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    Яαgιи Яαvєи
    Cairo, Egypt
    Wanting people to listen, you can't just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer, and then you'll notice you've got their strict attention.
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Tapping at my chamber door




Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Your Still Life Painting


Last night I was Loran Speck's Onion. Tonight I am Warren Criswell's Still life with Keys. It's a shame how people misinterpret still life paintings really. Art painting fanatics often refer to it as the silent form of art, the still life. Recently, neo-fanatic's preferences went for other styles of paintings. Ones where they know that there must be a hidden message stuffed in there behind the Monalisa smile, behind the burning giraffe, or behind the proud nudist. The renaissance era didn't help provide moral support to the still life either; however, it's becoming worse today. The still life form isn't really the artist's unique interpretation of their surrounding environment as it was decades ago. It's a shame really. They say it's too boring to be observed. We used to be special!!

Some people believe that their walls can hear their drunken laughter, that their rocking chairs can feel the rebelling conscience and the feeling of guilt, that their empty beds can feel the absence of lust. Some people believe that their locked closets can hear their screams. And If that is all true, if all the cold and breathless domestics that we own know that much about us, then why wouldn't it be possible for a still life painting to know as much; to stare at them with its glittering eyes in silence.

I'm six years old. I'm tall and square shaped. I look more like an old men's room sink with a wallet, keys, some coins, and a roll of toilet paper on the side. I'll have to assume that I was where someone once washed his hands cleaned out of his life possessions, took one final look at himself in the mirror, then walked out of the life he was addicted to once. The materialistic life he once led. How sadly, ironic. Tonight I represent the truth about life. An image of a man who regained his soul, his freedom from material. I am supposed to make a statement, the most important of them all, that money and keys aren't what life is all about. My price tag said $20,000 at some gallery last year in Paris, that only rich people attended.

Tonight, I'm hanging on a sky blue wall, in the middle of a dim lit room. Last night, the walls were pink. Oh I hate pink. Pink is a chick color. Last night, I was hanging in the middle of some politician's hall as he was conspiring against the "republic". Alone, sitting in his rocking chair, with his cool cigar and his Godfather stare. He raged in silence. He turned to me last night and said, 'It's us against them, my tear leaking friend. Like it's always been.' I was a happy Onion for ten minutes there when I heard him make his long speech filled with bio-supplemental words like rebellion and bitch and reinstatement and betrayal and quoting the likes of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Paranoia in its prime. Loran would have been so proud. Today it's different though. I got lucky. The lesbian couple sweating and moaning behind the back of the couch were probably one of the finest moments in still life history. The keys rattled around inside of me and the toilet paper roll wasn't really long enough. If only I had been hanging on the wall at the other end of the room. If only I had legs. If only I was a lesbian. If only… the two saddest words

Tomorrow… I'll be your recycled paper. Still life in its finest.

Monday, May 29, 2006

Lurking...


I refuse to keep up. I refuse to give into the challenges that my shadow keeps imposing on me. That lurking shadow that's been there since I recall ever seeing light. In the bible, it says, then God said let there be light. I often wonder if shadow has always been an accessory to light or whether if was made by Satan right after he got damned out of heaven and was destined to haunt every living man. Whether all those shadows out there lurking are actually children of evil waiting for the moment when you're as low as it gets.

It became my addiction and became my curse, I try to ignore it and seek a better life for myself, but it always tends to lurk there smiling my smiles, riding my rides, raping my loved ones, and living my life. No matter how fast I run it's always there. It catches up, setting new benchmarks for me to cross. I am tired of this chase. I need the rest. I need to stand in the middle of day knowing that if I look back you won't be there lurking, waiting for my next move. It isn't a game, my dark lurking friend. I beg you to pick up your chess pieces and move on. I'll bid you well then. You're still there, I can feel your breath on the back of my neck. I can hear your heart beats speeding up, trying to match mine. I look back to see you standing, taller than I am. But now that you're taller I refuse to give up. I refuse to let you enjoy this height and glory. I move closer and closer to you, and with every step my height catches up with yours. Or is it yours that catches up with mine? I'm not sure anymore. You have always been my dilemma. My confusion. My soul mate. My only proof that light does exist. That little brother aspiring to achieve his older brother's greatness. The same old fucking cliché.

I give up.

