It the difficult experiences, harrowing places, complicated personalities that catapult you to a wildly different, exciting plane of thought and being.

When people tell you not to love, not to experience, not to change, do it.

  

Today, I looked outside the window of my taxi ride, really gazed at people, maybe even into their eyes, if I was brave.

I read somewhere(I never remember) that the faces you see in your dreams belong to real people out there in the world, your mind is an unending film roll and it captures all the sights and sounds around you.

So I collected some today, soon I'll find them in my dreams, maybe meet them, somehow even talk naturally, without feeling strange or afraid or self conscious. 

Crying is good for your face, it may also have a positive side effect for your heart

Not an expert in such matters but nobody nowadays care for expert opinions anyway so.

It is getting harder and harder to talk to people these days. Therefore crying sorta helps, alone preferably, otherwise people will feel obligated to be shocked and offended at your tears.

Loneliness is a bag of chips, you run out, hurry to the nearest social gathering and stock up.

Loneliness is a complicated flavor, it's a mix of varied ingredients, some are subtle, others blow up in your face, so protect your face....I think?  I'm just making things up, like a regular person.    

There are thousands upon thousands of movies, articles, info graphics and 'expert opinions' on loneliness. In these movies, for example, people are all over each other, hugging, listening, kissing, socializing after sharing their stories by embarking on an epic journey that transcends race, sex and other social barriers. Real life is a bit different, try any of those things, you would be better off watching the movie and promptly filing it under 'lies' in your memory palace. It only serves as a vital 'things never to do, ever.' reminder, nothing more.

So what crying does for you is it get's your heart feeling again, and also clears those clogged pores on your face(don't know if this is true, i just made it up). Don't let your beating, blood pumping heart turn cold and unfeeling, blood is life, the heart regulates that life so remember to feel.

Lastly, I think most people are lonely for many wildly different reasons but it's like a universal truth so take it easy. Because It'll go away soon and you will be better.

I wonder if my friend is writing but I'm afraid to ask now

Won't insult your intelligence. I hope you are having a fantastic time doing psychological things and also staying safe.

You were my mirror, my dear friend, not anymore.......
I guess.
I wish we were, but It's me and It's you and things will forever be like this.

I fear and forget to say and do. I like the corners of rooms where it's safe, you are braver and stronger than I'll ever be.

You probably don't read this because you are finally over this bullshit and I can't blame you.

Please don't stop writing, I love your world and your words.

what I saw in a Wong Kar Wai movie

Film and film making seems to be about containing and simultaneously enlarging the fragments of life. Transferring and reinterpreting and re-arranging the unstoppable ebb and flow of time.
Capture the veil, the fabric that cushions reality, people feeling things, doing things and affecting events.

What really goes on- we don't know, directors are people too, they do their best to share their ideas but the film isn't the final answer. It is a beautiful medium, in fact a great movie can show us each other, we become a mirror reflecting the other person and the other reflecting us. We are different but the soil of our soul is the same.

Anyway, the above is a bit haphazard and unruly and grandiose and maybe contains many many grammatical mistakes and most honestly not pure in its lack of originality.

Wong Kar Wai. He provides the sea, the lonely boat only for you to climb in and float in his world of half actions and endless innerlogues and excruciating, always mesmerizing sweetsour of loneliness. 

Talking one type of horseshit and then promptly doing other kinds of horse-shitty things

I'm a forgetful person, which is not like an excuse or anything of that sort, I just would want to present facts as they are. 

I'm also an idealist when it comes to other people. I conveniently forget, a favorite personality quirk of mine, this idealism when I'm involved in doing things. 

So when I inconveniently remember that I forgot to apply in my own life the idealistic horseshit I dished out for other people's benefit, denial is a knee-jerk reaction followed by crippling shame that, in a twist of plot, acts as a growth hormone for my ego and so in order to salvage what's left of my dignity I must stop.

why are comics sad people? and why you and I are sad too

This too simplistic an assumption to make, about comics I mean. They are people with lives and life is just shitty to everyone, even those of us who like to make a few jokes at its expense. The 'us' in the previous sentence doesn't include me though.

