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Dancing with the devil: I am too all sorts of twisted

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I just had one thing in my head: Tame you, then blame you; take you in, so that later I could cut you out.

I always got you dancing with the devil.

I think, that it all happened just because I actually never really wanted to grasp anyone this much. Or was it more that I purely wanted to see you crushed?

I wonder why you kept coming back, like I was your dome; yet you knew all along that I was nothing more than a shape of what was once called home. And I feel that before, I wasn’t like this… No. Did you ever think, that maybe, just maybe you were the one that made me switch?

So which one of us is more screwed? I could never decide it… Ironically, you’re still the best dancer I ever knew.

The last thing you said is that you enjoyed dancing with me too.

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Blobs and thought fogs

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I wonder If I will ever get up from the floor.

Laying down on the old carpet that I firmly refuse to hoover. Among the little food traces and thousands of lost hair strings, I feel comfortable. A weird company, perhaps…

Everything here is timeless for a brief second. Getting yourself lost in the moment is charming, although the wonderful ‘episode of loosing oneself’ is bound to be depicted differently and most certainly dependent on depictor.

I wonder why no one writes books about this brief excellence or maybe even involves it in a crappy 120 min lenght script of a B-rated movie? Has a  simple and plain scene became hard to afford in the times when one needs to stand out desperately? Ridiculous, but  somehow in our minds, an idea was planted that it all seems more magical if you have a handsome guy/girl next to you, or for a different genre –  some cigarettes and depressive thoughts. Props became a necessity. A decoration, to accessorize boring things.

Fuck it.

My little moments are by myself.  Not involved into anyone or anything. And during those I am glad to be keeping up with the tradition.

Thoughtless staring at the ceiling… It later progress into the blob of thoughts. Uncontrollable, non tamable and like the wind. The one when you are sitting outside during the lunch break and trying to eat your salad with a vegan spin off: really naughty and annoying, but still doesn’t make you maneuver for the indoor seating.

You enjoy outside. You enjoy the wind.

The windy thoughts on a trashy floor.

Saturday.

Stop whining, start dissing: A modern twist to slavery

To whomever it may concern,

after disappearing for few or more weeks I am coming back with the full force, well… to admit, my force is more of a fluctuating type. Certainly, it doesn’t matter where the hell I have disappeared, but I hope that there is still someone who missed my regular beef or creative outbursts ( the big gay moment). Wow, talking about self-absorption, right?

So here I am, sitting in a brand new house (it’s more new on the abstract way), brand new area, just finished studies and have a massive, unpacked luggage of clothes and post-grad depression. The only thing that keeps me busy is hunting down the spiders (forgive, PETA) one by one from the nest they have made, probably, somewhere close to my bed. In a way I am responsible for a species population. If you’d ask me, that’s pretty ‘grande’.

Although I doubt, but does that sound similar to your experiences? My advice: fuck it.

Yes, FUCK IT! Big time.

Being part of the society, that now somewhat feels more of a rat’s trap to one’s mental stability than a structure, graduates are bound to reach the overheat from this decision-making bollocks. Being a 22 year old female, I have done a bunch of haphazard and unrelated bundle of internships and placements, which most of them haven’t even been paid. Kids, that’s called a modern twist to the slavery.

Experiencing the bitters from event planning, film-making to journalism and etc., didn’t help me to solve or find anything that a woman of my age is supposed to, within this dis-functional scheme. If what, it pushed me to add few things more to  the list ‘That’s the shit I don’t like’. You can call me names at this point, but I don’t think that switching industries with an imaginary remote is bad at all. We do it for the crappy TV shows, so why not create an allegory to the shitty, I mean psychologically shitty, life situations.

To quote T. Edison: ‘I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work’.