I try to deny its existence by turning out the light and hiding in the dark. But then suddenly, the light's turned on and I'm hanging, strangled in the middle of the room by a wire from the ceiling, and at the end of the wire there's a light bulb, dangling over my head, now reflecting my friend on the floor beneath my swinging restless body.

Saturday, May 27, 2006

Infinite Stare - First Sight


Wind blowing, rain dropping, roaches singing, and cars racing through the darkness of the night. A long time ago, such things never happened. Life was simpler. People didn’t need to care about their future, but as time passes, certainty has become more of a dream than it is an English word.

The express train speeds away into the far horizons of the city. It fades away. I can’t see it, but the sound of the train meeting the tracks, as always, bleeds my brains out. It is the sound of the city’s last hope leaving, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s been like that ever since “they” elected the new governor with his new administration and his all-new sack of bullshit. Every element in the society has fallen down from grace since then. Transportation has become listed as one of the possible suicide commitment methods. All food is over-imported and over-expired. Vomiting following that old “butterflies in your stomach” feeling has invaded Callista. Races and colors are no longer there. Everybody’s yellow now. Callistasians are either sick, dead, or hating their lives. The word Fair only exists on the FIFA Fair Play moto. The word Justice prevails only in Marvel comic books for children less than 5 years old to read, but even that is fading out of the picture now, as erotic comics have become more favored on newspaper stands. The word love has been over-used by songwriters and pathetic boy bands so much that the old ‘I love you’ crap doesn’t work on women anymore.

Ain't life a bitch?!

Perchance to Dream





I close my eyes and count to ten

Nothing. The absolute darkness of the early REM stage crosses my mind. And with that crossing, a million daggers rush into my head like sperms trying to fertilize an infant nightmare that never ceases to realize my never ending fears. As always, my sleep is restless. A horror movie plays 24/7 purposed to bring terrorizing abnormality to the sleeping corpse carrying my name.

Praying for mind negligence of where I've been

It's still dark. Dark enough to wonder whether I've woken up in a dark room, whether I'm still asleep with my eyes shut to the world, whether I'm having a blackout, or whether I'm dead… lying helpless in my coffin. There's a face in the background that would probably stay unrecognizable to me through out the living fantasy I'm waltzing through. I wish I could tango, but I have no partner to share the music with. The face gets a little figured out in the dark. A face of a man and all I can see is his eyes staring quietly at me in the dark. Those judging eyes I've tended to place in front of me as I waltz into the darkness and through the tunnel that should eventually lead to the light that still seems far, far away from here.

I close my eyes and sleep away

I decide to, subconsciously still, branch out of the tunnel into a hall. The hall appears to be a theater with a big stage, the biggest I've ever seen. The curtains are old fashioned red with those yellow coils that you see in old movies that tend to tie the corners together. The light dims out. I'm destined to stay in the dark. And then there was light. A light spot focusing on a seat in the middle of the balloon headed fake audience. Supposedly, I suppose, the best seat in the house. I sit down and wait for the play to begin. Await my destiny to emerge. The stage lightens up and a violin starts to play in the background of my head. The stage is almost empty. All there is is a fake wooden tree, a mannequin with a meaningless grin on its face, and a rocking chair in the corner. The violin still plays on the tunes of the late Mozart.

Bearing a prayer for my soul to stay

I couldn't take the nothingness and the violin being put together in the same room. The same dream. I exploded. I got up and sang gospel hallelujah for 20 seconds, or at least that's how long I felt it took. The violin stopped and a long Sshht rang in the hall. I shut my mouth and regained my seat. My best seat in the house.

Weary is the way I've been

Smoke starts to appear on stage out of no where. A naked man followed on stage, tied up by strings to the ceiling, pretending to be a puppet. Or is he really? I still can't make his face out. And so the play begins. The faceless man grabs the mannequin and starts dancing with it. The violin plays one tune and then it stops. The faceless actor drops the mannequin and stands there still staring at me. I hate attention. I'm beginning to hate this play. I think I've seen it already.

I pray for rest that sleep might bring

An usher, or at least that's who I presumed he is, walks down the aisle, offering me a bottle of bad wine and an empty glass. At that point, the faceless baron is still staring. Slow techno music starts to play in the background. The violin exists no more. I poured in some wine, and life got a little better. I double checked my drink to see if it's real. I got up. I moved to the music.

