It is November.

It's been two years, or three? I don't know unless I count back carefully and do some calculation, but I do not care for an exact number as I'm sure it is how I feel. It has been long but still, to my surprise, that figure in black still has the capacity to bring a full smile onto my face and the words followed, reminding me of some remote, invisible thing lurking that I'd happily embrace. At least, I heard someone say again that I was not only made an impact on but I also made one, so there is still sth...

If you read lot, you need to find a way to keep your sanity...

XiPXi

Does 'love her_i despite her_i ' make any sense? Is loving someone despite the very person ever possible? Somehow, it is the way I do, the way I've alway been functioning. I just didn't realize that. But I'm not sure about the nature of this mechanism, whether it is innate to me or just a learned way because of my frustrating with the impossibility to cross the barriers? Either way, I may have to accept it, which means I have to make that distinction in order not to misplace the unnecessary negative feeling on what is not in fact responsible. Why do things have to be complicated with me? I guess I just have to be. (Fortunately, now I've gathered some voices which when one thing is pulling away from me remind me of looking into a place where the road keeps spreading.)

 

I've just realized that instead of wanting to loveher I'm actually lovingher. For the first time, I can really say that...

Les gens qui ont "du mal" se comprennent, ils entrent en contact et s'approchent (petit à petit), sans que ceux n'en ont pas sachent comment...

1+1?

Why not? It is totally a good idea, as a start, like most of the things, the seemingly simpliest may be the hardest, the most revealing... Besides, I trust /er.

Sy&Se

I have been quite annoyed whenever asked for , or directly confronted to certain interpretations of bizarre shapes I produce on paper, which I can hardly classify as anything. They want "meaning", "significances", the explication of certain presupposed existence of sth which has a shape, elucidation and motivation, because they cannot tolerate the autonomy of a well-formed structure. Depriving of "meaning" is admitting it is done on impluse. I don't think it is impulse, or can I refuse that it is not. But the structure has much to do with what they consider "meaningful". The inner, or innate je ne sais quoi seems to me more faithfully "brought out" by the structures, but one thing I am sure about is that it is definitely what they call "meaning" in the conventional way. Even, if I may say, the perceptible shapes do not only funtion to represent, but ARE DIRECTLY part of the inme.

I didn't wipe the chair before sitting down on it. I didn't sit down before opening that book, and before sitting down I shut it close. I can afford to reading it without breaking it into pieces, too much risk. The only possible way is to leave it within my reach, and peep into a small morsel from time to time. That is the plan. But this morning, things are slow, a rare chance that things can go slow. It's not a break, but I feel my mind unoccupied, untethered, allowed to flow and float away anywhere it desires. No technical terms (which I like), no respecting any logic... it's like putting away something away a while just for picking it up again to be able to appreciate more. I've felt relieved since I released the words the other say, or released something with my words, or perhaps released something in my words. Something you have to say, something you may never have a chance to say, something you should have said but there was no way for you to be capable to realize yourself... I've learned that lesson so well, the permanent question mark with a sign I don't have to remember, because it won't go away.

h in h

Facing certain kinds of people, or a certain kind, or perhaps even not enough to form 'a kind', or not really homogeneous to be qualified so, I always find myself speechless, since 'the things' I desire to utter are way much more than what I can with the means at my disposal. My sole attention is how I honor, but sometimes it seems to be mistaken for distrust. It all appears to be about a game of 'knowing' and 'thinking' and the discrepancy: when I lay my eyes on that particular person, I know she thinks I am smart but I also know even she knows I am amazed by her somehow and other, of which she is not sure about the expiration date though, she does not know I see in her much more than just 'smart'. I know she does not know how stubbornly faithful, almost religiously blind, I am. Facing, very much like nine or ten years ago, my words won't come out when I most want to use them, except this time, it does concern someone else besides myself. Is that it? Is that supposed to be the way I love? Is it definite? Until I can figure it out, the situation willl remain 'happy in hell'.

She said, "you will manage. " and I rushed out of the room. Now I'm thinking I must be careful not to try to rationalize the choice made which was made not at all according to reason. Cherish the state I've finally come into the unjustifiable character of which is the perfect justification faithful to the not-yet-explicability of it.

/aI/

don't have time to come here (but I should always take time to put down the I at the beginning of that sentence: I don't have time to come here). Calculating the hours I spent on what I'm doing each day, I am shocked at the amount of time passing by, almost imperceptibly. Is that how much I care about it or how much I love it or how much I am confused? There is no way to say, perhaps all of them. If I stop, the vacancy will immediately be occupied by "my old pals", the familiar question marks, whose visiting I don't quite appreciate. But even without their actually entering in my mind, I can smell the same smell, the same bleached smell, which would normally drag me into this entanglement ... not yet, but I am afraid...suddenly I remember (that is why I'm wasting time here for not forgetting) that the similar situation happened before, and then something else that I could not have possibly predicted happened too. I was caught off guard so it flashed through by so quickly that I could catch. But the conclusion is: why shouldn't that happen again? Les choses arrivent, est-ce pas? tant que vous ne vous emprisonnez vous-même.

Uneasy

Uneasy, uneasy. The twelve-year-old me would never have guessed that one day she would hear herself say "I'm so happy the vacation is near its end." I cannot wait for it to be over. Mornings are getting chilly and nights even cold, and I, as normally I would do at this time of every year, automatically turn back to the Cure's the Last Day of Summer. Last year, I ran away from this place to avoid thinking about the city becoming empty when I came back, and this year, I stayed, stuffing my timetable to prevent myself from missing something. It is more bearable this time with the awareness of being able to return to what I like and who I adore. I am successful in not missing them too much the whole summer but near the end I find myself nervous, uneasy...happily though. Why am I always filled with hope, or am I just being childish? 
The Cure - The Last Day of Summer by pseudonemo

Time flies, so true. I didn't realize the last post I wrote was one month ago. The summer job, the hot weather and too much preparatory reading leave me hardly any time to say something. Always having things to say, which has not been properly canalized, I am feeling a little messy inside my head, but the worst may be missing something. I talk with a different kind of people ( 'the so-called normal', or more precisely and to avoid being called condescending, I'd say the kind that won't risk being regarded as 'crazy', or 'weird' ) but throwing and catching the banal words, I miss conversing with the people who never stop amazing me, I miss their smiling at me so personally, and I miss the beauty, genius, passion, and connections I see, hear and feel when I am with them. If I am having a taste of the 'real world', or 'reality', ' realistic aspect of the world', then it is not crazy, but tedious. I will not kill me by cruelty but by boredom. My mind cannot go on for so long without being nurtured.  Maybe, like some have warned me before not to go too far, I think I've already gone too far, so willingly to continue.