Although I haven’t even reached the two-digit number of failures, I can put myself somewhere in-between his shoes. By the way, that’s a very strong statement from someone who has feet phobia. What I am trying to say, If you have no definite idea of what you would like to be, don’t try to squeeze the juice out of the dried orange (mad metaphor skills). Just pick something that sounds interesting. It kinda seems like a neglected suggestion, but It is a starting point. Edisonian approach ( trial and failure) can help you to maintain sanity and take the pressure off figuring it all out.

I mean, some of us are Edisons and some are Alessandro Voltas,Henry Woodwards or Mathew Evanses (devised incandescent lamps). Some start late and some early, but the early kickoff time does not necessarily mean a stronger finish.

Take your cup, preferably with some motivational or confidence-boosting quote, drink your coffee and stop depressing ( it is also a post for myself), because dissing bitch- that’s the shit I don’t like.

*Drops the microphone*

On the other side of the wall

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Yellow elephants and blue mouses were dancing together between colored balloons in a bit unusual tea party. I saw them from afar and got the urge to join this interestingly suspicious crowd. Just had to climb over the fence into their garden, paved with the green grass, marble dining sets and the most cyan swimming pool my eyes ever witnessed. It looked so surreal, perhaps even too much, as I could almost smell the plastic or somewhat pink, if possible, odor coming over from that side of the wall. Physics stopped there and left only the animal bourgeois dancing graciously in between the millions of balloons dawdling in motion. The lack of reality there didn’t scare me, I confirmed with myself as I watched my grey, colorless hands shake slightly. It didn’t scare me at all, I kept convincing those hands to grasp a little bit stronger as there were few meters of the climbing left to overcome. Not even a bit, I whispered it less assuring after seeing the grayness from my hands spread out onto the wall itself. I could see with the bare eye, the molecules diffusing with each other and spreading the black and white colored scheme as a virus and the fastest one at that. I didn’t let go, nor I freaked out, at the end I was the only one aware that the reality here is surely far from real.

I continue to climb. It took me long, as the more I climbed the longer it got, so at the end I am not even sure how long it took me as time and space is really messed up here and doesn’t work the way I am used for it to work. I only knew three things and those were that my body started to change, that the world turned grey and that the fence is far from over. Sometimes I would look back and only see myself swallowed by noir and nothing more and even regret wanting to join the carnival at the first place. Sometimes I would end up being scared about missing the party, but then the vague space-time continuum left some hope. And I would always think like that during the journey and once I stopped spacing out I realised that those grey hands of mine are not shaking anymore. And besides it, they turned old. God, how much time has passed?  I wasn’t sure. What was I chasing? What did I leave behind? Those were the questions I no longer knew how to answer. The irony hit me and I realised that somewhere in between the journey I was only missing the past or wanting to reach the future. I wanted it so much  that I forgot about my beautiful, beautiful grey colored palms that now had wrinkles and became weaker. I started to think that the color itself wasn’t that bad after all. And then it hit me, I just reached the top. I no longer cared but what I saw shocked me. The skinniest elephants and fattest mouses were lying on the floor, on the pavement, next to a drained, dirty, old swimming pool. As if it was a concrete desert, they were all dried up and lifeless even though they continued to breathe, to exist. The bourgeois status ceased untraceable, it vanished or more like there was none to begin with. Was I too late? What happened to the balloons, the colors, the tea and all the dancing I wanted to join? I started questioning, but got interrupted by a deep, low husky voice:

-Hey You! Aren’t you that classy neighbor with the bluest pond and the reddest flowers out there? What brings you here?

Finally a question I could answer came up, but the only thing that came out of my mouth was this spasmodic old man’s laugh.

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I do what I want, I am punk rock

Whatever, I do what I want!
Cartman as a pre-teen ho: Whatever, Whatever, I do what I want. I smoke crack, I do drugs, I drink alcihaal. I once killed SIX baby seals with my bare hands.
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The sun is shining, the flowers are blooming (almost as beautifully as I am, lol) and the life seems much more lighter and more pleasant. ON THE SURFACE!! Yeah, fellas, I am a martyr of spring love and it’s a torture! Not talking about human-to-human affection, just your natural human-to-seasonoftheyear kind of love. I mean, spring should be barely legal, just look at the kidos with the see-through T-shirts casually spreading  chemistry and hormones in the air. It is extremely contagious and drool-dangerous (if you have heart problems, you shouldn’t leave your house. Like ever).

