alienate yourself from the sources of transient happiness unless you wish to be a bleak soul. henceforth, aim for the real deal. dance madly on mountain tops and sharp edges. play tic-tac-toe on mine fields. since the hangover is unavoidable, let the process of inebriation be equal in intensity. drink the morning bitter cup with as much a delight and you have drunk the sweet cup the night before.
 sapience is boring. it's fruits are vapid. it wins no space on paper. it does not open a door to heaven. failing, if this is one's intent, is the most diverting path. one's best source of fun is his own misery.

it's such a wonderful li(f)e

copaci şi lumini penetrau carnea cerului
şi luna
luna nu mai era frumoasă
şi luna
luna nu mai era pinkfloydiană
şi luna
luna era o tumoare
şi luna-
înecam luna în fum

şi ian
ian curtis
dansa mai frumos decât oricine altcineva
şi eu-
mie-mi era prea ruşine să dansez
sub acea tumoare

şi troleibuzele
nu mai miroseau a casă
şi tichetele
tichetele nu mai erau norocoase

şi bagajul
bagajul era uşor
eu
eu eram cel greu

when everything's frozen

it's the cracks in the sidewalk you must step on resolutely
only they can keep you from falling

i have all the characteristics of a crazy person
except for the main characteristics of a crazy person
i have all the characteristics of a living person
except for the main characteristics of a living person
my last weeks
will be this battle
or rather this pros and cons list
the pain and lack of meaning of existence vs
the pain and nothingness of death

my feelings are just broken bits of glass that i voraciously grab and clutch into my palms. we're nothing but addicts, streaming for that dose of endorphins our brains release, hiding it under masks of a sense of purpose, the greater good, conscience, dreams, shit like that.
what good is my existence, if  not even a small part of what i feel cannot be synthesized by that special someone and returned back to me? the promise of such in the future does not motivate me. i'm just so tired of hurting and so tired of not feeling something really pure. the letters i thought i would write, me explaining why i did it, i figured those reasons i'd put into words are just a way to convince myself to end it all. a final excuse. a pathetic last attempt to justify my act and my whole existence in front of the world. living just isn't right for me anymore.

being myself is not compatible to life

bucăţi de carne îngheţată abureau mirosuri de eu contrafăcut
înghit ca un câine înfometat porţii de căldură umană

everything is like the stairs that lead to my school. from a distance, it looks like nothing's wrong with them. but when you climb them, those crooked, uneven steps, you feel that either you're not made to walk those stairs, or they're not made for you. just like everything in your life. everybody sees what's wrong with everything, but changing the surroundings is not an option. you just have to adapt. walk like a crippled dwarf, because you are given the steps and you are given the legs and you need to get someplace. you don't wonder why you need to get there, you don't need to weight the effort and the reward. we fail to see that choice.
what we lack is not the freedom to choose. it's the freedom to see that we have a spectrum of choices.

acting like an asshole is the best choice one can make.


i suck at making good choices.

may  I please be excused from my life?

I'm a rich tourist in a poor latin country
my obsessions chase me like poor child beggars
they follow me wherever I go
because the streets are their home, they know every inch of it,
there's no escaping them in a territory they know so well
they cling to my sleeves with their muddy, long-nailed hands.
they become more fierce
and I know that my ability to run cannot surpass their determination to get a hold of me
this pursuit is taking so long
that when I look back, there are no children anymore
they have become full-grown men with barbed wired bats in their hands
and I know that the only way to get it over with
is to let them get me
so as I'm cringing in front of the blows and kicks
(I've been running for so long that my knees forgot the touch of the rusted ground)
the blood tastes like victory in my mouth