When I saw fancy pictures of beautiful places, I used to wonder what it would be like there, what I would be feeling there, or if it would be a shame if I'd never had a chance to be there, but now, I find myself in a complete different state: I know I won't feel happy there, not because I've found (probably never) what makes me happy, but because I SEE what makes me happy. If I see it, then I have to spend time and make efforts to go after it, which leaves me little time to linger in the uncertainty. It feels good to be able to be certain about something perhaps for the first time in my life, for the first time sure about something positive of course, as I can be certain from the negative side quite often. But sometimes I ask myself if it is too good to be sure, too close to be real. I am a stranger to this kind of state of mind, but if thinking about it more closely, it does make sense: all these years of confusion and searching, all the ups and downs I've been through, must have led me somewhere new. Can I now be so confident? Perhaps I can try. After all, some fifteen or sixteen years ago, I was once like that.

?

Do all of us "function" according to certain logic of our own aside from the basic natural laws imposed. If yes, does it dominates us entirely or only partly? Do we all live consciously or unconsciously of that logic? If consciously, how correct is our understanding of it? Do all of us try to figure it out? And if we do and succeed, will it freak us out? Why am I asking all these questions? Because I'm freaking out, like a living man seeing his own skeleton.

Lucky

It seems such a long time since I've been able to sit down to come up with a few sentences. If I am asked to find one word to describe my feeling lately, it should be lucky. I'm feeling lucky. I tried to retrace my steps to see how the choices I've made, consciously or unconsciously, led me along a not so usual route causing quite some angst and awkward situation but finally arriving in a territory of which I can say I am passionate for with total confident. I had not been able to be sure about anything. It is the first time that I feel less doubt. And what is more? I am feeling lucky to come into contact with such wonderful people. As I said to my friend that I've been completely amazed by her intellect and achievement, and pleasantly surprised to get the extra attention. I am so happy about the relationship I've been building. I described to my friend my feeling for her was "if she points to the hell, I'll go directly down there." It is the holiday time but a busy time. I don't remember the last time I was happy like this. A good summer ahead...

I am so pissed right now. I find myself actually shaking because of the conversation I just had with someone I used to consider intellectually capable to understand gays. He made his homophobic point clear by throwing around words like abnormal, freaks, against the "great laws" of the nature... the statements which cannot be older. It hurts. I snapped and I think I started to yelling at him but I don't remember. How naive have I been! I knew the general attitude is hostility but it is one thing to be aware that hate is popular and another to hear it from the people close to you, living and breathing around you, people you consider open-minded and nice, people you spend time to get to know, people who have entered your life... It got confusing to hear the praise from them saying how brilliant you are and at the same time telling you there is a group of people that disgust them, to which you belong. I feel like a failure. I never tried to rub my homosexuality in the others' faces and I thought I'd made my point that I could live alongside with the people who are different from me, making friends with them, without marking the divisions. Even though I've been secretly feeling privileged and lucky to be gay, which also brings me trouble I'm willing to deal, I've never rubbed it in anybody's face. I tried to blend my gayness simply as a part of my identity like all the others, gender, age, language, hair, eye and skin color, ethnic, nationality, etc, but I guess it doesn't work easily and it is my fault. I am not saying I am turning radical but next time when such topic comes up, I won't hesitate to let them know that I am one of those they are calling freaks. I am feeling frustrated right now but what I want is to live more and love more, live and love in the way they despise. It is not only OK to be gay. For me, it is great.IFinallyUnderstandWhereMyShynessComesFromAndIKnowItCanActuallyBeCuredByItsVeryCause.IHateHiding AndIWontHideAnymore.

the letters

I'm writing all the time. It seems no difficulty for me to use words. Actually too many of them is one of my issues I have to work on, but peculiarly when I am strongly conscious of the addressees, the words sometimes won't come out so easily. In other words, I don't usually have the problem saying what I want to say but I do when I know I am saying what I want to say to the one I want to say to. I guess it all started the time when I first felt the desperate desire to say something in front of the one with whom I wanted to share only to find I was incapable to.
The hardest and probably the best I've written was a letter, a goodbye letter. I composed the whole thing in my head for two or three months, choosing, comparing and arranging every single word into a very short paragraph. I did not want to hide but I did not want to sound crazy. I wanted to say things in an appropriate way and yet I had to draw the shape of my feeling in it. It turned out wonderful. But I'd never forget how exhausting that few words were. And now I feel the same feeling again. I don't understand it. When I address to someone I respect and adore, it is as if I were writing to goddesses, some sacred high-above-sky being who only come down to earth occasionally, even it is only supposed to be a formal letter, nothing personal involved.
I have to keep telling myself stop freaking myself out by over-thinking, and that it is merely for my own good to get the necessary information, but I can't. I keep thinking once I press send someone so fantastic at the end of the other side will read every letter I am putting down. Is this the way I love people? By avoiding them?

Flashback

I should probably start getting ready for the job, I say to myself, but my mind is still looping around the dream I had last night. Arachnids, spiders more precisely, I think. They were black. Then I started kissing someone when suddenly a piece of sharp bone grew out from the tip of the tongue and hurt me. I do not normally bother trying explain my dreams to myself because no matter how bizarre they are, the feeling in them is always obvious and revealing to myself, merely intensified and stripped of camouflage. 

    Lately, I see my compulsory character more clearly. I have to repeat playing the same piece of melody again and again (which is still playing), and yet, every time the violin stings my head. Like a broken gramophone. There seems to be nothing involving or progressing but the same flow of water bursting out repeatedly with the rising and falling of the melody, but then something hit me, a rip in the white shirt. I became alert because again, remembering wanted to catch me and it succeeded. She would show up, elegant and stunning, especially in the black dress for the summer or the brown leather jacket for the winter, but sometimes she would come in in a casual T shirt with a cartoon figure on it. Sometimes her hair seemed not combed at all. And she turn back, there was a rip on the left (or the right?) shoulder of her shirt, a position near the back where she could hardly notice by herself. I wanted to say to the one next to me that it was so sweet and cute, but instead, I bit my lower-lip to repress the smile. Now when I think about that small rip on her shoulder, I laugh, wondering if she would keep that shirt and brought it to the lake.

jaitort

There are things you keep thinking would go away until the moment comes when they take you by surprise, and you give in. Standing at the trains station, she brought it up again. She brought her up again. I wanted to end the conversation, or I wanted to keep the topic. I didn't know. I don't know which it was. The mentioning of her name brought it all back, her voice, her smile, her way of calling my name...I cannot get rid of it, can I? I concluded in firmly by declaring that I would never go out of my way to expect anything more than the sweet memory I had, but in my head, I was floating away to that faraway land where she left for. I told her about a fabulous woman who came in the other say, whose beauty had the power to erase my infatuation for a moment. But only for a moment. I talked about my intention to ask out a very special girl, but I knew all I was about to do is to distract myself from her. I cannot forget her, can I? they say admitting your problem is the first step to overcome it. I should probably stop repressing my feeling, but I am confused, because I've talked about it with all those with whom I could share. I have already let it out, so how can I reveal more about it? There was a time I believed that the fire is so strong that one day the fuel would burn out, but it hasn't. I ran away to get over it, and when I came back I felt the city was empty without her, but I was wrong. The city is never empty. Now, after she is gone, she becomes omnipresent. No amount of looking back or forward can efface her imprint on my mind. No amount of your boss or his girlfriend flirting with you helps either. They only make things worse. They only remind you how much you miss someone else. You are not flattered by their attention, which only makes you angrier for not being able to reach out to the one that has trapped your heart. Reaching out to someone, it seems to have always been what I have been trying to do but failed, ever since I was a teenager. I'm always choosing the impossible ones. I start to wonder whether I enjoy self-tormenting. I always turn away from the ones I like, run away from the ones I care and hide away from the ones I want. Much I can figure out except this kind of behavior of mine. And I wonder if I still have enough time to get things clear this time.

