28 March 2007

The Color of Desire. The Color of Despair

They say it will make you go crazy, some say it's pathological, and you know that waiting is difficult. It is difficult because your appetites are ripped away while you could eat a horde of horses. You couldn't concentrate because your concentration is fixed solely on one spot which could be the cellphone, the email, the live messenger or the slightest movement of the wind.

One trait of this color is the immediate regret following the dispatch of a text message, an email, a line of conversation, thinking oh I shouldn't have said that, wondering what you're going to reply, what you're going to reply, awaiting eagerly yet afriad to see the words emerging from the other end of the line, from which jubilation or lament springs.

The whole spectrum of colors could be encapsulated into one single minute, although the sequence is ever-changing, it is predictable. The tension is high enough that the earth feels the tremble of your heart even at the notion of calling her. The mood of the day depends heavily on whether her showing up or not, whether she was looking at your direction or just walk past without turning her head, and were you the one her stealthy glance longed to see?

Your unwanted sensitivity is multiplied by a million, and it's draining you of all energy. You are excessively tired, and are made even more so by the fact that you can't make that information public to her. You wish that you were dead. First ecstasy and then downfall, and you need more afterward. The green-eyed monster puts you down in its register book. Her careless words and indifferent attitudes sting like hell, encompassing and devouring you like hungry infernal flames, and you want to scream and smash your head against the wall because that's the natural reaction when one was burnt alive - to scream.

21 March 2007

The Organ that Regenerates

Is liver, I had absolutely no idea of that, I thought it only existed in the movies and comic books, till I read about it earlier tonight. As if by magic, the liver actually grows back, you know from tiny little pathetic scrapes to a brand new one, one that is complete, you know a liver, in about a month's time. All I can say is magical.

In comparison, the heart is no match for its neighbour. It is a particularly weak organ under certain circumstances, and a very troublesome one. The causes of the wounds vary from mindless and unintentional jokes, a simple "no", a careless look, an indifferent attitude, to something unfathomable.

When parts of the heart got chipped away, gently or violently, it doesn't go back to its original shape or maintain its function, which is to pump blood into every corner of the body and keep the organism breathing. Instead, with every slash it bears it releases venom into the veins and these unwanted bitternesses stay in the tiniest of cells and accumulate. Accumulate, amass, gathering its force in the gloomy depth till that one day the whole body is so poisoned and the heart so laden with cuts and scars that it no longer bears resemblance of any kind to a heart. And then we can pronounce that the heart is broken or, dead.

18 March 2007


The other day when I returned to the office I found the keffiyeh, or shemagh, which Esther brought me, lying on my desk. Exhilarated, I wrapped it around my head revealing only the eyes. Then, at the end of the day, apart from the "oh my god you look 100% more handsome now!", I'd harvested tens of thousands of "who you are going to bomb?" just as I expected.

The thing is nothing is so naïve these days (maybe they had never ever been), when you're in an age in which the results of a simple search on the internet could very likely be manipulated, in an age in which words get twisted and redefined and redefined and redefined till the end of time, how much credibility can you give to what they say on the telly, on the newspapers or anywhere else, like this blog?

09 March 2007

The Appreciation

If you've been following my blog for a while (yo Kevin, you're probably the only devoted subscriber and commentator) you've probably already discovered that I'm somewhat a skeptic, I doubt things, too many things for my own health perhaps. But there is one thing of which I have absolutely no doubt, and that is I can understand and, most importantly, appreciate, why some popular figures gone mad.

Popularity is addictive. It's like drugs, it takes hold of you gradually, you know its effects perfectly, but you just can't fight against it. It digs further and further down, deeper and deeper, you know you're sinking, but the more you struggle the quicker you're being drowned.

You soon realise that you're caught by yourself, that you're being the hunter and hunted at the same time. That there weren't two, but just one: you! Surprise, surprise, the prey against which the arrow is released is yourself. The one screaming under the crushing weight of the mighty tank is the one operating the beast from within. Sounds like fantasy, but it's one hundred percent reality.

You're being defeated by your own humour, they love you for that, they love you because you're funny, and that is also the thing that will bring about your demise. The thing and your incapability of introducing the dark side to the public. That's why comedians are so eager to show and prove that they are also capable of other sentiments. They need to, because they'll perish otherwise.

You've had enough with compliments and admiring eyes. You're fed up, hasta los cojones, with assumptions of a trouble-free you because you're excellent and exceptional, but the thing is, the higher you reach, the colder it gets, and when you're up there, you are completely alone, phisically and spiritually. And that makes you want to leap off the edge and put an end to this bloody farce.

03 March 2007

Study and Work

So the vacation of the lunar new year faded into the air, but the hovering stress murmurs still at my ears. It shows no sign of wear, but simply takes on another shape, sitting in its chariot, it's as powerful as kismet.

But, of course, not everyone believes in fate. The world conforms with your conception of it, and the stress is the consequence of your own making- it exists only in your imagination.