恐懼做為指引的力量

我羨慕三種人：第一種，有信仰的人；第二種，有伴的人；第三種，知足的人。我羨慕他們因為我並不屬於這三個項目中的任何一種。

下午老天爺賞光沒有下雨讓我和朋友得以悠閒散步，在漫步搜尋午餐的路上她的神情奕奕地談著教會。我告訴她我一向對宗教很有興趣，但是就是沒有辦法去「信」。我無法說我相信我並不真心相信的東西。但是我一直很想要有個信仰 - 有個比自己更高遠的東西可以依靠，在黑暗的時刻可以避難及搜尋慰藉。但這想望並沒有構成「信」的正當性：「祂」不會因為我信而存在，或不信而消失，會改變的只有內心。這也就是說，不管我有多麼想要信（佛祖、媽祖、上帝、阿拉或是濕婆都好），我沒有辦法去信一個只存在我想法裡的東西，並相信祂會拯救我。

稍晚，坐在飯桌前，我一手拿咖啡一手拿餅乾與阿叔及阿嬸聊著天。「你阿叔有在買股票，」阿嬸傾身向前，「但都是在賠錢！」話還沒完他們兩個人就一陣笑呵呵。看著他們，這種有人了解你並陪你過日子的溫暖感覺讓我也笑了起來，但是我不禁想到，我已經習慣了一個人過生活，我還有機會及能力接受生活中不只只有我嗎？我的笑容隨著這想法而煙消雲滅，但基於作客的禮貌我還是保持微笑。

晚餐時我們移師餐廳，繼續聊著我的未來這話題：
「讀西文的畢業後大部分都在從事什麼工作？」阿嬸問到。
「很多都是去做貿易，」我熟練地回答著，「啊有的跑去外交部或是繼續讀博士。」
「但這都不是我想做的，」我緊接著補充，「我想要做出版和寫書。」
這寫書的想法是我近幾年才發現的，一直以來我只知道坐在辦公桌前處理文件很無趣，以及四處跑和寫東西時我很快樂。有一天我忽然察覺到我想要的只是成為一個透過我雙眼 - 而非經過他人 - 看過這個世界的人。我不夢想賺大錢，我不要做大官看人敬禮，我也沒有興趣擁有高學歷，讓我快樂的東西並不是這些。

當然，這很美好，因為它是夢想。而現實告訴我們除非你家印鈔票或是抽中樂透（而且沒有因為揮霍縱慾過度而死），否則夢想需要很多時間及金錢的累積才會有那麼一點點成形的機會，而成形並不表示就會開花。這鐵的原則我懂，所以我猶豫不決，心中充滿了未知及不安，我的未來到底在哪裡？我是否會成功？還是我會敗的一塌糊塗到最後什麼都不是也什麼都沒有？思緒至此，口中的佳肴沾染了苦味，我不禁羨慕起那些可以因為有穩定工作而滿足（這並沒有貶意）、有伴可以傾訴、有信仰可以做精神支柱的人。

憶往

代表不同時空的影像隨著音樂的起伏而出現、消失及替換；歡樂、痛苦及感傷也亦步亦趨地伴隨著這些包含著人事物的畫面。這大概是我最常想的事情，幾乎每一個地方都有令人難以拋棄的回憶，只是回憶拋棄了人，讓人陷在回憶裡。到現在為止不管我多喜歡一個地方，我仍然無法定下來，因為我思索著：要如何拋棄記憶裡的那些地方呢？所以我不停的從一地猶疑到另一地，聽著之前的音樂，看著過往的照片，同時創造新的回憶。這，真是可怖的存在。

Consistency

I saw the ceiling darkened by the advance of the hours and, when the irises got used to the gloom, the faint glow printed on it by the streetlamp through the drawn curtains. It's as if I've been staring at ceilings my whole life while thinking about nothing in particular. Most often I found my thoughts drifting from one trail to the other, then on to something else, and later it would find its way back to the starting point. This process would go on like automation till thoughts gave way to slumber.