hitandrun

How many ways are there to remember? I'm not sure whether the word remember is better called a voluntary verb or involuntary. But whether voluntary, when you mean making sure to engrave something into your stock of memory, or involuntary, when you mean the trace of the past left with you becoming part of you whether you like or not. Often, that something appears to us in the form of a story with narration or a static scene, I think. There are characters, landscapes, dialogues, and then certain feelings are recalled, which are often merely by the names because the passage of time generate the distance distorting them. There may be a frequent pattern of telling a past story: "My best friend moved away with her parents. I was so sad", "our team won the first place. I was so proud", "they pushed me to speak in front of the whole group of people. I was so nervous", "she killed herself. I was so confused",etc. I tend to "remember" the facts and then the feeling, the labelled feeling, and I've said to myself that perhaps this is the way I was supposed to remember. However, recently I've discovered that the past did not come to me only like that, under my control. Yes, I thought "remember" is doing inventory, sorting out items, and even with the unwanted articles, one can always shelf, arrange and count them to have a clear idea about what, where and how many, but there is a different kind of bringing back the past I did not realize, which is not monitored. It will hit you unexpectedly. One moment I am totally absorbed in a novel, or exhausted from the job which I cannot wait to finish and go home, or taking a walk with friends in the sun, talking and laughing, the next minute, it attacks me, giving me a chill running from the head to the toes. The flash, but the cold flash, getting my brain burned and my stomach twisted. At a moment I feel whatever the substance that makes my is melt and sucked out of me, my knees weak, my back going into a spasm, feeling nauseated and as if I'd fall over, which is nevertheless a feeling, and I never actually fall. In fact, it is rather a combined sensation than feeling. The triggers are various, a sound, a word, or sometimes it just jumps in without any obvious hints from the outside. I may be confused about sets off the alarm but whenever I get this sensation, I know why, that is when I remember. A memory I cannot call good or bad, or even want to call it memory. It is something too intense, having tested my potential capacity to feel as a human being, but too intense means demanding too much energy, which cannot last long. It may have more positive influence than negative to me overall but being reminded of that is still too much to take, ending draining my energy and messing up with my mind, so I have learned to stop it at the gateway. I do not intentionally bring that chapter of my life, so sometimes I forget I remember it, and it is until that fainting sensation hits me that I know how strong it is and how remembering can be uncontrollable.

Myopia

Yes, I'm near-sighted, and yes, I need some artificial objects to correct my vision, but I hate glasses. Before one summer I had had the perfect sight and after that summer faraway things became blurry. Which summer, I don't remember, perhaps when I was 12 or 13. But I do remember that reading books did not ruin my sight, which would later cause other less obvious damages. I've always hated glasses, not because how it changed the way I looked but because of the fact that it changed. I feel being forced to add something that does not belong to my body and constantly aware of the frames, metal or plastic, around my eyes, which bothered me. When I was in high school, I only wore them when having classes because I was never able to walk, run or climb stairs wearing glasses. In fact I was not able to do anything involving physically moving much. I did a test once in the basketball court shooting basketballs, results being in the exact same distance, when seeing clearly in glasses I scored zero, but when facing the blurry board without my glasses and only sensing the aim, I was almost as good as before. So, since I normally sat on the first or second row in classes and seldom turned back, until my graduation, some of my classmates still did not know that I wore glasses. Since I could not get my good vision back, I was desperate to get rid of the glasses, and before long, I turned to the contacts, since when at least I have been able to pretend that I am still the little kid who could see perfectly. 

As I said, back to the days when I had to try to ignore the annoyance of glasses in classes, I spent a lot of time walking around only seeing the fluffy outlines of everything around me and relying more on the other senses. Nowadays, if I did not care for my eye health, I could enjoy the clear view 24/7, but what occurred to my long before was that I do not particularly hate being near-sighted. It is regrettable, but I don't take my nearsightedness as an enemy. In fact, I would say it is an unfortunate element in my life having turned into a helpful adjustment. Why so? Well, I remember reading a comic strip where a myopic little girl, who forgets her glasses one day, is amazed at the discovery of a whole different pretty view of the world, which is not my case. For me, it serves as a filter. I guess its function has something to do with my disorders of receiving the outside signals, as if there is something wrong with my antennas or the processing procedures, by which I mean, seeing a clear world can be too much for me. The bright colors, the easily identified people, the details of the buildings and streets, the signs, etc.,they are too much for me, and I always react. I cannot simply ignore them, and being sensitive to them, the tendency to try to interpret, correlate, abstract, conclude or transform the "ordinary" things exhausts me. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I am incapable to turn it down only by my own will, therefore I often find myself "unequipped" when I want some rest, because without any glasses or contacts, there, between me and the outside, a filter is installed, preventing the external flow from overwhelming the land, which can be left in peace to be only disturbed by the "interior" floods. Of course it is no trouble-free space but the water level becomes lower, isn't it?

Old Habit Kicks In Again

The thing is whenever I qualify this kind of things "unfinished", I've  no idea about its final state, "finished".

Bingo

Let's say, you have this feeling giving you the urge to say "eurêka!". You have the feeling that you've found something but still confused because without knowing beforehand what you have been looking for or being able to get a hold of the concrete entity, you cannot identify the found, which may be upsetting, because of the mixture of exhilaration of discovering and confusion caused by the uncertainty of the discovery. So, is there a way to solve it? Is it possible to trace back, since it is highly possible this situation resulted from the fact that this discovery may be made by certain instinct, (or else, shall we say, something on the subconscious level?) from the way one had traveled to discover. To reveal the nature of the process to reveal the nature of the result, which involves plenty of "revealing oneself", I suppose. See, as a child, I would often secretly pity the adults expressing their regrets that they lost their youth and did not get what they want, but sometimes it was not their regrets but the things they said they wanted but did not get that looked more pitiable. I would say to myself, " so what if you had spent all your life after that and had gotten that? It would still have sounded boring."(Was I than cynical at 12?) I guess the expressions on their face sacred me into my working my ass off in the later days to avoid that, but it is essential to get the nature of my findings right. I know, I am classified by many as "the unsettling factor" or "the lost one", which I've been told repeatedly, but what they don't know is that the "lost" appearance may be simply due to the momentarily unidentified discoveries I've made, the equivalents of which in their lives seem more obvious and less controversial. Let me clarify, I am not against their norms but I am only against the norms trying to force their way into my private sphere, because they can sometimes blind me into agreeing on the "lost" appearance, while when I look in retrospect in my lucid mind, I am amazed at the how much I been through and how close I am getting to something that fits me, which I could not even have dreamt of back then. So I guess the question now is to formulate it properly in order to make sure that I stick to it.