I recognize jokes when they pop at the horizon and I enjoy them maybe a bit too much than the average human but I cannot mentally register and recall articulately, any sort of hilarity taking place in my vicinity.

If I had a time machine, we could go to a simpler time where childhood photos weren't a work of the devil and were fit for exorcism by fire but were simply innocent, socially green-lit documentation serving as a window into sweet, sweet familial moments of yester years.

We would be able to deduce from those pictorial documents, pre- exorcism, that the androgynous(honestly more boyish than girlish) kid peering through will never grow up to be someone who will be able to intentionally arouse laughter in people.

So It has been proven in this present times.

Back to comics being sad people just like you and me. I guess that's it mostly, we forget that funny people don't magically skip all the shittiness and fuckallness of living by virtue of them being able to show others and themselves all the funny bits. The sad bits are still in the picture, in the corners making up the frame. Maybe, after a point, the pressure to be funny all the time gets to them and the corners with the sad bits start closing in and suffocating the circle of funny we always expect them to show us.

This is mostly guesswork and some facts that I may have unconsciously picked up on the internet, I guess.

Ten novels I love

1. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy (five of them)

2. Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency

3. The Secret Life Of  Sebastian Knight

4. The God Of Small Things

5. Insects are just like you and me, except some of them have wings

6. Treasure Island

7. Invisible Cities

8. Sputnik Sweetheart

9. Wuthering Heights

10. Sherlock Holmes series

ten movies I love

1. Blade Runner- sci fi, dystopian futuristic synthetic landscape

2. In the Mood for Love- romance

3. Cloud Atlas- mixed genre

4. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind- romance with sci fi elements

5. Fight Club- psychological mindfuck

6. Hero- martial arts

7. Moon- sci fi

8. Star Wars- space opera

9. Hotel Chevalier- shot film (romance)

10. Rushmore- coming of age story 

how to be a farmer

Can't make excuses, because the day goes and never comes back. Can't stop, everyday is vital. Can't complain, you won't be eating otherwise. History is to be treasured and functions as an anchor point from whence you walk into a better creation of your future.

Enjoy your free time, don't fret, be sad but don't despair. Everything leads to death, even life so be comforted in suffering. Pull out those weeds, water those good thoughts as you water the soil. The truth of the matter is you are alone, but you don't have to be. 

1. Think visually.

2. Don't be afraid.

3. Put the effort

4. Move on

5. Believe

6. Do it

7. Believe

8. Believe

9. Believe.

10. Make it Done.

unknown

We do not know when we will die. That's as far as I've got. I never know how to start things, how to begin- it is a simple matter of the left foot forward and then the right or is it just impossible existential crisis of faith and despair, the cosmos of unending meaningless choices that come full circle.

I- there unleashed, the mighty, self serving and violent phoneme that is I. It rolls off the tongue, smooth and ends with a satisfying release of air toward the end. 'I' see only 'I' and beyond is the vast unexplored wilderness of 'They and 'Them'. A line you draw in the sand, separate from, different from.

It is easy for us snuggle into depression. It must be the coziest spot in the room, one lunges at it, the incomparable ecstasy that comes from holding the switch of self destruction, the power to tear yourself apart, no body else can do it to you because you can laugh at their face once last time in some kind of nihilistic triumph.

write

I'm going to write like I mean it,
my life is a bore, my friends are ajar
at the doors of their own perception,
my imagination is wider than my scope
of words and my heart pounces on love,
i'm crazy about life but i am not living
like i should, i give into fear, FEAR that
breaks my bones, cuts my tongue, makes me
cold, like a corpse, like ashes man! when
did i become someone so cruel, so dishonest, so limp,
so closed up, so.