I close my eyes and dream away

The smoke faded out and things got a bit clearer. I take another sip and look up at the actor supposedly still staring. His face starts to make sense. A face I've seen in a thousand mirrors before. Is this what I've become? Another puppet in a never ending play who's destined to keep dancing, waiting for the story to start making sense. Such is life; a play really. We're all puppets performing on stage, dancing, each their own role. I wish I could choose my act. I wish I could play the role of that wooden tree that stands still through out the plot, without which the set wouldn't be complete. Without which, however, please would still leave the theater with a big ass smile on their faces.

Of every single wish I've made

More actors come out of no where, all dancing. All moving to the dance music. They all revolve and slide around the lead character bearing my face who still stands still staring, judging.

Guilty is the way I've been

Suddenly, I am him. I became the puppet and I feel the strings attached to my limbs. They're not strings anymore now, they're chains. I can see the other dancers around me. I can smell them, taste them, loathe them for all I care. 'Leave me alone', I screamed, but at that point I'm not really addressing the dancers, or the naked man, bearing my face, now judging, sitting in my seat. The best seat in the house. I am screaming out to the man playing with those strings. These chains, tied around me, tight around my chest, holding my breath. Every ten minutes the chains loosen up, allowing me enough time to take another breath of air and start dancing again on stage, like the fool I've always been.

I am my crime and I am my only sin

Laughter arises out of no where in the background again. I can see no laughing faces, but I can hear them like they're sitting inside my head. What a clown, I've become! My five year old kid's favorite.

I close my eyes and dream of day

At this point, the other dancers are also standing there still. Staring, judging… the only immortal emotion that stays behind after a person dies. That grudge. I am the only dancer now and everybody else is staring and laughing. I feel their eyes all over me. Starting from that naked man sitting there to the very last dancer now sitting in the rocking chair at the corner of the stage, now holding a violin. Their sweet taste, their elegant smell, their good looks, and their well spoken bullshit drive me into the deep cold well of paranoia.

My night's too long with light far away

I waited and I danced. They say that time heals all wounds, but no matter how long I waited, how fast I ran, time could never catch up with the wounds I've had. The wounds of a boy who has never been to war, never lost a parent. The wounds of a boy who just got caught up in the middle of social hypocrisy and sat alone in the corner, waiting for someone to take his hand and help him cross the road to the other side of the road. Where everything is clear. Where life is supposed to be fair. Where life makes sense. Or so he's been told.

The stars might shine, the sun might rise

Now I'm naked, and the man sitting in the audience, once naked, is wearing my clothes. Now they all can see my sins. "The guilt I feel", by the naked man on stage. Even though the only sin that I recall was lying about going to class or stealing twenty bucks out of my father's wallet. I still feel guilty for more. People only notice when things go wrong. They only see sins and wait in full anticipation for the sad, sad confessions. The "rightfulness" that people tend to ignore, on the other hand, is merely a direction towards the Utopia everyone read about in fairy tales and novels written by the psychologically confused in an attempt to escape the truth about the human race, and when they're done reading the book, you put it back on the shelf and go on with they're worthless lives.

But soon night comes with its restless sighs

It's not darkness that I see anymore. It's the red background where you can see your nerves on your well shut eyelids, right before you wake up with your muscles still asleep. I still am dreaming though, or at least I'm hoping that's all this is. Another dream. Another nightmare. Suddenly there appears to be a grenade on stage. I crawl towards it exhaling every bit of breath I still have in me. "I WANT OUT. LEAVE ME ALONE.", I yelled. I grab it, the way a baby holds tight to his mother. The man in my seat gets up with fear in his eyes, points at me and screams. I look at him, smile, and pull the pin.

I close my eyes and hope to die

Suddenly I'm inside that tunnel again. That dark, cold tunnel. I can hear bells tolling in the background. They're tolling for me, I presume. I run towards the light. I want out. I want to be pinched out of this delusion. I ran and I ran with no hope left to push me forwards. If I stop I'll fall. Darkness follows me, trying to engulf me into its whole. My muscles are aching, bleeding. I can't wake up and I can't run anymore. I stop. I fall. I am. I was.

As I watch my life long dreams go by

It’s over.
I wake up to find myself in bed, sweating. I'm drowning in my own sweat. Choking. I wake up to the reality I survive. I'll go back to my old self, my old life, my old job, and my old friends. I will go back to those things I fear and to that guilt I bear. The guilt that doesn't seem to stay behind on the stage that I'm paid to perform on every night. Paid with my own breath.