Dream

I can easily trick myself into denial, but usually a superficial form of denial, which means I simply stop pronouncing the word the notion of which I think I should be dubious about by reasoning, which normally involve those, mostly positive, with more or less extravagant tones, (I do say fabulous, fantastic, amazing quite often, but only for the sake of expressing an exclamation without bothering to define them.), e.g. dream. I use dream in its basic literal sense neutrally as in "I had a dream last night. I dreamt of a speaking dog." etc., whereas figuratively or metaphorically I might mention nightmare but seldom dream referring to the future as something aspirational or hopeful, and facing the optimist friends shouting out "I am a person with dreams (to achieve)!", annoyed and nauseated is usually what I feel, which is paradoxical, since I've discovered that I am the type of creature which feeds on dreams. I know some say the more zen attitude is to focus on the "now" and the dependence on the future can be as heavy a burden as that on the past, and that we may enter a less troubled state of mind with less desires, but I am not able to do so, or am I not old enough to be that serene? Anyway, I see desire more of a friend than an enemy that the miseryfree fearfree desirefree comfortable time was a threat to me, because there was nothing to want. However, along time, as so many have repeatedly filled the contents of dream with what I've been busying myself to escape to a point I no longer feel it relevant, I did not realize that from the very beginning the hue of my perception of the world was set by the dream by someone who cosseted me in a way my parents would not even do. She never told me what to do, what goal to achieve or who to become, which I wouldn't have understood anyway, but simply patched my sails and sharpened my wings and then pointed afar and said, "go". I don't know if I should thank or blame her, thank her for the unusual road I've traveled and still on, blame her for having to deal with moments of being lost. All that written, I know I am being unreasonable to hold someone responsible for what I've been experiencing, which I myself find surprising, but I guess I just miss her so much and cannot neglect the joke that she who started my dream did not hold on to hers. Somehow, I do not want to continue lingering in the wreckage of the ship, because for those which are still sailing, there are still storms to come for which one should prepare for. I know my discomfort with a word cannot be changed overnight but the realization that the rejection of the signifying does not imply that of the signified can be quite deliberating and that not naming something does not mean my denying to its existence which I never stop sculpturing, so next time I should give some extra thought about whether my whole vision is really that somber.

Bats

Although it is said that since Alice is not able to answer either of the two questions, " do cats eat bats?" and " do bats eat cats?', it does not matter in which way she puts it, but apparently one of them sounds more absurd than the other, doesn't it? Why I think so is my question, because it does seem to me that asking a question whether cats eat bats makes you look less insane than whether bats eat cats. I guess the answer can be easily obtained - because I presuppose before these questions that there exist the hierarchy of food chain, and that the cats is certainly situated above a certain category, which I also presuppose includes bats similar to rats, as Alice says herself. So I know the one on the top will eat and the one under it will be eaten, the reversal impossible, so although I don't know precisely whether cats eat bats, I know that bats do not eat cats, ergo the question to which the answer is not only certainly negative in an obvious way but the action of asking it implies the subversion of a pre-constructed seemingly unquestionable order will surely seem ridiculous. It seems that the implicit already resolved questions have the impact on the way one perceives the questions that follow, which, I wonder, whether or not, is the explanation for some of the you-are-insane expressions that I get from the others facing my questions...

raef

The last few days she'd been concentrated on a certain topic and the messiness seemed to have been poured into a river of reasoning oriented to a certain place, running parallel with the route where the shadows persist, which had detached her from her, so she did not know how to formulate the start. She rolled the dice and they were scattered into pieces. However, she decided to begin with 'scared', although the actual beginning was a word of laziness. She is scared, which happens not often, but now she is. She is afraid that she's been lancing herself so fearlessly into something that would finally turn out to be uncontrollable. But isn't what she expected? Perhaps the shape of the unknown has undergone some hardly inappreciable change, transformed from the wide opening where things happen to the wide open where things may not happen; or perhaps it is the emergence of a visible, still ambiguous but detected outline of the shape that freaks her out. It becomes explicit enough to be actually spoken out. Either way, the result is the fear that she's never experienced. It is as if she could be comfortably floating on the surface of a sea of chaos, letting it take her wherever, but all would become unbearable once she is rescued onto the deck of a ship and told that she would be taken somewhere safely, and she would probably jump back into the water. Why does materializing something appear to her like a threat? Perhaps because now she prefers staying in the background. There was a time when she was on the spot light and she thought it was being so that she enjoyed until one day she came to the realization that it was being lightened by that specific light that really mattered, so once the light changed, being on the spot light did not mean as much. She kept believing if she stayed in the background and refusing to come out of the darkness,  it would be easier to locate that light again, because in the somberness you may see clearly. But now she is scared as she is stepping out, which she knows necessary but that gives her the chill in the backbone. What if you cannot shape it into the form you have in mind? What if the final product is a total fiasco, or even worse, too concrete to be destroyed? 

Snap the sky

'What is the point of taking photos of sky and clouds?' somebody asked me, to which I know the answer 'that piece of cloud is so beautiful that it makes me want to scream." will not make me look any less crazier, so I gave a shrug of I've-no-idea, but what I was sure was that I certainly preferred clumsy photos of sky, clouds, streets to those of them. I hate being sentimental, or I hate showing that. When you try to decipher codes, it becomes hard to feel emotional before any stories in novels which aim to play with pathos. I cannot remember crying over anything that can be defined as sadness or happiness, which does not mean I've lost my faculty of crying. I do cry, only not before a film or someone's unfortunate family story or the 'tragedy' of the hero in the epics...anything that you 'are supposed' to shed tears for, but I'd cry reading a crazily jumbled passage seeming like some lunatic's charabia, or remembering the location of a past period but not able to fill it with any contents, or, seeing anything that is vast, the sea, the desert, or the sky... hopefulness, hopelessness, no use to define. I guess I'm just not used to it, all of it, being so real and unreal at the same time.

Seesaw

I don't get drunk, by which I mean I don't normally get drunk from alcohol for the same reason I hated napping in the kindergarten, or, sleeping at all, that being conscious is much more fun than loosing it. But the question is how much conscious one can be? Is it possible to become too aware of things that you actually find yourself loosing awareness? I'll freak out if the shape of my mind is no longer palpable. It feels like a fetus, suffocated in a place where it is in constant struggle to get out of. The frustration is that it does not know where is the place smothering it. It denies the mother that carries it in the first place, so how can it get out of the unknown? Unlocated, it is not looking for a home to go back but trying to find a home to get away from. If you get it drunk, I will still be aware of it, if I get myself drunk, it will be aware of me. Can I get both of us drunk? I don't know how.

The Void. The Launcher.

void: /void/noun

1.a completely empty space:

  - an emptiness caused by the loss of something.

  - an unfilled space in a wall, building, or structure.

