Random Tuesday chat, Again

So I took out my imaginary friend for a walk. We stared at the street lamp, stared at the corpses of leaves on the ground, I showed him my favourite bench so we can comfortably stare at busy people passing by (they never noticed it because we're so good). You know, we were having great time and all.

ha

Autumn is a rich celebration of welcoming death and decay to take over the world. Autumn is balancing on the edge of depression as a weather descriptor, and the peak of nature's mature glory and fruitfulness, it's the most decorated and the least promising season. Cheesy as it sounds, I feel some deep connection between us, as if I already knew something about the day I will die. People who die in autumn should become a foggy morning. All of us should, probably. I wouldn't regret dying if I knew I could still amaze someone at least once in a while.

So now, son, we're heading towards the end of this month. We're in the middle of this season, while this year is already at the doorstep, bending down to put the shoes on before leaving, smiling at its own back pain.
_
And here's something I leave for myself to learn and remember.
There's a narrator to each fairytale. But it doesn't matter how soft and nice his voice is, or how gently he holds a book, he is not a part of a fairytale himself. He just reads it out for you. He might even not believe in that fairytale. And that's not a sin, even though he might be a sinner. He is just a bulb, not the light. Do not mix it. Stay sober, and do not invite the narrator to join the fairytale, you don't need him there. He can take you home, but you can't try to take him on stage. Everything and everyone has their own place. And that's good. Good enough.

wow
I don't know. I'll try to draw something. I can't, but I will ignore this. Too shameful. 

as close as you could possibly get

A day with me.

I was lying on my bed, trying to stay asleep. In the meantime, somewhere something was trying to keep me awake by showing me pictures of dramatic fall from the stairs out of nowhere down to nowhere. After surviving falling down the stairs for the third time I decided to get my subconscious to stop bullying me before I get a brand new phobia. At that point I wondered what would be the word for the fear of stairs? It turned out to be named "climacophobia", and I thought that the "limaco" part of that word is somehow clumsily cute. Also, I discovered that if you rearrange the letters just a bit, you will get "iia choco lamb", which is certainly comforting.

 

After reading enough about people getting traumatized in all possible ways by this extremely foul and quite old (they are believed to appear around 6000 BC) creation of human desire to feel higher than they are, I turned my attention to the wall, the closest reachable object, apart from my depression (that was a joke, I'm not depressed). My wall was white and cold, and I found someone's hand dancing on its surface. She wasn't mine, because my fingers aren't that long and beautiful. She looked very anxious and didn't know where to go; she was taking peace in desperate trying to repeat my moves, stretching and transforming it according to her very own dimension. I think she was lost, way too lost to realise it even. I took a photo so someone can find her someday.

My mother dropped in my room. She said she doesn't want me to be sad. That's good, because I really don't want her wanting me to be sad. That would make me really confused.

Sadness is the most gentle feeling that we can experience towards ourselves, that's what I thought next. Pain, happiness, excitement and boredom are too brutal, too primal. Sadness is sophisticated, melancholy is the greatest luxury. It's like blue cheese, and sadness is the mold growing through it. For an undereducated man of a surface it would be a flaw, but that exact flaw is also what makes it a delicacy. The connection is obvious, there is no way no one has thought about it before me: feeling blue, blue blood, blue cheese. It's relative, see? I might be a genius.

Then I drew a little cute picture. I placed it above these lines, and I really like it. A little tiny place of my own, it doesn't even have any curtains - why would I bother, if no one's watching me from the outside? I wanted to read something to confirm my deep devotion to wasting my day away, but my phone rang then. 

It was a wonderful man whom I've seen whole four times, and who's seen me only twice. We spent some time of ours drinking alcohol on the phone, time too short to justify the difference between us - too big to ever feel like living in the same world. Excitement of a human contact and alcohol took over, and the desire to have more of both started to grow bigger and bigger on me. Both are poisons, both are addictive. Both are something to live for, both can destroy you if you do. The man will ruin me, but that's just what I want. It's still better to be ruined by someone beautiful then to ruin yourself on your own, regretting not giving in.

