the moment she controls, the outcome she produces. She is the floor and her actress self or her lawyer self or her senator self are heavy ghosts that she's learned to ignore.

No more. No more will the 'could have been' be a benchmark for the ' what is'. Her hands have aged faster than the rest of her body but her face still has that glow. She's smiling. Still.

Clean

I haven't got enough marks and scars, not enough odditues on my skin. It's way too clean and way too pure, like a virgin land where war never happened. An innocent valley, too safe, too lucky. Dumb and  unexperienced. My skin betrays me. Haven't seen enough, haven't risked enough, haven't lived enough. Too clean, too safe. Never dirtied.his hands, never bet it all. Old young calculating machine, scared of making spontaneous steps, looking behind him on the subway quay. Maybe. Maybe somebody's waiting to push me. Somebody should. Maybe the might of the train and its squealing breaks, the weight of its weels and the heat of it all will give me a sense of how real the world is, how much of an peculiar exception my universe was. Here is life. You lost your legs and soon enough, with the ounces of blood dripping, you'll lose your consciousness. Your blood covered the train, the metal rails and the black rocks underneath. Never before have you been so true, so complete, pouring yourself into the world. Die kid. Die the universe with the redness of your blood and make a rambling strawberry frappucino out of the milky way.

Low-lifes who romanticize their low-lifes

How do you deal with that specie. Persons who haven't lived enough, haven't seen enough compared to even a fraction of what has come to constitute who you are and who feel the constant need to describe their lives as if they were novels worthy of attention and emotion. Do you sit there and stand them ? Do you actually listen ? Or do you try to flee ?

Whore shit

The black man walking

I know. He isn't black. He just isn't. He's another whitey but he looked, you know, he looked like a black man. He wasn't trying too hard. It seemed, I mean, just seemed to me as if he'd grown up where black people grow up. You know the black neighborhoods with black streets and black lights. Black merchandise, black souls and black intentions. But bleak prospects. Dark horizons. And a grey despair. You know why. Caus' muthafucka despair doesn't want to drown in the mass. So it's grey. Grey for everyone to see. He has a cross across his chest. The lord jesus saved him. From what ? From hell. And you aint there anymore ? Hell no.

Hell no

I want to write my heart out

No body reads this blog and it's better this way. One day, an historian from the future will stumble upon it, read some lines and go on to the next blog about Justin Bieber's abs. I don't know how long this will last. I need to type it out. It starts with a rant. It usually does but sooner or later it turns into something else. A flip switches and some kind of a reaction is set off. A story and images mix until it bursts out into a violet cloud that covers everything I could see seconds ago.

 She took his hands and put them on her mouth. She wanted it him to shut her up. Shut me up. Don't let me speak. Let my voice stay in my throat. Let it resonate through my torso. Vibrate so loud and clear, yet in complete silence, until it strikes your heart and awakes it. Let me awake your heart. Let it resonate with that invisible voice, that vibration that shuffles my body's cells, strikes the airs cords and reaches your torso, messes with your cell and gets to your heart. Let these words I've never said, rock your world like you couldn't imagine. I can hurt you. I can love you. I can change you. With the sound of my silent, invisible voice. I can catch your thoughts. Transform your dreams. I will melt in your hand and mix with your blood. I'll become the leader of each of your organs. I will start a rebellion. I'll tell your stomach to grow an environment suitable for butterflies so you can feel them there all the time, butterflying around. I'll order your pancreas to misjudge the hormonal responses of the other organs. I want you to fell bad. I want him to feel bad. Let him feel bad for once. I 'll tell your hands to clap stupidly. Until they bleed. Bitch. How could ou slap me there and then. I'll make your feet cross and squeeze until your balls hurt. You broke my heart, I'll bust your balls. And I'll let your brain stand there watching. You killed me from inside. Not just once. You heart me over and over again. You have attachment issues, or some poor shit issues that makes your mind the fucked up mind it constantly acts as. I have a knife now and I'm looking at you sleeping but I can't kill you. Because I love you. I love you bitch. Bitch boy. How strange you are with your stupid morning fatigue. And your stupid diet and lifestyle and obsessions. But these cheeks and this hair. God. I'd like to cut you. Make you bleed on my pillows, make a sea out of your blood and swim in despair. Drown. Kill myself in your death. God. I hate you so much it fills my nostrils. It makes me choke. Why did you have to leave? You wanted to see the world and the whores out there? What if I'm the one you idiot? What if you lost me forever? What do you do then?

I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll fucking survive. I'll chew on my wrists and I'll fucking keep breathing caus' there's more than you to life. I'll look into myself and think until I get somewhere. Fuck it, I'll keep thinking until I burn out my neurons. I'll get somewhere safe with my thoughts. Somewhere high and new. I'll discover things hidden within. I'll find a path nobody new. Not even me. Not even you. I'll crack the code. I'll do it.

There's a wave in the distance that's waiting to be ridden. Either that or it's willing to kill someone. And that's a metaphor for you. Waves are there either to kill you or to get you higher. Your skills, your will determine the outcome. I have a surfboard I'm creating now. I know how to survive. I know what to do.

I want to keep going. But God the tears behind my eyes. I shouldn't write when I'm procrastinating so much. And lost so very much. I should just. God. I should have a friend that listens or something. Fuck my everyday loneliness. It feels everyone pours stuff at me and I suck up my own pain. Why didn't you slap so hard so I woke up and understood I shouldn't leave. No.

It wouldn't have been any different. I wouldn't have opened up. I won't open up. I just don't open up. I'm like that. But man, it gets heavy some times. It feels like a mountain and I keep wondering if there isn't a way to make all of this lighter. Do I need to travel for a year. Money, Sex, Heart, Mind, Body. I keep thinking I have all these to accomplish. I have a to-do list and another to-do list and a calendar and e-mails and people who want me to speak and stuff. And all I want to do is just is there like the moron I really am and just weep. And weep some more caus' I'm fucking sad inside. Empty. Like there's nothing to live up too. How horrible is that ? What the fuck am I doing dragging myself every day from building to building, from an obsession to another, from a girl to a woman to another girl and another woman. Like I'm searching for a hook. And there's nothing. Not one thing I want to grab and keep close. It's pure loneliness.

I had an angel when I was a kid and parted with him. Now he's back. God. Isn't there a single person out there that can be the perfect friend? The perfect wing-man, the perfect listener with the perfect wits? I mean not perfect but just adequate? Oh fuck it. I'm going to sleep. Feeling hollow.

Where's the poetry? A deep purple cloud expanded inside her heart and vibrated so strongly it awoke him. He came back from the dead and his eyes were now shining blue, surrounded by purple haze. He was a new god. And he had to fly away. Away. Away.