2. (in bridge and whist) a suit in which a player is dealt no cards.

launcher: /ˈlɔːn.tʃəʳ/ noun (often in compounds) a device that is used to send a rocket, a MISSILE, etc. into the sky: a rocket launcher.

Perhaps the fifth day of every October is a better occasion to write this post, but today is the day when on my way, I was able to connect the small points into a continuous line orientated in one direction and the seemingly scattered images into one picture. They are all related. The inside and outside, the past and envisaged future, and all the between's. What I was after, what I've been after and what I seem to have decided to go after...it's been the same thing. I am finally able to identify it, giving it a name, and the reason is the void. The void in two senses. The space reserved for any kind of belief in my is unoccupied, or occupied by disbelief, which I fully embrace, but now I've come into the realization that this void is not completely empty, or it keeps searching to be filled with something else, which is why the ones resembling priests preaching keep me fascinated to whom I've been looking up, but instead of the bullshits, they are saying the things intriguing my mind. They are like launchers, preparing me for the flight, which is why I feel free with them, and hopeful. The launcher may stay there, but they push you to go higher and in their force you can feel the silent loudness of their wilderness hidden behind a static appearance of posture. And they can feel my urge and agitation and the potential violent untamed desire to be launched. And there is another kind of void which is even more personal, left by the dramatic (that I only heard but haven't been able to conceive) departure of the occupier, so unlike the first kind which has kept its state of emptiness right from the beginning, this vacuum was once occupied, and unlike the first one, I cannot locate it or to clarify the characteristics of it, which I think to be emotional in general but to which I sense much more. Whatever it is, the feeling of lacking in there is certain, so since the departure of the first, I have perhaps been keeping searching the liaison I once had had with her in all the ones playing the similar role that I've met, whether consciously or unconsciously, and it has been proved that the shapes of our relations are rare, sometimes beyond understanding. Now I know what I see and what I've been wanting for all this time, and most importantly, I now know why, which asks so many questions - the one to 'whether I will be able to get rid of that shadow' is ' I don't even need to because the shadow has shaped me and it will eventually change into something else.' I feel lucky, because all the trouble I saw once is actually what has pushed me into experiencing a territory that not everyone can have access to.The confusion and stubbornness are what has opened up the world about the existence of which I've been questioning, though lingering outside the door. I think I've finally recognized it.

I.

It seems to be a periodical thing, not my special days every month I am talking about, but the recurring suffocating feeling inciting a sort of turbulence, during which the contradicting pieces the nature of which, whether thoughts or emotion, whether psychological or physical, I cannot tell, unable me to stick to one topic. Once deciding on one thing, I can normally loosely gather my thoughts around it and put down my writing around a center, which is no longer the case when the disturbance starts. Still, I'm not able to trace back the origin of my "wanting to get elsewhere" feeling. I used to have a misconception of the geography when I was little, taking my city for a country, my region for the earth and the world for the universe, until I laid my eyes on a map and started understanding it. I am not sure if my desire to escape where I stay is related to correcting my mistake but I certainly know that once a place becomes too familiar and I begin sensing it is growing on me, I feel dead and I have to leave. What's worse? Those I attach myself to, connect myself to and, let's say "look up to" instead of "love", keep moving, the lonely souls perhaps more than myself, and those who don't are the ones  buried or burned. 

But the disturbing feelings on the road, which twist your stomach and gives you chill penetrating the back of the head, jump in from time to time, worrying about the questions, "what if I miss something while keep moving too fast?", "what if I never get to the place I want?", "I really don't see that place?", "am I just lost?", although they've never proposed the alternative of settling down to me. Why? Guess I have scratched it off my list long time ago. A sign of weakness and compromise, a mistake some admit at the end and some just live with. I am a good liar but not that good to myself, who is capable to accept certain things for the sake of convenience. So I have come to the conclusion that this is a phenomenon I have to deal with regularly, the solution of which is in the head, relieving the gloom thought caused by impatience, which is weird because very often, it is right at the moment when everything is going well, or perhaps too very and the others remind of a very promising picture in the future that I put myself down. It is possibly just unsatisfactory ambition...

I thought...

I thought I'd had my closure. I thought I'd figured everything out. I thought I'd safely sorted out and stored the broken pieces up high in the attic. I thought I'd transformed all the potential disturbing forces into steady, peaceful, quiet, pleasant dripping raindrops, chill, sweet and refreshing...but somehow, a friend has 'helped' me to open that door again, and the dam broke down and the devastating flood strikes me again. Hot flashes. I don't know. These are the things I am incapable to put together by logic, invading my waking mind and my dreams, which is why six or seven hours before everything comes back to life, I am already awake, trying to find a way to forget again.

I want to feel safe again and from gathering past experiences, I can only feel safe when my awareness that there is nothing to hold on to is strong. I know it's not the normal way but works for me. The detachment and honest admission of the nothingness are what bring me courage. I can, from time to time, cherish friendship, kindredship, or any kind of emotional bonds, but once sensing the tendency to truly rely on them, I shiver. I guess I can only believe them on a certain level, beyond which I still see the barriers for each impossible to cross. The closest feeling I've ever had only existed seconds in their eyes. So, although I never throw anyone away, keeping them as treasures, keeping adoring or even worshiping all the characters who amaze me, I avoid attachment, especially with her, my best and worst time with her. I know the feeling of being elevated by such an extraordinary person is real and something I've never experienced. Seeing her fly makes want to too. But thinking about her still hurts. Perhaps, let me try again with my reasoning to have an explanation, that I have indeed been changed and crossing over her path has brought the aspiration for myself that I've never had, but meanwhile, the hope she has injected in me sometimes feels too much. It's too high and too far. It can exhaust me, frustrate me and crush me. Perhaps, I should simply keep the aspiration and detach it from her, so that I won't feel the freezing cold hands of hers in my dreams...

In about four hours the sun will rise again. I'd like to go on the road again, I'd like to be on my own again, and I'd like to go back to being the beast again, de-sentimentalizing myself, again...because I make a difference between the me and the non me, the inevitable consequence of being born and the unavoidable state of being.

not use it for a while

I started my 'not thinking' exercise today, which is, as the name suggests, staying in a position not thinking. My general state of mind can be qualified as 'too crowded'. Since the moment I open my eyes in the morning, every waking moment, pieces of words, images, sounds keep bursting in, and I never stop talking to myself. All the time ideas, always aware and conscious... which I am generally proud of, but realizing how much stress it has brought, I believe deliberately clearing out some time for 'not using it' to give my little brain some rest. I didn't completely stop it today but as the first time I intentionally held my mind empty for thirty minutes, it was a small success. I almost managed to cut that flow of voice, not saying to myself, though some still worked there way in (actually I decided to call it 'not thinking exercise' when I tried not to think in words.) Since I see a long way to go, I've been afraid that being too anxious will break my nerves at certain point, and there is got to be a way to manage the excess. 

Again?