Learn fucker, walk, take a bloody step ahead i will not die in this process,
i am dead now but I can resurrect, I can be bold, love fucker, love stop being
so fucking miserable in this self imposed circus of loneliness and hopelessness,
refusing to see other people, to simply gaze and appreciate like a child, when did
i go so so old and rigid that a simple exchange can shatter me.

its pathetic how i pressurize my brain to forget, those brilliant, amazing, life altering moments
i lived a time ago, i live them still, how can i forget like i don't know them from before, to feel again, to treasure that time isn't a failure, it is a triumph, it happened, it existed man, shameful the way i looked away until i could see nothing, just the darkness, just the white page of dissonance.
  

Your eyes stray from my formulas

my poems don't impress you

my songs don't move you

my praises distract you

my fingers grow pale at the

sight of your skin

Your fine lips don't linger

on mine

But you see the little things

My grand gestures fail at the sight of

my ordinaries,

Your sense of these fumblings,

these less than perfect yearnings,

You are brave and i'm wrong

When I think you are like the others before,

I won't find you when i climb the mountain,

I've found you already on the pasture lands below.

how shit works

I don't know man
i'm confused, i'm in hiding
want to give up,
i want to leave,
i haven't recovered
the ability to speak
my tongue is raw
from the melting of
my words,
they're afraid be let out.

silent love
doesn't grow
it withers slowly.

This seed in me
struggles from the
heat of the sun,
it died once,
only to die again.

moods and graphs

need you know
where people go,
with the mouth lightly open
and fingers that suddenly tighten
involuntarily.
your face signals me,
the swaying pitch of your tone,
or is it in some other way
i can't quite rest my chin on
or put my finger on
like the pulse of your heart rate.
you are here,
but you go elsewhere
and my spending seems to evaporate;
my fading time against the light years
of your still age.

the blinking hope

hope blinks, like
some fly dashed in,
brief, flash of the lashes
hope blinks.

butchered vines

foolish he was
he let her follow
didn't let her go
their innocence
and blemishes
were cutthroat.

dreams collapse
lightweight
breaks
things are made
to be waste
they are meant
many deaths
daily breaths serve
cheap cigarettes
bright nights
turn into afternoons
typos
last night's
last light.

43

it was 43 minutes ago
when i reached for the vitamins
for curing my ill wills
like the doctor with his
fancy degree worth
more money than i'll ever see
described to me
he writes only
for the chemist's eyes
and so i am
simply a circuit on a circuit board
snapping from the tinkering
and swallowing what
they are prescribing
dodging every stray bullet
thought and  escaping from
freight train emotion lanes
with these many numbered days
i am half sleeping
i'm eavesdropping
on my own conversations
strange soft dreams
there is no waking up from
ordinary delusions.

further than we'll ever be

you make me thirsty

like cheap wine

i'm not satisfied

with stationary

we are further than we'll ever be

you make me weak

like i'm permanently ill

i'm not into this type

of analogy

we are further than we'll ever be 

i'm losing time

writing lines

i'm fading into

the shades of an unknown territory

we are further than we can see

This language of emotion
absently reminds me
of situation stanzas that
cause minor deflections
in my intonations
for which I'm not sorry.

her mind is available for hire
like bicycles,
though not as inexpensive.

am i getting younger, i hope so

crawl back into mother's womb
remembering while forgetting
reverse engineering. 

same old shit i tend to write about, now you can read it again, don't act surprised.

The lull in the L of love
gets to me.
I searched
for the reverie,
stupid dream, a silly thing
i wrote many songs
i read many books
i imagined clues
finally
those feelings combined,
those emotions summarized
performed
poorly,
strung together.

The sky is dark
this summer.

I am accustomed to waiting.

Time is sailing by, as
I work, I eat,
I've stopped playing
I think- not painful anymore,
just like a breeze
waving at the chaos
of my inner being
while consulting
the saviour.