As I lay there on the bed in my friends' house I had a sudden feeling that my life reflects my thoughts in form - drifting from one place to the other familiarizing with and specialising in none. Where am I going and what to do next? In my case the latter conditions the former, yet it was the former that sets the goal for the latter. However, under close scrutiny it should be better described as both happening at the same time.

I have the rather unrealistic dream to write and publish travelogues, think of Paul Theroux or Michael Asher (British writer and desert explorer). Problem is, I couldn't figure out ways to get there. Two big reasons (or excuses if you insist) being: 1) domestic expectation (read: pressure) to establish a "stable career" and then a family of my own consisting of me, my wife and my children. Flagrant foul of which would result in great domestic disturbance bordering on the edge of a crusade against the offender. 2) doubt and fear of stepping into professionally unknown field at an age when your friends are happily making kids and big bucks at work. The resulting disorientation is great.

This dreadful state forces me to think quickly for even if my family should stop talking about it I couldn't drive it out of my mind. It has successfully taken over woman as my leading preoccupation. As a matter of fact, the idea of a girlfriend might even seem a bit unthinkable. These days I dedicate my time between soaking in photography and trying to figure out my career (and some other meaningless activities like staring into the ceiling), this may sound productive, but it is constantly interrupted by the inconsistency of my thoughts which has led me to my own wretchedness.

The Virtue of Writing

Too much convenience is bad for your health, while in modern society it's just all too convenient. I gave up on digital cameras because they leave no room for imagination, we use them precisely because they provide us with instant feedback at no additional cost. So I turned to film photography about 2 years ago and contrary to what people prophesied I'm still using my film camera, and most importantly, I finally find joy in it which digital failed to provide me with.

For the past 2 years I've somehow lost the habit of writing, something which I valued greatly for it served as a means of reflection and intimate friend that I don't have in real life. It was replaced by Facebook, I now have most of my friends up there, having access to their latest updates with the click of a mouse, yet the hole in me's grown bigger. I realized that Facebook is not the answer to my plight, and that I need to go back to my old practises.

I was surprised by Esther's remarks the other day telling me that when a friend asked her what would she like to read in English on a regular basis, the first image surfaced was the blog Old Magazine. I didn't know I had another reader apart from the toastman (haha)! Her letter was a reminder to what I enjoyed doing. I've been looking in the wrong direction for salvation, I should get back to writing and release my ghosts here.

回憶與流亡

昨晚於餐後的茶點時短暫聊及Mecano（或是 Amaia Montero？忘了）以及回憶。回憶的特性就是即便你以為已經遺忘它了，在特定媒介的刺激下，它（們）會憑空出現，而當這發生時你陷入一種迷流的狀態。這並不是指進入跟現實切斷連結的恍惚狀態。薩伊德在談論流亡時提供了類似的敘述：「對大多數流亡者來說，…家鄉其實並非那麼遙遠，[但是]當代生活的交通使你對故鄉一直可望不可即。因此，流亡者存在於一種中間狀態，既非完全與新環境合一，也未完全與舊環境分離，而是處於若即若離的困境…」（知識分子論）

當消失的回憶縈繞在心頭時你陷入的就是這若即若離的困境，這是個無解的狀況，因為過去的某一狀態已經停止存在，但是記憶它的記憶卻是存在的。你一點辦法也沒有讓它完整重現，你只能以文字或是其他替代方案讓它發生於指定的媒介上。薩伊德接著說：「有一種風行但完全錯誤的觀念：流亡是被完全切斷，孤立無望地與原鄉之分離，但願那種外科手術式、一刀兩斷的劃分方式是真的，因為這麼一來你知道遺留在後的就某個意義而言是不可想像、完全無法回復的。這種認知至少可以提供些許的慰藉。」