I'm afraid that I've got myself into the same awkward situation again. I had a wonderful night and outed to one of my friends after months of preparation work. We met some nice friends of friends and had pleasant talk and drink. But I started to get worried when the next morning one boy started to text me, asking me out for a walk. It had happened several times in the past, and I don't know why. I keep my gayness relatively visible to avoid misunderstanding and yet mistake happens, and the sad thing is I keep loosing friends over it. I used to be good at making friends with boys than with girls. Now I still find it easier to get along with boys and they like me until, well of course, finding out that my interest in girls. My childhood playmates took me as one of them, one of the boys, even the leader in the group, can't they do the same? It is a frustrating thing to find all the amazing qualities about a person and then just because I'll never take them as lovers that we stop being friends. Things appear simple but can be complicated:  I don't want to hide, I don't want to be impolite, I don't want to mislead, and I don't want to loose a friend.

Why isn't she happy?

I think appropriate title should be, " why doesn't she look happy?" because there is no possible way for me to gain that knowledge concealed within her, is there? But she does look unhappy, or, using one of my friends' words, " lost in her own head ". They have had a lot of absurd judgments about her, but this one turns out to be reasonable after I saw her today, crossing the square in bright sunlight full of people, whose spirits seemed to be lifted up by the early heat of the changing season. Amongst them, dressed as usual, quiet as usual, she looked more pallid and detached, and her age was showing more under the sunlight, but not at all reducing her grace, sad grace. The contrast between a confident and even proud attitude I've considered to suit her according to her aptitude, her characters and her achievements, and the way she carried herself has confused and troubled me. Probably it is only unnecessary worry, but I don't understand why she looks so sad. I like the way she searches for my eyes and when seeing my smiling, she lights up. The brightness is so beautiful but brief. I feel guilty because never being good at flattering and though talkative, getting too nervous to say anything to the persons I adore, I have never expressed my admiration to her. This feels familiar. The first time I didn't have the chance and the person died, the second time I didn't dare and the person left, and I wonder what is going to happen this time. However, at least I've mildly shared my relatively less subjective opinion about her with her. Simply, I just wish the people to whom I can be connected be happy, even the unjustified happy, which is double standard because I don't see the possibility of it for my own.

The Emperor isn't the only one without new clothes

Kejserens nye Klæder
So, the story keeps going on.They are so proud of the kid, who dared to speak out the truth that sometimes they confuse him with themselves. Convinced there's never been such things as the new fabulous clothes. Comfortable that everyone wears the same type, color and style.So satisfied and foolish, that they become dumb and blind, unable to see the Golden costume of the passing outsider, who appears to them still nude. Considering nakedness laughable and offending,they mock and they mock again, because it is unbearable for them to admit something beyond their understanding, well, exists.

The dead keep the notyetdead alive

It isn't as wicked as it sounds, indeed, and when the mind circles back to this thought, it isn't non plus an indication of gloomy mood. It is, I guess, a simple fact for me. 

Three or four years ago I was on a trip into the desert in the hope of finding a tomb I've heard about in my childhood. It was not a tomb of some extraordinary historical legendary personage. In fact, she was supposed to be very close to me as we are said to be related, only never met. But her story has been legendary for me, who is born and has been raised in the city. Streets, buildings, crowds and artificial gardens, the only sand I'd seen was the sandstorm blowing down the billboards on the roadsides. My hope to find it was full of  "perhaps, possibly, if I am lucky...", so when I returned without precisely locating it, I wasn't that disappointed, and my state of mind hadn't changed much, ' someone was still lingering somewhere in   the past.' 

wall

It was both pleasant and scary to watch a unoccupied and perhaps 'unoccupiable' vastness flashing by outside the train window, where only once the huge chimneys of a certain electricity plantation appeared, standing there, stupidly,  which made the idea that someone lived their life and was buried there more unthinkable. I guess during the whole trip I was a bit drunk by the sight, almost in a trance. I remember my the rhetorical question asked by my 'German teacher, " what is there to see? The desert? ", as the summary of one disappointing vacation trip she had had. Of course, I understand, coming for the warm, green, lively area, seeing the wild beauty of the desert is too much to ask from her. For me, these is everything to see.

One day later, I was able to successfully to situate myself in the middle of the desert, near the site where all the tombs were supposed to be. The landmark was an ancient beacon tower for warfare, which was still there and yet the cemetery at the foot of it was gone. Both remote, I was less interested in appreciating the story of a group of defunct people than that of a single person. A camel driver told me in a strong accent that two or three years ago, the whole cemetery was moved, and the cab driver claiming to know the new site told me on our way there in his taxi that the relocation was announced on local TV so that the families could find the new place where their beloved ones were buried. I wasn't local, I was from thousands of miles away and I did not know if I loved her for we'd never met. The cab driver kept talking nicely, almost too emotionally during the whole trip, but my mind slipped away, thinking how paradoxical it was I could be this close to tracing down the spot where a person for whom my feeling was unclear slept for eternity, while it was possible that a place in the city near me, the existence of which I am sure of and yet probably I am never able to discover, a place where the person I'd loved as a kid was sleeping. I guess it is just the way it is. You are still connected to those who no longer exist for the unanswered questions. 

When we arrived in the middle of the desert, where more stones and the color of the sand redder, I was astonished by innumerable tombs, some with tombstones, some without, some just heaps of stones or piles of earth. All in the open, no boundaries within my sight. You did hear the whisper of the sentimental poems written by the living to mourn and to imprison the dead, instead, you could hear the wild cry of the passed away in the wind, so freely and so carelessly. Despite the driver's kindly offering to accompany me to look around, the moment I got off the taxi, I knew the chance to find it was small. But we still spent quite some time walking amongst piles of earth, reading the words on the tombstones of those that had one. A name, a line, a sign, but how much can I learn from them? Nothing really. 

After a few hours, we came to the agreement that it was impossible to find it, we got back to the taxi and started heading back to the near town, that was when he showed how moved he was to see 'a young person would do something like this'. I smiled and didn't tell him it wasn't that big deal and him being touched was more sincere than what I could feel at that moment, because I didn't even understand why I was doing it or what I was doing, maybe just to experience the ambiguous line between the dead and the living. Thinking about the dead is proof of being alive, isn't it? I don't know if I will return to that place. I'd like to, since I'd never felt that carefree anywhere else.

Passive

Having considered gaining the full control of myself one of the ultimate but probably unattainable goal, I've concluded categorically that I will never enjoy being in the passive position in any matters, and feeling helpless is never pleasant. Even from time to time I appear to have a quite detached, indifference and inactive attitude, I can be viciously passive aggressive with the strong presence of consciousness and controlling will over myself. However, a certain occasion has got me to think more about the opinion I formed - isn't there any chance that I could feel good having no control of myself and have I ever felt comfortable relinquishing the power? Yes, I have to say. When I had my two wisdom teeth removed because of the infections they kept causing, I remember clearly the two small operations were set two days apart and after the first one I was actually looking forward to going back to see my dentist, which I suppose a lot of people wouldn't be. It was not because I had confidence in my dentist's expertise, but because I secretly enjoyed the feeling lying there, facing the sharp tools forced and the frightening imagination that at any moment they could slip off their hands and accidentally cut my tongue or lips or palate or break the healthy teeth; they could deform, distort and disfigure my mouth and my face. Yes, the thought terrified me but somehow I was willing to stay still (the drug was only injected to anaesthetize a part inside the mouth not the whole body). So it was the feeling of giving up, of not being in charge of myself or the outcome, of waiting helplessly for whatever was going to happen to me. It was similar to the feeling, before an important event for which you have exhausted yourself to prepare but still feel not enough, of knowing during the last minutes there is nothing much you can do in your power but wait, seeing the every second passing by without your intervention whatsoever. So I guess there need to be some modification to my last conclusion, and there seems to be certain passive positions I'd enjoyed.