If you, basterds, are like me,  stuck with some paperwork, then you shall not be tempted to go outside. It is a very good  piece of advice and you should follow it. Trust me, past few days  I’ve been trying to do some serious academic business, but then decided to go play in the park, instead. The next thing i know I am getting on with some beers in the corner shop and I can’t possibly leave them hanging,  can I(classical ‘it’s their fault for wearing the shiny gloss, not mine’)? So, like a badass, I take those babies, light my cigarette, turn around and walk away, while stuff explodes behind… Well, the last part might have happened only in my head, but it’s cool. I am punk rock, I do what I want.

kkk

Hello Darkness, My old friend

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Slow anticipation was way much worse than the sizzling sound of shabby train breaks that later on has caused me repetitive brain spasms. Chill folks, this is just the beginning of the word vom you’re about to get, so buckle up. I guess the aftereffect of loud train breaks was tediously painful companionship of a bogus locomotive in my noddle. I swear it felt as if the thing was fluctuating within my skull in a speed about x1.35 times potentially faster than the real deal. (For the slower ones, I am comparing the speed of train vs train of thoughts). I guess the definition of a ‘fun ride’ differs from person to person.

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One thing that I never understood is the romanticization of travelling. I mean, all that freedom crap (if you consider freedom to be romantic at all) is just another symbolic add-on, that peculiar European or Western folks have their hands on, before fucking of to India for a shrine visiting marathon. This case is also known to contain soul searching elements. I mean, for real, yo? I find it quite weird and contradicting when a person purchases plane tickets and regards it as investment into their inner development. SOUL DOES NOT HAVE MATERIAL FORM, no need to go all Budha about it! It would be better if you would just admit that you can afford a fucking ticket and that you are a conformist like all the rest of us. If there was a chance of saving human kind this would contribute like 1% to it. Considering how big is the arse that we are in, I would say that is a fairly high percentage.  There’s also this ‘travelling without money and relying on people’s good will’ method of travelling, which seems more interconnected with soul stuff. But really, isn’t it just a good excuse to avoid paying for your shit?

I am being sceptical, but all this old train ever gave me is a sweaty arse. Nothing more, nothing less. (theoretically)

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Imagine the typical ‘looking afar’ the window picture

‘Did I leave something important behind?’ dilemma began to bug her. A tiny worry was planted and already spreading, building up in the backs of her stomach, in the stomachs of her back and tickling the throat in a wicked kind of manner. A virus? Slowly drowning into the liquid, or becoming one. Amoeba of thoughts has introduced. Now that’s some poetic justice I’ve done here, that is most likely of no one’s interest. Yet, I decided to include something a bit good-natured. I mean… I am a’ blogger’ and that’s a serious title over here. A fucking crown, for all I know.

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Both trains stop

The black & white type of crowd was getting off the train in a pace suitable for a conformist institution’s personnel. Brushing into one another and perhaps participating in a competition of who’s the fastest around. But for me, it reminded more of a rats’ race, than anything else. Suddenly, I was really keen on buying some cheese on my way home.

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Choo, choo, motherfuckers – thoughts yet departed

The busy streets reminded me of Beethoven’s sonata. Elegance emerging from chaos kind of thing. Sophistication hidden between urbanistic phantasmagorias and the mess has settled down amongst the minds of the city dwellers. This is just like one of those melodies you know by heart, but not necessarily like it, nor hate it either. You, I, US just happened to be familiar with both of the texts. I smile. Sometimes it feels good to don’t be opinionated.

All of it is fiction, though