I will miss that stage until the time I'm destined to fall into the sleep I strive to avoid. O Coffee, where art thou?

"Two roads diverged in the woods, and I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." - Robert Frost, 1916

Manjkajoča Stran Iz Mojega Dnevnika


Self-loathe isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind.

A blog is a digital age jargon that refers to an online diary. Also refers to chronology of thought. Online diary?! I used to think of that as being a pathetic invention by webmasters made as an attempt to add more realism to the cyber age. Months passed… perhaps even years. I decided then to use the latter definition and simply just BLOG things in a weak attempt to share my mind with others. That was my first step to what I'd like to call "psychological recovery".

Today, 4 am. May 27, 2006. I've decided to push myself out of the closet I've always successfully managed to keep myself locked in. Most of the people who really know me also know that I don’t share much of myself. I only write what I feel. Other than that, it's plain bullshit. But when it comes to the actual concept of speaking out my mind, I usually tend to quietly keep to myself… and judge my surrounding environment with everything and everyone in it. I never cared about how people thought of me. Some did like me eventually and thought of me as something special even. To those I can never be more thankful. Others thought of me as, basically, the asshole. The "freak" of the conversation or whatever. Prior to today, I never really gave a rat's ass about all that. I was just being the me that I want people to know… but was that really me? Some of you out there already know the real me, but that doesn't mean that you're special or that you should feel honored or privileged. It means that I'm the one who feels special enough to have known you, certain individual. Know you enough to be myself around you.

There are two ways to perceive the above. I can be viewed as an arrogant bastard who thinks he's too special for people… or as a shy individual who doesn't really know how to commit to social hypocrisy.

My blogs were basically short definitions of the being I'm trying to reach. Small steps for me to walk along with. I look back at what I just wrote and find that I have managed to walk astray this one time… and turn this, all of this, in to an online diary. Something that I have always had nothing but despise for. I never thought that there would come a time where everything that I do and everyone I know would backfire right into my face. This online diary frenzy I'm trying to float into right now is only an attempt for me to force the me that I know to face the me that I am. And you deserve to have that statement said out loud in public for the whole online community to see.

There are two ways to perceive the above. I can be viewed as a freak who has nothing better to do but to make a complete fool out of himself… or as a person who has just matured a little more.

Diaries explain more than anything the true self that we think is too personal to share with anyone. Not even soul mates. Not even best friends.

I think that to make a diary open to the world, to have it translated into a BLOG, is to have it written in such a way that only people who truly know you could see through it. A diary is not only about the shit you did today or the people whom you might have been obsessed with. We're not six anymore. As scary as it is, we're ADULTS now and it's about time we learned how to cope with it. I've never personally kept a diary. The longest I've had one was probably for a couple weeks when I was 11, and at that time I was really pissed at my brother and I needed someone whom I could trust to talk to. As phobic as it seems, I've always had trust issues. I don't trust people. I don't trust my family. I don't trust my best friend. To me, it's always been as if they're all going to judge me eventually. Come to think of it… I deserve to be judged.

There are two ways to perceive the above. I'm either a person who's never found someone he could talk to without getting light focused on – call that unlucky. Shit happens! Or I could be that mildly insecure person who's too afraid to see people's reactions to the things that he are.

If I ever kept a long-term diary it would probably include wishes for the things that I want for Christmas. I see it also including arguments, feelings, discussions… random randomness. It would include pages where a person can feel as low as he needs to be without being felt sorry for. Where a person can hide. Where a person can feel sorry for losing a friend.

If I ever kept a long-term diary, I still wouldn't share it.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

Café Latte



One
Your eyes feel heavy

Two
You feel a little dizziness taking over

Three
You fear that you need a little rest and wonder if maybe checking this page wasn't such a good idea

Four
You're too tired you can't even surf off to a different URL

Five
You're too tired you can't take your eyes off the page and decide to keep on reading and see where this is going

Six
Your eyes are getting even heavier than they were

Seven
You close your eyes

Eight
You become fully aware of your other senses

Nine
You open the door to your mind.