不同的是，對回憶而言，知道它是「完全無法回復的」並不會替你帶來多大的慰藉。這並不是說回憶是負面的，不能帶來慰藉指的純粹只是一種因為無法重現已經消逝於過去某一點人事物的狀態的強烈失落感。在追憶似水年華裡普魯斯特為回憶的優點提供了一段很好的形容："...memory, not yet of the place in which I was, but of various other places where I had lived, and might now very possibly be, would come like a rope let down from heaven to draw me up out of the abyss of not-being, from which I could never have escaped by myself..."。

回憶本身不包含善惡的概念，它充其量只不過是個善變的東西，隨你起舞 -但同時也控制著它的主人。這主從的關係並沒有清楚的界線，有時你可以削減它的氣燄，但更多時候是它對你頤氣指使。然而，普魯斯特指出回憶也會以救世主之姿把你從虛空之中解救出來。假如普魯斯特所言不假，那麼回憶就同時具有使迷幻以及使清醒的作用。此一強大能力的存在到底是好是壞並沒有辦法下定斷 -也許尋找結論是多餘的-，但可以知道的是在很多情況下這兩種作用同時在進行著，而這又把我們帶回了流亡上。對流亡者而言，回鄉的強烈慾望一直驅使著他向前進，但也同時不停地折磨他。這回應了薩伊德所言：「流亡就是無休無止，東奔西走，一直未能安定下來...無法回到某個更早、也許更穩定的安適自在的狀態；而且，可悲的是，永遠無法完全抵達，永遠無法與新家或新情境合而為一。」

Not as Free as a Bird

The need to be on the move, wrote the man sitting in front of the computer. The day before the day the man was writing these words Cecilia questioned him why, despite his proficiency in the local language and all the experiences of travelling alone, was he wasting his time staying home instead of being out there wandering around while he was still here in the foreign land.

His first reaction was of course to defend his own actions, but the words just fell short of escaping his parting lips. What reasoning could be the justification to his staying home all day long? There wasn't, and he knew it. He had, at the moment of being questioned, already several excuses conjured up to counter the attack, but he simply knew that she was right, these becauses were just excuses fabricated to cover up an ugly truth - he had no control over his own life.

Over time, he was getting used to the thinkings of people that don't move around that much. And he was somehow adapting to these ideas and accepting them as normal. Little did he know that this was taking its toll on his spirit. Weeks and months preceding to this present day when he was writing these words, he picked up a trace of some sort of suffocation - the nature of which remained unclear to him. Suffocation then led to gloominess, and gloominess led to a state of lethargy.

Then it finally dawned on him what was missing, and the remedy couldn't be more straightforward - he just needed to be on the road, to break free from these ideas that restrained him from breathing the free air. It was this very reason that he didn't defend himself when she questioned him. However, along with this realization also came the reaffirmation that man cannot be totally free from foreign influences most of the time, and this inability to be true to himself renders him unhappy.

Prosper Mérimée, 1845

Desire is a capricious thing, it plays with the reality, then it fucks you. This is a dual layer problem. You see on the tele the glamorous side of the life that is in the well-to-do Spain, and you imagine how good it would be living like that there with a nice, beautiful sheila. Then you proceed with seeing yourself there. Shortly after that, you actually believe that you're there, and so you're filled with a sensation of euphoria.

But of course, you are well aware that it's thousands of miles away. And the thing is you are happy about where you're at. You found yourself falling in love with this country full of chaos, misery, poverty and state corruption, yet populated by lovable people. O lovable, yes, you met her, and the scouts report that she's without commitment of any kind. Judging from her attitudes and the way she acts you can sense a trace of happiness. You are exhilarated.

Then desire makes its way into your thoughts, bringing along indecision. Experience teaches you that patience is a virtue, yet it also tells you that you are old enough to get serious about it before it's too late. This battle between fantasy and reality takes place every time you are close to felicity, and the result of the conflict is always you licking your wounds by yourself. This time around, however, you've decided to let fantasy controls you no more and set foot on solid ground.

