Ψchoses: May 2012

I don't make promises. All for conscious and rational reasons, at that.

You see, there is a little something called 'shattered enthusiasm', a tiny thing with which connection is rendered utterly impossible. It's not that I feel the need to find excuses. I just want to make things clear.

I'm not your protection for I've never been protected. Harm comes as all of us walk our own paths alone. Nobody in their right mind would leap away from the road just to take an arrow that was not even directed at them. If you don't learn how to heal, or live with the scar and its cause embedded in your flesh, you die. Weakness is not tolerated by nature.

I'm not a soothing balm that would ease your pain. There's no nepenthe moistening my lips. The pain is your own and I am not to take it from you. Memories are the battlefields that turned into a garden; one breaks something - a thought, a connection, a heart, a mind -, and its pieces turns into little seeds, watered by blood, whoever's blood, planted into the ground. Present is what one has harvested from them. Future's in the ground. One either learns to cast the seeds one is delighted to pick the fruits of, or suffer the plague one has grown. Why would you need me for such a private journey? Besides, I'm way too busy organising seeds myself, thank you.

I am no idol to look up to, or follow, nor am I a companion to share a path with. I am but a will-o-wisp, transparent, shining a pale light, leading you to a place of dark demise, if you chose to catch me. I dance and fly and sing and cry and run and climb my way through the endless woods of life, and I fear the weight that would need care and devotion during my witch's sabbath of an advance.

I am not a bird singing praises to you if you cage me, I am the silence of the book. I have all my songs within, bound in heavy cover, songs that were never sung, that are not to be sung. Records of inexpressible sensations, they are locked and are growing without making a sound. Should you crave morale-raising speeches, soliloquies of the heart, bouquets of lies to reinforce your self, you will have to start looking - for I've forgotten how to create those and care little to remember them.

How could I possibly believe that I'm one to be with you? The strings flapping around me as I go, I don't know how to tie them to you. How could I swear I'll be with you?

A Statue, Cowardice, and the Fate

4:54 pm

There was a time, way back in the dusty past, where no man has ever set a foot. It was then, when a carrion, or a stone, or a crow, or a snake has perished. The wish of the dead is a very respected thing in Bardo, so when it stopped the whole game of existence, it wished a last wish. It was very bitter, you see. And the wish was to be reborn as something apart, something detached, something that would never feel connected to the capitalised Others. And there it went, weeks of haunting and timeless whispers to the living from the wind. And while it happened, they carved a statue, a statue made of gold and ivory and stone. Gold that nobody wants, ivory that is worthless, and stone that is never washed by rivers. And the erected monument reminded one of the new species, the big novelty, of humans. The statue, taking a sip of Bardo, took in the soul that slowly understood, that its whispers are not to be heard, its existence is mere fiction. With a mind flowing in to its carved and empty lungs, the statue stood still, not knowing if that would change a thing at all. And then the material, the worldly, the cage began to growl with hunger, a hunger that could only be satisfied with the ones that at least remind one of itself. So people came rushing, covered in flesh, pulsating with heat, children of the day and joy and life. They reached the statue and then it realised - one thing it's able to do when it comes to motion, leave. So it ran away,flew on legs that hurt,but did not move, floated away on the wings of the wind, unknowing, uncaring, without the knowledge that remorse existed. Then more people came, explained it the world, and it understood. The patterns, the codes, and the mechanics. So it mourned the fleshlings left behind, it mourned the fleshlings that surrounded him, and mourned the ones that were about to. It left them, swiftly rushing through woods and skies and tears. "You're such a leaver, " they've said. how right they were, how exact, be it fate,or curse, or casual comment. And then every time it'd left, more humans grew around it, their seeds heavy with its craving for them.Then it left and kept leaving, until a time when they appeared only slowly, grade by grade, as if fearing to close. The ones that got near tried to touch it, feeling a burning, torn sensation that was evoked by the strange fusion of the materials in it. They all got hurt, and left behind. It was told of morals, it was lectured on manners, and dualism. It never knew how to keep them, questioned them, while fleeing. And so it would be alone, for good, for it cannot be touched, it cannot touch, but leave. It has no business with the fleshlings. And if you'd cry out loud so in the distance, it would hear you, saying "What are you?", it'd only whisper with the sound of the wind "A leaver."