Ten
You walk into a café…

You decide to take a seat. You look for the one closest to the windows, yet one where you can stay invisible from people at the counter. You wouldn't want to have people stand there and stare at you while they're waiting in line to order. You fail to find that perfect seating and decide to suck it up and sit on a couch by the far east side of the coffee shop. As far from the door as possible. You sit down, throw your coat over the couch next to you, managing to block any attempts for anyone to sit anywhere near you.

When it's coffee time, nobody wants company, at least when you're hypnotized.

You want your surrounding aura to remain clear of irrational narrow minded activity.


The waitress!! In this world we've created a 'waitress' is defined as a form of an intruding force that tries to break into your silence and wait for you to use your first of your remaining senses.

She walks in quick steps that make you feel her coming. She wants you to make up your mind on what you're ordering before she gets there. She wants you to know that she's busy and that if you haven't really made up your mind yet, then there's a strong chance that she's gonna walk away and never come back.

She stops and stands still next to your table giving you a strong look of anticipation. It's now or never my friend so get to work.

At that point, you don't really wanna waste the ability to speak just to make one lousy order, so you decide to play with the woven cloth placed on the back of the chair… pretending like you're actually doing something important. That's when you look up at her and see that look again. It hasn't really changed. The waitress wasn't really affected by your time killing. The same look of anticipation prevails. That's when you realize that you're not really special.

You look up again and say,

'Can I have a menu, please?'

Simple and quiet.

Say that and see the look change from anticipation to total ridicule. Like your question humiliates you. A look that tells you how there aren't that many options for you to choose from really. Deep inside, however, we all think we're special. We all think we deserve the right to choose.

The waitress, who now will probably spit in whatever it is you're going to order, walks away in absolute rage. She comes back in quicker steps this time and places the menu in fast-edit mode on the table, stands there for a sec, assuming you've made up your mind that fast, then walks away.

You pick up the menu, using the second of your remaining senses.

When you're in a coffee place, there are many items you can choose from. You don't just sit there. ORDER SOMETHING. There's café latte, pure Turkish coffee, Viennese, Jamaican, French aka Liberty, American, Columbian, classical blend, Kenyan, Espresso, Cappuccino, and the rest of the decaffeinated shit that makes no point in ordering. There's also the rival of the café life, TEA. You can choose regular, wild strawberry, mixed fruit, any fruit really, rose hip, mint… flavors that can blow your mind. The bottom-line is, when you're at a coffee shop you don't just sit there.

Now… it's decision time. Before ordering now you have to know the history of all the items mentioned in the menu. You start to wonder whether or not the flavor has been altered by newer and newer generations. We are special and we want originality.

If tea's Lipton and coffee's Nestle, then there's nothing really to talk about, is there? Where did all the pure shit go?!

You start to wonder that maybe coming to the coffee shop wasn't the best thing to do, but then again since this is a one session therapy then you're definitely going to have to think of something before I snap my fingers and send you off.

You read down the menu, then you dream on to some library and start reading all sorts of books about each and every item there is to choose from; their discovery, their invention, their diversification. EVOLUTION!!

When you sit at a coffee shop… you have to order something.

You keep reading about the evolution of tea. How, according to Chinese mythology, in 2737 BC the Chinese Emperor, Shen Nung, scholar and herbalist, was sitting beneath a tree while his servant boiled drinking water. That's when a leaf from the tree dropped into the water and Shen Nung decided to try the brew. The tree was a wild tea tree. There are many authentic and supposed references to tea in the centuries before Christ, according to the Chinese dictionary dated circa 350 AD. The Chinese t'u was often used to describe shrubs other than tea, hence the confusion when Confucius allegedly referred to tea or t'u when writing about the "sow thistle" plant in the Book of Odes.

You read how, from the earliest times, tea was renowned for its properties as a healthy, refreshing drink. By the third century AD many stories were being told and some written about tea and the benefits of tea drinking, but it was not until the Tang Dynasty (618 AD - 906 AD) that tea became China's national drink and the word ch'a was used to describe tea.

The spread of cultivation throughout China and Japan is largely accredited to the movement of Buddhist priests throughout the region. Now tea is basically ice and is accredited to Lipton in all its grace.

You start to think that if it has to do with the sanctuary of Buddhist priests, then it deserves to be given a shot.

You call back the waitress, and place the order. At that point, she's happy you're going to drink the damn thing and leave.