Mercy Corps

You saw the few lines describing the projects you have with other NGOs in Central Asia - somewhere you always wanted to go because it fascinates you - you sat there staring silently and motionlessly at the monitor for a moment, romantically imagining yourself in the steppes, and then your thoughts found themselves back to the present moment, and to the fact that you'll inevitably leave this place before Christmas.

The connections you've made so far will be abandoned - thoughts like these make you wonder what is it you want. You then figured that you're not made for wandering, but staying, for that's what your heart desires. Nevertheless, you're also aware that you've experienced the same kind of feeling before, and not so long ago. You know that you are adaptive, but that doesn't lose the fact that the past stays within you all the time, and you sense the beauty because the beauty of a landscape resides in its melancholy. What's curious is that part of you longs for moving around, yet the other half aspires the contrary, it's as if there's a never-ending struggle happening right inside you and you're constantly bleeding for the wounds they cause.

Murmurs

The skeletons of two adults and two children lie curled-up, perhaps to save space. Alongside them are pots: gifts placed in the grave to use in the afterlife.

I wondered what were their stories and what will be mine.

The Wandering Man

I'm on my way again, but this time not for pleasure, but duty. It's like the kind of posts that people covet because you get to fly to another country free of charge. Contrary to public opinions, I'm a bit reluctant to go this time around, I suppose I'm tired of moving around without having a place or person to call my own. I've spent a good chunk of my time moving from one place to another. Well, it's not that I don't like it, I do, I like the sense of freedom and the ability to see the world with my own eyes, but I guess I'm somewhat weary of doing it by myself, I reckon that I want some company.

But the reality sometimes shows no mercy, and you don't get to see your wishes realised, at least not for anytime soon. I'm on the move now, and I've forseen some more years on the road before I should, if fate will, settle down. Settling down might not sound like the thing a young man of my age would say (or am I wrong and that this thought is actually quite commonplace?), but for someone suffering so constantly from loneliness I suppose it's quite normal, and that loneliness is made worse because you don't look like one that has this kind of problems, on top of that you find it difficult to express it anywhere but here.

Karakter

My civil communicating ability was temporarily shut down and I was left with groaning while listening to my old man on the other side of the line giving me instructions on what to do once I finished my errand. I suppose I was furious because he made me felt like a kid, and maybe because upon my return I would then be forced to act contrary to my normal behaviour and that would make me feel awkward or perhaps embarrassed even. This got exacerbated by the thought that it will be the pattern that I'll probably be following for the years to come, perhaps because that's how the world is in this part of the world (I can only attest for how it works in here, since I don't know much outside it). A game of interpersonal relationships, an age-old tradition. And maybe I was angry because I suddenly realized that I found myself couldn't agree more to what he was saying, but did in fact failed to realized that by myself and thus had to be "reminded" only now, I was, I suppose that was how I felt, humiliated, a miscalculation too great for my ego.

I've become quite complacent over the years, wielding my knowledge as a leverage control and got myself elevated to the high places. A lesson was placed upon me, and I didn't fancy much the taste of it. I've acquired the habit of holding myself in some pretty damn high esteem. Who am I after all? The profes love me for my thoughts and words, the colleagues and students love my for my professional knowledge (well, they always over-estimated me, all I've got is bluffing) and witty words, and I was foolish enough to fall for all that, and mostly importantly, to be conceited by myself and my vanity, I wanted myself to believe in what I made them think of what I was. I remember reading someone somewhere saying that it was like some kind of inferior complex... fuck, now I have a sodding complex! And I thought I was so sane!