A Joke

Just a joke I read the other day:

Seven Bar Jokes Involving Grammar and Punctuation
by Erick K. Auld
1. A comma splice walks into a bar, it has a drink and then leaves.
2. A dangling modifier walks into a bar. After finishing a drink, the bartender asks it to leave.
3. A question mark walks into a bar?
4. Two quotation marks "walks into" a bar.
5.A gerund and an infinitive* walk into a bar, drinking to drink.
6. The bar was walked into by the passive voice.
7. Three intransitive verbs walk into a bar. They sit. They drink. They leave.



It cracked me up, especially the passive voice. Perhaps we can add more. At least it can be ended by "a full stop walks into the bar and leaves. The end."
*the only thing bothering me here: maybe it should be specified as "infinitive with to" (opposed to those without to)

The Blinding Coincidence

When you try to apply the criteria to what you do, things are quite complicated. What you do is not always what you love to do, what you are good at is not always what you love to do, what you are good may be what you do but is not what you love to do, what you do even when it is what you love to do may not be what is approved, etc. etc. I can go on and on. But among all it seems that the situation when what you do is what you not only good at and also what you love to do, and is not strongly disapproved (let's say approved), then it is perfect. Well, it is not. Actually it complicates things even more because in this case, you can be confused by the reason of your choice and have the tendency to inject too much 'correct purpose' and to embellish your motivation, when in fact you are just acting according to the same desire of those who are misread as 'the wicked'. Sometimes we just want to get somewhere or get out of somewhere. So the coincidence should not blind one to discover the 'terrible' nature in them, because that nature may be more revealing and keep you in the original route you've intended from the beginning that will not lead to a end of regret.

IndiaSummerplace: Try not to think (I dare you)

IndiaSummerplace: Try not to think (I dare you): This is an experiment that takes us to the limits.  Not to think at all, when one is wide awake and in full possession of one's faculties, c...

CraziLuv

She says, ' my kind of love is craziluv. Not everybody is made for than. Being nice means taking into consideration the feeling of the loved one and the disturbance I'm going to cause in her life. Many times, I've backed down suffocating my feeling without let it out when I see the peaceful surface of the her sea where my tornado is undesirable. I can keep my balance in and enjoy chaos but it's unfair to throw the others in it...
I say, ' too bad and a bit afraid, aren't you? to have a negative answer?'
She says, ' no, one cannot be refused if there's no understanding. I guess some species just have to wait for their own kind, the kind who can as well delight in the unknown, unstable and untrue, in the constant move and doubt, and in the dream of being total  never going to come but hopefully...'
I, ' then that will be a long wait. '
' No other option...', she murmurs, and looks away, implying the conversation is over.

We're 'selfless'

It is said that people are generally selfish. But the question is if they are selfish, why do some of them prefer not spending more time thinking about their own state of mind instead of forming opinions about the non-self before realizing based on what grounds, effected by what influence or using which kind of methods their views are conceived and are of what nature. I've heard people repeating to me their life stories again and again without any alteration, which indicates before telling me, they haven't reviewed their own past for their own sake, the very reliable resources more than any words printed on the paper, which is, for me, completely 'selfless', because I suppose the time we spend using our brains are precious, the time we spend reflecting and the attention we gather to understand an object, a topic or a person gives them values. For me, amongst the cruelest things one can do to another person includes neglecting, treating someone as invisible, not wasting a single second  to drop a though on another person. Out of politesse, you may have all the morning!'s,  Salut!'s or Morgan!'s that you want but you do not even sense the curiosity or desire to understand them. So why are so many of us treating ourselves that way? [...]

Puppetfield Takeoff

I'm not sure about those others who have been spending their life running and searching, reluctant to stop. I myself, finding pointless to stop, live in the constant fear of being caught in boredom, trapped in their routines, lying to themselves that everything is alright. Nothing can be alright when the heart (let's suppose it exists) is beating inappreciably and you become numb. I've heard my elders preach. Their tones were confident, but their words were hollow, face full of regrets. I've passed the troubled teenage age but I still have this frustration, the only frustration of the unsatisfied desire to go away. How can I stop? I miss my friends. I miss the ones I love. Our paths once crossed in a land foreign for all of us. I've been amazed. They flashed by through my life. I'm grateful but feel more restless. I doubted myself and the promise of the days to come. They are the marvelous creatures whose existence I'd never imaged before I met them. Oh, yes, I miss them, especially when stupidity is all around. I miss B, everyone fought for her attention, but I got the most. I wonder what she is doing. I miss her present and future. I miss H's past, though. Everyone is confused and fear her, not daring approach, but I got the attention. What a shame! I want her past for my future. I miss a lot of things but the only place I don't miss is what they call home. After all it was the house that I struggled to get out of. The harmonious family dinner around the table in the warm light was one of the worst scenarios. I'm still wondering why. Perhaps feeling too safe is never safe for me. Not having doubts signals danger, the danger of my head crashed by dullness. Yes, we can have a rest from time to time, lying on the road side or river bank, watching the sun, the moon and the stars, listening to the wind singing, feeling the morning dew on the meadow soaking the skin, the tips of grass blades tickling the bare feet, but at certain point, we know it is time to hit the road again, because there is too much unknown, too long distance and too little time.

Mrs. T

Feeling calm...

I think about Mrs. T all the time, my elementary school teacher.

There are infinite ways of thinking about a person. I used to think about her when I wanted to revise the carefree time as a child. A perfect episode. We ran wild and turned the city into our forests, rivers and mountains, the embodiment of which was her smile. I don't recall a time when she wasn't smiling or laughing, even the angry expression on her face for punishing my mischief looked fake and felt warm. Before the performance of our class chorus, she forced makeup on me and sighed, 'how pretty', and I blushed and my heart giggled at hearing her remark, which, as a girl myself, I'd usually thought only the silly weak ones would love to hear. I guess I checked my happiness too soon. We grew up. Things started to go, and things became better, but years in between I never saw her again because not wanting to ruin her favorite happy child, because not being able to face her with a troubled look. 'When I become stronger, I'll see her again.' I did, but a noose aborted my plan. Now I think about her knowing the end of the story. It took me years to concretize the news of her suicide. She was not the only one in my life who decided to leave this way but the first one to liberate me with this decision. When good news comes filling me with hope, I want to tell her, which I can, so it doesn't matter; when bad news arrives depressing and trapping me, I wonder whether it could be as devastating as what she was going through. Unlikely, but even it is, it can be switched off and we can go off the stage anytime we want, that is what she showed me, so it doesn't matter. Indeed, it doesn't matter. I was born but forged by her, and she'd left me lingering in the purple afterglow of the sun. She'd taught me plenty and I am grateful for the last lesson 'jump into the wild, my kid.' because whatever chaos there is, it doesn't matter. 