Then comes your drink. You can see it floating in the room until it carefully lands on your table… waiting to be consumed. That's when you remember how the waitress hates your guts and decide to take a whiff at the drink, hoping that it won't cause the same guts she's hated to burst open and demand expensive surgery. Your senses are getting narrowed down.

Smells like tea. But then again, when you're subconscious, puss can smell like roses. You decide to taste. There's nothing really left to lose. You can always leave and abandon this coffee place for life and stick to your old lifestyle. You drink. You survive. But you hate the taste. You didn't feel connected to Christ or Buddha. It all felt the same. Just some hot water and a leaf that accidentally fell off some shrub.

Tea wasn't the way to go. Maybe it's the evolution into the commercially approved Lipton that didn't fit. Either way, you decide to give something else a try. Your time is running out. Sand from an hour glass begins to drop from the ceiling. It's piling up. You feel violated. You feel out of control. You feel buried under the earthly matter that is the sand from the hourglass.

You look down the menu again and wonder if coffee is the way to go. You call back the waitress, but she doesn't return. You keep yelling and demanding another chance. That you've made the wrong choice. Alas, it's too late. The sand is running out. It's piling up. It's filling everything up. You realize that having a menu doesn't mean that you have the right to choose. It only means that there are options, only all of them are only there to delude you. The coffee place people prepared that menu. "They" don't want us to know. We realize that… we're not really that special!!

You swim your body through the sand and towards the door that we've chosen to keep as far away as possible when we first got here. You've made a mistake. You decide to look up the books piled up in the library again attempting to justify your mistake. Someone who had some book about tea published LIED to you.

The magic of self-delusion.

The thing is… Your library card has expired. You're out of time.

Ten
You're swimming through the sand

Nine
You manage to get your head through

Eight
You breathe the air. The fresh, clean air.

Seven
You feel your eyes. They're still shut. Don't open them now or else the sand may cut through. Your arms are now on board.

Six
You're sweating. Thinking about your life and how you fucked it all up.

Five
Coffee might have tasted better. You regret your sins. You seek redemption.

Four
You swim through the sand and you step out of the earth.

Three
You're afloat now. You're still alive. You made it.

Two
You see the light


One *snap*

You hear the snap. You've just used up the last of your senses.

Thank you for checking in. Oh and in case you were wondering. We weren't really discussing coffee.



Friday, May 19, 2006

Blog... Blog Blog!!



It's 6:32 pm. So says my computer digitally generated clock. I wonder if Microsoft's gonna allow Windows users to change the number fonts on the system clock in future versions. It would be a dream come true, wouldn't it? It's 6:33 pm now. It was 5:33 pm when I decided to go edit something in my Blogger space allowed by the promising Google. I still can't believe it took me an hour to do that!! Where does time go?! Logged into this "space" that Microsoft, Google, Yahoo, IMDB, Altavista, Porn sites, torrent sites, MP3s, Kazaa-lite (assumable spyware-free), and the late Napster. How did we manage to enslave ourselves? I spend over nine hours at work everyday staring at a computer screen and still manage to find it "fun" to come back home and stare at another computer screen for hours and hours of presumed fun until I can no longer open my eyes… then turn to bed… and wake up in the morning wondering why oh why do my eyes hurt?!

I was okay back in 1997 when my only cyber possession was a hotmail email address that I only checked once every six months to find that it's been deactivated and that all of my incoming emails have been deleted by Microsoft - my master. How is it that I got addicted? Why do I feel the need to surf? Is it because I enjoy digitally chatting with my "cyber" buddies? Do I really enjoy receiving and sending text to… strangers? Are they even real? Is it possible that they're all ENCARTA wannabes assuming the personalities of non-existent people?... I quote Peter Steiner when I say that 'on the internet, nobody knows you're a dog'.

Funny… "The things that I want" by the Raven… C'est moi!! I read it again only to find that I forgot to mention that I WANT TO STAY LINKED ONLINE FOREVER!! Is that what we are? LINKED SUBCONSCIOUSLY?! Have I become just another URL? Another banner that links to a non-visited homepage waiting for some anonymous cyber addict to write their comment on the shit that I say?

Shop Online --> Use credit cards --> Bankruptcy. I log into the deep Amazons of the web to stare for hours everyday at the things that I want. I take my credit card out of my wallet and enter my 16 magic digits… and a month later stare in wonder at an overdue bank statement with a lot of dot coms and dot nets mentioned everywhere but on my heart.