***

I thought I was going to read Pamuk's The White Castle, but instead I am lying on my sister's sofa penning down these words on the notepad that I carry with me anywhere I go. I'm just about one third into the book, but I thought it was interesting so far. So after "talking" to my old man (it was he who was doing all the talking, I was responsible for the groaning-back part), I fetched it and thought I was going to read it, but in the end I chose to sit and write. Why am I writing anyway? What's so cool about it? Is it more interesting than the story of the Hoja and the young Italian scholar who became a slave? I often ask myself why do I write and why the things I choose to write about. Sometimes the answer it to improve my writing, but I know (at least I think I know, I'm a skeptical, you know) that I do it because I have to, I need it to clear my thoughts which are entangled a good deal of the time and free myself from the demons which are myself. Man needs and outlet, and so far writing is mine. Does that mean I'm a lonely person? Well, fuck, we're not so pathetic yet as to be needing it to tell us. We simply are lonely! But, is this a lonely man's prerogative? Will I stop doing it, I mean reflecting, should we one day wake up to find that we're no longer lonely?

Hey Jude

Well, I just rang earlier to see how was her mom, who had an accident a couple of days ago, some kid on a scotter hit her from behind on the red light, and I was told that she died 2 days ago. Of course, it's not the first time someone died, but the feeling remains weird, gone out of existence just like that. I've been thinking about it again, well, it's always there on my mind, just that recently the frequency of its waves is on the rise.

Prior to the phone call I was on the fifth floor of the library, sitting next to the window with the sun infiltrating through the glass in a luminious yet not intrusive way, it was around a quarter to 4. The place was spacious and warm, it was cozy, my books and papers littered across the round table as I was the only master commanding it.

This question about "what's the point?", as you may very well have noticed in my earlier entries, has been one of the centre of focuses; this futility of being, this if we should return to a state of nothingness, which shouldn't be even called a "state" because being non-existent is not existing at all, is not occupying any unit whatsoever in the universe, is simply not there, and since this supposed "it" is not even there, how shoud "its" state be? to which "it" are we referring to exactly? that which is not there? which is that which? Anyway, it's a sodding dead end, man has been asking this same question since the dawn of History and still he cannot come up with a satisfactory answer, one that puts his mind to rest in peace. He has so far failed in his attempt, it's futile, and not going anywhere but to embitter onself, yes! embitter oneself! Despite the fact that I knew it all along, I didn't quite realized that what I've been doing was assassinating myself!

So with this not so novel realization came two choices, I could either go on like this for the rest of my life, or I could let go and enjoy my life (well, it's not that you can tell from the appearances, but appearances hardly matter). By "let go" of coure I'm not insinuating giving up completely of pondering on it or doing something so totally stupid that puts my very existence on the verge of extinction, on the contrary, I know I'll keep thinking abou it, that is something which is still beyond my power to change, but it should not prevent me from enjoying my life.

An Apology

As indicates the title, in this entry we are going to look at the first mistake that I committed in the new year. Well, this mistake, which we will elaborate in stunning details later on, was actually the inevitable outcome of what we’ve become, ah… I mean, what I’ve become lately. Through the many daily encounters and such, I’ve noticed that I’ve become quite complacent, because of my petty accomplishments so far, even somewhat stuck-up you can say. From time to time, I picked up traces of it, but it wasn’t exactly my cup of tea so I turned my back on it and pretended that I wasn’t becoming like that, that it was a thing of the fairy tales which didn’t exist in the real world, something to which I was immuned.

This situation lasted and wound like a spring which was destined to reach its climax and release the tension, or like a bow persecuted by a thousand enemies and clings to the balance with only a shivering arm trying with all its might to hold back the tide.

Hark!

The arrow shot through the sky with an unmistakable cry and the only thing the trembling arm could do was to bid it farewell, it knew it was no accident, it knew it had to give in, like a dam surrendering to the overwhelming aquatic pressure, first a leak and then disaster.

So the arm released that arrow and the archer wasn’t bright enough to know at that moment that he had committed something which, as a consequence, would make him sorry and then putting it on the internet for your viewing pleasure in a desperate attempt to free himself from his guilt and, mostly, humiliation.