Which one are you?

I'm not sure if No.3 is the best or even exists. The worst is probably No.4.  I hesitate between No.2 and No.5 but I am definitely not No.1.

reconnaissance

I know it is a petty issue and I am being so too. But I have to confess it pisses me a bit when someone tries to discredit my help, thanks to which they can get the work done, after which, however, they need to believe they have done it all by themselves in order to boost their long oppressed egos. I understand that. I understand someone who always fails something beyond their comprehension needs that from time to time, but it doesn't mean I don't mind being used unrecognized. I am happy to see that my effort has fruit and they progress but I don't appreciate their self-illusion. But again, like I said, I am fully aware of the pettiness of the whole thing. I guess guinea pigs cannot understand the theory which is being tested in the experiment performed on themselves.

Crane walking by

I see revising one's past only useful when they interpret it differently every time and can get new understanding. I, myself, find myself reliving my past episodes very often but each time it is more abstracted from another level, which helps me to answer the present questions. 

    I once had this non-realized relationship with a sneakily flirtatious character. In my memory she now appears in the form of a crane, probably because of the way she walked. Slim and stealthy. Her interest in me was possibly due to her inquisitiveness into my sexual orientation. But I admit I was also attracted to her mysterious allure. We were drawn near as two strangers and lots of intriguing encounters happened quietly but I could never make the move because we were so young and I had doubt. 

    There was one particular scene still lingering in my head. She showed me shaft leading to the roof of the building she discovered par accident and her wet hair suggested that she had just came down from there as it was raining outside. She led me through the empty hallway and helped me to climb up. I spent the noon there watching the grey sky with hardly appreciable mountains in the background (I'd not known right outside the city I lived there were mountains!). I still remember the feeling I experienced on that roof in the drizzle: I was so in love, which had something to do with her but not specifically with her, not specifically with anybody in fact. Like I said, we were so young and I was only feeling hopeful.

    Nowadays I understand what in her I appreciated most was the unpredictable future, just like that in myself. I felt we were both about to take off anytime. I thought we must part from each other because the things we had not learned yet were too many but somehow we would be linked. There was a feeling of competition to see who was going to reach further, which had ended much earlier than I had expected. She landed and since then I avoided meeting her every time I came back because I do not want to see the loss in her. That fearless ambitious one is gone. What a waste. Now the reminder of her is still on that roof dipped in the grey blue hopeful sky.

Winds & wings

Mood: annoyingly over-sensitive

Not considering myself very keen on environmental issues, which is deeply rooted in my understanding of mankind, being nothing close to an animal lover, who is not scared by dogs, and seldom associating nature with sentiments, I do start to pay attention on the flying creatures while walking and find them amazing. Pigeons, sparrows, hawks, or crows, I cannot and do not care to tell, but watching them spread their wings floating into the blue sky against the cold wind, I couldn't help envying their ability to detach themselves from the ground. They could fly anywhere they want to, which although is not true deprives me of all the pettiness I felt in the chest. Does it matter? Does anything matter as long as I can go free? I won't go ahead to turn things too sentimental or try to symbolize more, but I want to remember the image and the feeling it generates. Those dark spots against the sky reminds me that sometimes it is all about flying away.

My categorization

Attitude: judgemental

I know it is wrong to consider people ununderstanding grammar (rudimentary rules I'm talking about) synonymous with idiots but I cannot help it. There is something lacking in them. I don't mean I don't make mistakes - spelling mistakes, punctuation mistakes (a lot), syntactic mistakes, or whatever mistakes that appear stupid, but at least I like it. ( Sh! you are not supposed to tell anyone, because that will make you look like a geek.) Next time if you come across somebody who claims that they love grammar, run away or get to know them better because there is surprise waiting.

The knowing look

I like writing early in the morning when my brain's performance best but I also enjoy writing in the evening on Sundays as if I am summing up and as if with a plan for the week to come.

    I cannot to get back to that amphitheatre full of people, where I always sit in the same spot and she will intentionally seek my eyes and at some point seeing me realizing she is looking at me gives a warm smile at me or when the difficult points come up she look for my reaction signaling my understanding. The tacit exchanges are always something amaze me. How it can happen between people who do not necessarily come from the same place or share the same codes is wonderful. It's happening to me all the time. Despite my passion for words, there is so much you can learn about a person before speaking to them. I like them already before hearing them speak. Her interest in me got me to invest more attention in her ('stalk' sounds too creepy). For someone who would not normally brag about their achievement showed their credentials in front of you, it is possible that they want you to know, right? And I knew she was different by intuition but did not realize that special! 

    Seeing the past she's lived, I find myself more 'planable'. I should not stop pursuing my academic achievement, about which I've hesitated for quite some time, particularly because my capacity allows me to go further. ' Stop putting you down' a friend keeps telling me. So I decide to let all my unresolved issues not be in my ways. They can always be dealt with. I don't know if many people tend to underestimate themselves, probably there are. The thing is sometimes people with greater understanding of things are confined by the narrow minds, making their living situation hard, that is when you have to get out. Even in the days I doubt the possibility to escape, I've always known I cannot live with them. Sometimes people are not stupid but choose to be. I am sorry, not an option for me.

For all my travelers

I appear shy and know how my audacity penetrates the air with my look and especially is manifested through my voice, which is based on my confidence on the that one aspect I both love and hate (because of the confusion it causes) about myself - being special. That is not something I choose but have to accept. Not being it is synonymous with faking judging from my past experiences. However, I think I am facing a situation relatively soft on my stubbornness, since I chose to prolong my school years in order not to be trapped. Weird, because some time ago I thought I was trapped but it turns out the opposite.
     I've always wanted to escape home. One the most suffocating image in my childhood was family dinner - the warm light from the ceiling onto the dinner table around which all family members were sitting quietly, occasional words exchanged. I hated it and couldn't wait to swallow down my food and run out to play. Outside, I feel better.
    I had a wrong concept of the world back then before seeing a map. I thought the country I lived in was the earth and the city I lived was a country. I was later self-corrected and it seems to me a waste to stay in one place for so long. I succeeded to replace myself many times and each time farther from where I were. Now I am thousands miles away from my birthplace where I have scarce to hold on to. Somehow it is not enough. So much to see and so much road to cover.
    However, the relative immobile four years here have allowed me a more lucid recognition about my aptitude and future direction. Thanks to the wonderful people I met, my doubts are less, although the sad thing is those people are also busy chasing their own unusual path. They keep leaving, so do I. We crossed the paths and although they don't disappear, the existence in each other's life cannot be materialized. That's the dilemma sometimes getting me down but carrying the memories of  all my dear travelers, I'll keep leaving the places becoming familiar.