Where do we go from there? I see a future with me calling up a friend over MSN messenger and asking them to meet me @ Digitally Enhanced Star Bucks. We reserve a table for two and get a confirmation email from the digital café. We order coffee; of course, at that day and age, the computer is linked to the kitchen… and when the coffee is good and ready an msn alert message displays on screen. Better what… a NUDGE… oh I HATE NUDGES. Ten years ago the only hate I felt was towards some kid who took my football when I was seven. Now we hate spyware. We hate viruses. We hate nudges. We hate Block-Checkers. We laugh alone at fwds. We fall in love with digitally assumed personalities. We chat with Encarta. We illegally download music and movies and software just because the market price is too high. We create anti-whatever websites. We type what we feel… and place the document in a shared folder… for cyber buddies to enjoy. I used to show and express the things I felt... prior to my cyber renaissance.

I have to clear my throat before I speak due to the fact that I only talk nine hours everyday… at work. I only "chat" for the rest of my day. My right palm is slightly pushed back in to mark the exact proportions of a "mouse"!! My brain… has a URL @blogspot.com now!

How long have I been online?!

It's 7:13 pm now. May 19, 2006. It's been almost nine years now since my cyber addiction began and I'm starting to wonder now… what does the offline world look like? With all my cyber buddies and blog spaces and illegal mp3s and illegal avis and bookmarks and links and links and links…

why do I feel so alone?!!

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Déjà vu


Déjà vu is commonly explained as "familiarity without awareness". It happens when you see, touch, taste, or perceive something… and simply get the feeling that "I've had that before" and become keen to look further into the incident. Convincing yourself that "I know what's gonna happen next".

There are many explanations to the déjà vu happenings. One explanation addresses the issue by pointing out the human brain as a hologram. Bits of sensory information needed for the brain to reconstruct three-dimensional images. When a brain receives a small sensory input - a smell, a sight, a sound – that is strikingly similar to such a detail experienced in the past, the entire memory image is brought forward. The brain, hence, takes the past to be the present by virtue of one tiny bit of sensory information. It is this mismatch of past and present sensory information that causes the sense of disconcertment and unease associated with a passing déjà vu.

Another theory relates to the memory, referring in specific to the fact that some information get stored upon entrance in the long-term memory storage in the brain, thus giving the impression that whatever information you're perceiving had already happened to you earlier before when your brain recaptures the incident.

There are many theories out there regarding this matter, however… to me… Déjà vu is a French word that has been haunting me and remains to haunt me still. I waltz through life making the same mistakes over and over… and over again. It's like my mind is set on playback and the same silly pop song that I loved as a kid and came to loathe as a man keeps playing in my head. This… is one of those "dear diary" moments, where I get to confess my sins. The mistakes I've made and remade. I have been fearing them for so long that they've become the only thing I see. The only road I take. My very true bit of sensory information. My autobiography. "They"… are the only friend I've got!!

Chances. A Chinese wise man once said that every person only gets two opportunities per lifetime. Sounds more like a sales pitch to me; but… come to think about it… what if it's true?! Is this my first chance? Or is it maybe my second and last? They survive around us. Eat around us. Sleep around us. Die around us. They fucking DANCE around us… trying... begging to grab our attention. But noooo…. We're way too smart to fall into that trap again. I am not making that same mistake. I am going to skip this chance… This… booby trap… and I'll definitely take the next one that comes along. The chances we take. The mistakes we make. I keep asking myself the same eternal question: "Could this be MY CHANCE… MY OPPORTUNITY?!", "Is this my road to glory?", "Is this my salvation?". These questions sound oddly familiar to me. How long have we got to live for us to keep on skipping chances… Dodging bullets. Waiting for our green light to cross the road to our long sought moral and ethical and self-centered dreamland. And when we feel the time is right, that voice starts ringing in our ears. That sound!! That silly pop song from the 80s. I'll say until we start ignoring those déjà vu's it's tough luck all the way ol' champ, cos you ain't getting any until you wake up and smell the chances. All of them. Take a big whiff… It might smell like heaven… and it might as well be smoke from a distant fire. Either way… RUN. Towards it or from it. Take the risks, laddie, cos it's all downhill from back then... Back in the 80s… when that pop song was # 1 on the charts!!










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