The SMS message, characterized by inadecuate question and imprudent manner, generated a powerful answer, and immediately upon its arrival, it provoked annoyance and a bit of anger, indignant at who the hell you think you are to talk to me like that. So, in less than 2 seconds, Hermes carried back the one word reply. But, as soon as the archer sent the second arrow on its way, he finally scented his previous errors.

The sole reply to his messages was of industrial strength and humiliating, he was chided like a child, something which haven’t happened for years, and now by someone younger than he was.It was so embarrassing, so unforgiving, so oh why the fuck you said that for you stupid git? that it shook him out of his complacency and forced him to face the fact – that he was a complacent prick. So hastely, he mounted a third arrow and dispatched it to the othe end, carried by an apologetic air. However, more than two hours has already passed and he hasn’t yet received a sign that would release him from his anguish, the hour too late and the torment too great, so all that he can do now is to finish typing, retire to bed and hope that by tomorrow the cure will arrive.

Die Berliner Mauer

Been lurking around people's blogs, and my investigation so far leads me to the conclusion that no man is happy. Yet, they all look so merry. Yes, so joyful and animated, jolly good.

The other day at work they talked about one of the students losing control over himself and yelling something incoherent with a desperate and suicidal air. Funny how sunny he looked normally. But, after a second thought, it's not all that strange. When you make a mistake and try hard to pretend that nothing has happened, it just gets all the more obvious. No matter how good one is at pretending, you can always catch him off guard, provided that you know how to look. Provided that you know how to look at yourself.

Frustrating it is when someone tries to escape from this hell and his every attempts been met with doors shut tight, doors of false images, concived by himself and those around him.

In order to breach the wall, one must not harbour clouded vision for it only lures and misguides. Fear is another major benefactor in the construction and maintenance of this abyss, like a well-trained watchdog, it keeps one at bay. It sinks its teeth into you and leaves you bleeding to death should you tumble upon its territory. And if one fails in the task of breaking free, then the downfall is destined, it's just a matter of time and the way it is brought about.

Man's Crisis of Identity

The bookmark Gloria gave me smells like her, or is it vice versa?

Subject: First Reminder for Luis Sotto's Birthday on Saturday December 30th

I was completely taken by surprise when I saw the title in my inbox. Says on the page that appeared, after I clicked on the link: "Schuma - Which card will put the biggest smile on Luis's face?" "None of them, because he's dead." Or, more precisely, he's been dead for almost half an year.

***

These days I've found myself following closely to the ongoing Ipswich murder case and checking the BBC site at every given moment for the latest news and the identities of the last 2 victims. Sincere and strangely, I was hoping that Paula Clennell wasn't one of them. When the police identified her as the fifth girl dead, I found myself letting out a great sigh, staring expressionlessly at the monitor, same reaction when Dennis Rodman made that goddamn 3-pointer againt the Jazz in the finals. Disbelief and a sense of total powerlessness. Well, this reaction was probably shared by many because we have seen the anguished look on her dad's face and in his words and we're all imagining what kind of torment he is going through right now. We suppose than we feel it, supposedly. Masking and fabricating ones feelings.

Depressing news are always in stock, unrest in Somalia, in Iraq, in Gaza, murders, suicides, and what eles? umm, let me see... poverty, diseases, nuts, whatever the fuck, etc. etc. Eveytime, in the face of such news, one just can't help wondering, for what?

Why all these sufferings? These happinesses? Why all these feelings at all? If one should vanish into nothing in the end then, what's the point? Gary Tarn, the pom director I met in the documentary festival, said that the meaning of life is life itself. But I just can't help wondering what if life itself is nothing, then what's it all about? If life is nothing then the lives of our children are also nothing, and the same applies to all life forms on earth because when they reach the end of their life spans they all turn into nothing, then it's just an endless and meaningless continuance of nothingnesses which amounts to, naturally, nothing in the end (where is the end?). Nothing at all. A thriving planet, full of lives would be nothing but empty words. Philosophy, knowledge, education, love, a better future, all cease to have any significances for if life is nothing, all is nothing. It's all in vain, and a better future, for what? For nothing.