These thoughts led me to abusive listening to the songs I can't relate to, but I like to imagine that I do.
There's something unfair about those. For a long time I thought (sometimes I still do) that no one ever feels anything, because clearly I did not. Everyone's just pretending, that's what it felt like. Blindly searching their role, finding the script purely by intuition, reading it without knowing the language and playing it selflessly, like the last damn thing they've got in this life. What am I even talking about?

This is basically about my day. Two hours of my warm blood circulating intensively through my very own body.
I could've written 10 times more, but I was afraid to sound too fun to hang out with.
(just joking, everyone already knows I am)
My days are alike. All good. If anyone wants to the the chairs I sit on, or know how I smell without smelling me, or which tree I say hello to every morning, you may express your wish anywhere I have an ability to detect it.
I will go away drinking milk now.
Be nice! Good night.

Don't take on too much

It's the last sunrise over Mongolia. No tears! You could not possibly do anything. 

And just let me conclude with something great.

Just a little bit of

Hey there a white square on the screen that I have to fill with some meaningless information!

How's it going? I suppose great, still being so white of infinite possibilities, huh? See, your life cannot be boring - just think about it, what if someday something really great becomes your body, some real masterpiece of human thought will paint your insides, what if you are chosen to hold the cure for all the bad, peace for all the insomniac, life for all the bored? And even if that never happens, it is still not your suffer - let those who marked your virgin body be the ones in pain, pressed all the way down by the heaviness of their grandmothers' expectations.  Let them think of your face in their nightmares, when you look at them, a hungry believer, a clean slate, a murder list with numbers only, prepared to be fatal, prepared to be something at least. But what did they do, what could they do, what could they even think of doing to you? They'll wake up screaming under your stare, what have you become, what could you become? The terrifying Anything is too much to handle for the sanity, but the little your hands allow to make out of it, the reduction of making it physical, making it yours, making it real - it is even more terrifying.

Despite (or considering) the shitstorm above, today I just feel like rambling about this and that, so hey. Let's chat, but it will be only me holding the mic, and you don't really have to be here - though I would appreciate your clapping or at least a tip, if you feel old enough to do that. 

Anyway, really, I am grateful to anyone who took their time talking to me/looking at me throughout the past month, you were nice - I wish someday I'll be able to pay you back for your politeness and sweetness and all the -ness we can derive from just pleasant people, but for now... For now I'm taking it all with me, carry it around like a baby, in and out of the rooms, popping up here and there, out of nowhere, you know? 

I've been thinking about the word I absolutely hate yet it is impossible to avoid using it not awkwardly - it's inspiration, you've heard that one? Why does it sound so pretentious to me?

There would be a Muse, for example, you know - the one that stands behind the shoulder of each artist or Artist, or sitting on their table, under the table, in the whatever pose you prefer, clothed or undressed, bold or bearded... I just wondered once what mine would look like, why shouldn't I have it--(him? her?), especially now, at our time - bless our time! - it's not her who picks me, it's me who picks her, or him, or them, whoever, well!

I think I want a human - most certainly I want a human, not even a tiny army of the Hattifatteners, or a giant snail (I still really want it so bad help), or not even a fried banana. A human is still what makes me the most awake, a worrying animal I am needs someone to be worried about, so I can complain about being tired of all the worries, yet I need someone to complain to! Not sure if my muse will allow me to do that, but let's assume it will pity me at least a little, because I need it to be gentle. Gentle in that sadistic way, with all the teasing, all the scars covered by kisses, not painful enough to kill you, but just about right to keep you half mad. Oh yes, that would be perfect, so much better than a fried banana - in fact I can fry it for them every morning. They will not like it, and I will be so mad throwing plates on the floor with all the drama and chic. They will abuse the opportunity to watch me and I would love to allow that, maybe it's even the only thing I really need. Am I describing a real person now? It's funny.

Anyway, I need to give in, it's getting colder and my thoughts will turn into nothing but a girly talk if I keep on. Here's my song of the week, and I leave this place. Will be back tomorrow. Was nice to chat with you (me). Peace!