°Pitch black flesh°

 Sometimes I wish I could record and review my dreams. Even the weird ones, bad ones, terrifying ones or just plain boring. Each one of them is a story that I feel I could write, yet by the time my eyes are only half open, the dream has already slipped away. And the story that could be written, slips away with it.

 

I miss writing sometimes. And while I know that my writing is mostly for myself and not so interesting for the wider groups, I still like it. As a coping mechanism, as a way of expression, as a safe space to run away and hide. It also serves as a great substitute for closure, when the real one is not available. Not a perfect substitute, but it helps to ease the pain. It also helps to minimize the suffering. I keep reminding myself that pain is inevitable, and suffering is optional, but I haven’t found the best way to eliminate the suffering all together. And so I write, because it helps.

 

I know I’m way overdue for the Casino at the end of the world paragraph, but truth to be told, I am not in that part of my life where it is visitable. Part of me misses it. No matter how risk averse that game is and how much potential (I say potential, but in truth it’s very much expected and almost guaranteed) pain (and suffering!) it brings, it makes me feel alive, it gives me new way to suffer, and it gives me strength to keep going. Which is abnormal, but it does. I know I’m not the only one like that. I just don’t think I am enough like that to voluntarily drown in it and not consider boring aspects of my life enjoyable too.

From books: No one listens anymore. I can't talk to the walls because they're yelling at me. I can't talk to my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough, it'll make sense. And I want you to teach me to understand what I read.

If there is anything I learned from all that mess is that I am more of a rule than an exception. And I learned to live with it. And it’s fine, honestly. The whole “I’m not like the other girls” is so toxic and it’s been brought on to us by years and years of teaching how you are not good enough.

I can now say that I am not an exception, I am nothing extraordinary special, all I am trying to do is to make myself happy. That’s it. And honestly, it’s so much less pressure. I’ve had moments of being an exception, but so have everyone else. This is why I am completely alright with being a rule most of the time. Because in those rare, special moments, when I got to be an exception, it all smelled oh so much brighter.

From memories: When he told me he will give me a great book he just finished in exchange for Girl with dragon tattoo, I did not know what to think. I have just started taking people’s recommendations for the books, but I was still quite sceptical about it, not trusting most people. On the other hand, before kindle times, I was not in a position to be picky. Besides, if I gave him my book and did not get anything in return, I am out of books I can potentially exchange in the near future. He said it was one of the better books to read while travelling and he was not entirely wrong. I swallowed that book nearly choking on the number of quotes. It was 937 of goodness and not a very well known, at least in my circles. And then it got popular, and then everyone knew about it. And then everyone read it, and everyone felt moved. But I was an exception, who already knew the book, who already read the book and lived the book. I was an exception. It almost made me want to visit India. Emphasis on almost. It’s been 13 years, but I can still quote some of Shantaram.

ºSad charadeº

 I get into a habit of walking backwards and into the past. Just for a walk, just to take a stroll through the old neighborhoods, maybe a sneak peak at a window, checking out how the memory lives. I don't want to go back, make the same mistakes again or somehow fix them. I don't want to relive them, I just like remembering. And more often than not, new details come back, new little tingles pop up and besides reminding me, shines a new light on it. Sometimes it makes me realise that there was nothing I could have done to make things go in a different direction. It gives me a spicy calmness, which is weird, but it does make me feel better. Because I have made a lot of mistakes in my life, and I have to live with them, but did them or not, it would not have changed a damn thing. 

And then it's better.

From books:

Nobody listens anymore. I can't talk to the walls because they're yelling at me, I can't talk to my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough it'll make sense. And I want you to teach me to understand what I read.

I have to learn to let you go. Not to learn, just to let you go. I have to give myself permission to let you go, because, clearly, you let me go a while ago. I know I understand the concept of letting go, I’ve done that in the past. And I understand the benefits of letting you go. I just can’t seem to convince myself to allow myself to let you go. I think I just really like you. As a person, as a friend, as someone to hug and hold, climb a tree and drink a beer, share a story or eleven, open up and talk about what makes one vulnerable. Mostly I am finding it difficult to let you go, because to me, you are the concept of “hold my hand” and that is very precious to me. I know that this concept was birthed before your time and had another person attached to it. But it grew, developed and blossomed with you in mind. And I don’t think I want to lose a hope to ever have a chance of you holding my hand again. As you once promised you always will.

ºFluffy Comebackº

I don’t know if Murakami is a misogynist. I do not like how he obsesses over breasts or portrays women in his books, but aside from that, I really like his way of writing. Maybe it is too big of a thing to put aside.

​I saw a whale shark. And right before that I saw you. It made me wonder if you still have it, to which of course I know the answer. No. I remembered you, which I thought was weird. Since that painful goodbye I actually got what they call closure and I was done. It wasn’t my fault then and it wasn’t my fault now. I wish I knew that then. The glass shattered and everything became lighter. 

I saw a whale shark. And now we're even.

We were more alike than I would have liked to admit. Not the first time, nor the last. If we met at a different time, at a different place, around different people, we could have been friends. Who knows though, I tried that again and it worked out the same way. So maybe I just dodged a bullet. I don’t dislike you anymore. It may have been a little cruel thing to do, but why would you have cared? You did what you had to do. I get it.

At times I miss my single life. But when I get my single life back, I find myself missing you.