Saying Farewell

3:53 pm

You've changed, my friend.

That's what I'd like to believe, but, then again, there comes a rush of cliché that you were probably never like the person I've thought I knew. The truth is, though, that as every single cell changes in your body within a month, you are physically bound to change every second. Changing so much and so frequently that you simply cannot hold a personality together for long, especially when the outside keeps switching, too.

You see, I was mad, I was full of anger, wrath of a child, rage of the forgotten, but I've just realized, you had to alter to suit your life more properly. That is weak, and yes, I think you are weak, too, but I have no doubt that I often sink to such depths myself as well. It is weak to impose the change in order to fit the norm, to make yourself attractive for all the self-absorbed little bondage-freaks around you. But I know why you do that. You felt alone, you wanted comfort and instead of releasing the pressure of the sickening shackles, you left yourself be bound, limited, what's more: you added to it yourself, so you could be like Them, the Others. There, now. Your children feed on you, because you've built a part of them inside you. You have lost yourself to the great world.

And how do I know that? You've left me, first, to begin your shift towards the adored nothingness. I didn't tell you what to do, I failed to be the soothing balm that would justify your mental self-annihilation. I loved you and you chose to move – so I did what I would have expected from anybody else in the same situation, I let you go and watched, watched closely, if you had any shard of lack. You didn't. You just needed me to let you go to change entirely, into somebody who has no use of me anymore.

I understand now. I've bent my shackles and plan to destroy them entirely. Though I know you will fail in trying to find peace in others to make it yours and I will miss you, I know, we both need to walk our paths alone. I can't meddle in your decisions, I cannot step with your feet. I'll step with mine, alone, for I fear myself not anymore. May you fly and falter and fail. Our paths crossed and they seem to have parted.

Vakot a világtalan.

12:33 pm

Hadd meséljek neked az emberi közmegegyezésekről – néztem rá a srácra mellettem.

Ő teljes nyugalomban üldögélt mellettem a padon, arcán az udvarias érdeklődés kifejezésével. Valahol sejtettem, hogy nem lesz elájulva a gondolattól, de általában a nagy monológok közepén szokott elkezdeni érdeklődni. Néha még mindig nem hiszem el, hogy mindössze tizenhat éves. A korához képest szörnyen okos teremtés, de mindenki el is várja valamilyen kegyetlen szinten tőle, így, hogy születése óta vak. Felerősödött érzékek és képességek, miegyéb.

Az apró gyerekeknek az arcukba nyomják a kedvenc építőkockáikat, amint azok nagyjából elkezdenek beszélni, és belassított, retardált artikulációval süvöltözik, hogy „Kék!”, „Sárga!”, „Fáradt éjfél!”, meg „Hamvas barack!”, és elvárják a gyerektől, hogy bármit lát ugyanazzal a tónussal, nevezze hamvas baracknak. Szegény kölyök meg lehet, hogy zöldet lát, vagy bíbort. Így aztán nevelünk egy vagon színtévesztőt, akiket olyan örömmel szivatnak.

Mi az isten az a bíbor? - Fordult felém hirtelen, megvillantva a szemüveg alól ívelt szemöldökeit.
Jellemző, hogy véletlenül sem a többit érzed furcsának.. - mondom neki fejcsóválva - ..ez a modern fiatalság..
A kapuzárási pánikot később, Jackie – int le fölényes mosollyal.
A bíbor elméletileg variáció a pirosra, asszem több kékkel, mint a többi. De éppen erről beszélek: tök mindegy mit mondok, úgysem ugyanígy látja mindenki. Csak így meséli el – kicsit megállok, elgondolkodva. - Tudod, vannak ezek az irodalommal meg köznyelvvel lekötött általánosítások a színekhez. A bíbornál ilyen a bor, a vér, a királyok leple, a naplemente egyik sávja, a budoirok lepedője..

Ez az, amit abból a csigából nyomogatnak ki?

Ja, gondolom.
Zsír. Na menjünk ebédelni.

similarminds.com

Fear Reborn

A Statue, Cowardice, and the Fate

Saying Farewell

Vakot a világtalan.

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