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 tired

I'm tired. My head hurts. I sip hot tea to soothe my throat. I listen to weird rock music so as to not cause any more pain with repetitive techno beats. My bare feet touch the smooth carpet on the floor. The window is open and a chilling soft wind finds its way into my room. My eyelashes can barely stay open but the prospect of them shutting seems even more horrible than keeping them awake. My motion is slowed down to almost a still or my mind is rushing past my ability to move. I look sideways; follow a nervous miniature fly on the screen trying to feed on the radiation. I look up at the lamp and see dozens more like it, dead, on the bottom of the light. My hair falls on my forehead and into my eyes, obstructing my field of vision. I don't remove it. Another fly on the screen, or maybe it's the same one? I scratch the back of my head in a tired shrug. I take another sip of the tea, slowly letting it fall down my dry throat and heat my stomach. Within, it will dissolve two aspirins that I consumed before in an effort to alleviate the pain. I’ve shut the TV a while ago when the sound of indistinct infomercials finally reached the limit of being more annoying that the effort it would take to shut off the TV.

I check any ongoing conversations only to find the last one occurred 35 minutes ago and it wasn't very interesting. I wipe sweat from my forehead and in the process remove the hair from my eyes. I can now better see the dead fly on the bottom of the screen and the flickering cursor that awaits input. I wipe the bug with a motion of my finger and clean my finger on the side of my chair. The music stopped. I touch the back of my neck again in an unsuccessful attempt to give myself something resembling a massage. I stare some more into the void trying to get inspiration for my next words. I lean back on my black leather chair and throw my hands in the air and eventually behind my head. I stretch.

A third bug is making its way towards the top of my screen. My eyelashes slowly give way.

The pauses I make between writing each sentence turn longer and longer. For some unexplainable reason, The Girl From Ipanima starts playing. It seems like a much slower and sadder version of the song. Either that or it just seems that way now that I am almost falling asleep as I write. I take another sip of the strawberry and mandarin tea that is getting cold. It has a sour taste reminiscent of the citrus fruit in its origin. I added sugar but not enough to mask the intended taste. Finally I finish the tea, absorbing the lingering aftertaste it left in my mouth. The current song makes a thunder sound as it fades out into silence, and I find myself longing for rain. Another current of cold air brushes my bare feet as I get up, standing on a part of the floor which is not covered by the carpet and touching the cold slick parquet. I push on the power button and proceed to my bed; collapsing there without a thought in my mind, off to never-never-land, gone to rest my head on a soft and pleasant pillow.