something lost

The person in the mirror is looking me in the eye and I’m wondering who that person is. Who is staring back at me from beyond that shiny surface on my wall? Will reality again cover this barren land I roam, like the warm blanket of snow that has kept me safe all this time? One, two, three, four— four – I spot four glasses for me to warm my spirit and quench my thirst for unconscious introspection.

One, two, three, four, one by one, down they go.

It will keep this going for a little longer and stimulate the circulation of impulsive ideas from my neurons to yours.

Going back to the beginning, back to when we were mere children basking in the little utopian universe we have created, we fondly remember the rosy and carefree existence that we used to lead. Not a thing was wrong in the WHOOOLE world. It was simple. It was innocent. It was the Garden of Eden before god spoiled it with his little clay toys.

But even fruit in the Garden of Eden don’t last forever. Eventually, drunk on their own happiness, they drown in their blissful glass of wine, floating to the surface, motionless, plucked from their green stems, gently begging for help in ripples that dissipate as they grow bigger and farther away.

But not even the looming foreshadowing in a glass of wine could stop a wandering mind from wandering through the corridors of imagination. And wandering it did...

Traversing vast and varied terrain, it attempted to explore as far and as much as it could. From the old and classic reflections of a dry vodka martini, to the new and exciting aromas of a Red White and Hpnotiq Blue.

As time went by and experiences accumulated, an unconscious race to the next exciting thing began to burn in the inner-most furnaces of our restless wandering mind. Little by little, it discovered that a sparkly crystal glass at a nicely set table just didn’t cut it anymore. It needed more. It was hungry.

Candle-lit tables lined with empty glasses ready to be filled with such delicacies as anticipation, yearning, excitement and delight were, by now, very apropos.

Of course, the humble dry martini of yesteryear always had its honourable place on one of these tables. It became a signature, a custom almost, something that is an essential part of the experience. You arrive, you take your seats, you order a glass, as simple as that.

But like all good meals it must all eventually come to an end. Well, perhaps not really an end, but more like desert. And what better drink to serve for desert than a warm and encouraging glass of Blueberry Tea. We of course start with the 'little-bitter' amaretto to set the mood. The initial sting is then softened by the sweet but nevertheless potent Grand Marnier. Finally, to warm up our spirits and reassure us we mix it all in a nice glass of steaming hot tea.

More changes ahead, but that's for the entry.

There.

Isn’t that better?

a diary

So today I thought of starting a diary, and immediately rip it to pieces in a fit of rage - paper flying everywhere. I would write in it… I would write all the happy thoughts, that I never had and never will. It will be my memoirs which I leave behind. Paper everywhere – rough lines drawn throughout the pages, through the pages, the pressure of the fountain pen rupturing through the delicate material of the fine paper. Smooth lines. All my thoughts… on paper… it would have been a masterpiece. My life’s work. Torn. Some pages are smudged with stains of various alcoholic drinks – the pages that stayed whole, protected somehow by a magickal force. And others – pages missing - evidence removed from the scene of the crime - pages smudged with tears. Salt. Dry. It was supposed to be a happy diary. But the happy parts were just empty pages. It is a pleasure to read. I know you’ll like it. The last page is smudged with blood. My little diary is a stain collection. And so I was writing, and so I was thinking and so I was ripping to pieces, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, always with PASSION. And – a key, it has a little key – if you close it no one can read your mind. But no one knows where the key is. I hid it well, I melted it, I made it into a mirror. Now my diary’s key is a little mirror that reflects the possibility of finding out what I ripped to pieces.

And as I see myself reflected in those eyes, I see a single tear forming in the corner of my own. And the tear reflects a tear that reflects the eyes which are the mirror of the key of my diary that I ripped to pieces. Did you know that pages can speak? They speak in a soft voice that thunders in your ears louder than the mightiest thunderstorm in the summer night. I know what they say but I don’t know what they want. I hear what they’re saying but don’t see what they mean. All I can do is listen and write about it in my future diary that I ripped to pieces before I even started it. Such is life - full of wonders and miracles and events to be told in pages locked by an empty keyhole waiting to be opened by a key that was melted into a mirror. Let me wipe that for you. Sometimes mirrors get fingerprints on them. Sometimes I need to wipe your tears. Sometimes it becomes blurry - maybe because of the fingerprints on the metal key, or because of the tears in your eyes or because of smudged stains on the delicate paper.

And as I let the ripped pieces of paper fall in the wind, I stay solemn – eyes closed, heart opened, mind locked with a mirror as always. This page was the happiest one yet. This page I will fold and place in a safe place. This page will be the first to be ripped to pieces – or no. Better. I will burn this one in the fireplace while spending my time looking at the flames reflecting in the little mirror of my soul. But it isn’t a mirror. It is just a transparent glass. The flames don’t reflect in the glass – rather, the soul is burning. Transparent… so easy to say, yet when it comes to looking through – all you see is a mirror, reflecting yourself. All you see is the flames, dimming to embers as life slips away from my soul. The last page is smudged with blood. The last page is smudged with blood. The last page is black. It has been passed through the fire – but was not consumed, just blackened, and now blood. This is my diary, ripped to pieces, locked, empty. This is my diary – a collection of thoughts which will only be known to one. And that one is god and I am an atheist – in this diary, in this life, in these words – I still believe - you don’t exist, I still think - you never will.

something happy

So I really wanted to write something happy, I really did. I tried my hardest, and as hard as I'd try, the worse it would get. And after each phrase I am tempted to press the backspace once more, advancing one word and retracting by two. Repetitivity has a way of repeating itself in an endless loop of repeating itself in an endless loop. A dot marks the spot where the sentence ends and a new one begins so in a way it marks the beginning of the end. Commas are more graceful. And just because you can write doesn’t mean you can write. It is very easy to make lines on a paper, not so easy to make nice ones. Words shaped into ideas are nothing but ideas put into words - but each sentence is a thought. Writing without thinking will not result in any useful amount of information aside from the one delivered in your text. Listening to music while you write doesn't affect your writing so you shouldn't do it because you may end up writing meaningful notes about subjects. Reading books is useful because you can later repeat what your read, in your own words and your opinion will be based on others' who most certainly know better than you about your opinion because they read about it in a book. Knowledge is power. Power isn't the ability to control but rather to achieve results without being controlling. Grammatics are but a suggestion when you're writing for yourself. Spelling is important because if you spell right, the bad grammar becomes transparent. Of course this being said, bad grammar will evidence itself in a blink of an eye no matter how good your spelling is. Logical fallacies are fun when used in the right way. Illogical fallacies however have a way of only existing in the imaginary world of word-games. Chemicals tend to generate squiggly lines which get straightened when diluted by water. Washed out paper is hard to write on. Dissolving ideas into concepts only further advances the fading color of the ink. Stains tend to cross through paper if the ink is still wet and the paper is absorbing enough. Typing text avoids this problem, but it creates a new one by necessitating both hands to type instead of only one to write. Rubbing your eye won't make it stay open or avoid drying.