Someone said nothing will come out of nothing, it's quite true, but it's rhetoric in essence so it could also be false, depending on the context. It's just too buggering all these nothingnesses and it makes life unnecessarily harder because living without knowing for what, without knowing the Answer is no comfort at all.

Downsides of Documentaries

The documentary festival ended seven days ago and its devastating effects are ever present. These buggers leave you wondering how their subjects are doing, a yearning to know that they are well, or at least, to have some news about them. You don't just walk out of this like you would with a film or a novel because they're real people with a real story in a real world, their world. You feel a kinship with them no matter how mundane and dispicable they are, curious, probably you are mundane and dispicable yourself and that's why you identify with them.

Or probably you're too coward to recognize the real you in real world, even though you know that you all along but keep dressing yourself with books and ideas. An intellectual! The world of laughter and friendship seems so out of reach and you're so poisoned that you can't laugh like a normal person would and this academic robe is too heavy to be shrugged off. Probably you're just a detestable little man who claim that you are a lover of books and ideas so that you are spared of yourself, so that the world don't get to hate you, so the world will love you and that you're funny and desirable.

No wonder you have no friends, you don't want them. You're afraid that they will discover the other side of you and decide that you're not cool at all. Your prestige, something that you've worked so hard unconsciously along the years to achieve so far, will disintegrate and your world will crumble and you'll be reduced to less than a maggot. It's like standing stark naked in an open field plagued with onlookers, humiliating. No wonder you always keep a distance from the world, lest they should spot something foul. So you keep playing the game, the game with no way out. Trapped and lost in the labyrinth unable to rid yourself of it even if you want to.

And what's the meaning of a blog telling the world how hateful you really are? Are you trying to make up for what you can't do in real life? Well, the internet is surely a good medium to talk, just as good as a confession booth, it's liberating. But also quite useless the moment you walk out the church.

The picture of Germaine Greer and some others scared you because you see yourself walking towards the same path, the path of total self-delusion and self-importance. You wonder how has it all come to this? You sometimes wish that you were just a simpleton living happy and ignorantly in a backwater world, but that's just another excuse really because you are not and you can't be just like that, and you know that. Or is it all just a big fat lie you make up for yourself, to cover the fact that you like fame and power? Saying that "ooh I'd love to lead a simpler life, to find the innocent child, the nostalgia...", to cheat yourself, pretending that you are not doing what you liked? To make youself believe that you're not bad, but just another poor victim of the sick society? You don't know, being a skeptic makes you unable to say much for sure, including your own thoughts and feelings, you can only say I don't know. That's why you envy those who can say and believe in something wholeheartedly, because you can't and you don't like it at all.

Me Tarzan, You Jane.

The documentary festival started today. One of the morning sessions left me with a bit of a headache, well I'm not saying that it was bad, instead I liked it, just that my eyes are not adapted to the way it was presented on the big screen with all the flashing and blurring images, it was about someone going blind so this technique is quite understandable, though I don't fancy it at all.

Concha was in the neighbourhood around the same time so I sought her out to kill the gap between sessions, but in fact I was considering giving up and go home instead because the world was still spinning around and I could really use some serious lying down. Still, despite the nausea, I decided to stay because I was really looking forward to the afternoon and evening sessions.

So there I was, standing in line with the ticket in my hand when I saw this incredibly attractive female passing in front of me and "cute" slipped my lips. Now that was something because I normally don't do that, I would say "take a look at that" frivolously.

After I seated myself, I found the empty seat next to me taken by someone, a female, one with curly long hair, and... it was her! What are the chances, what are the chances, mate, right next to me, the incredibly attractive female moments ago!

When the credits started to roll more than 90 percent of the audiences disappeared while the director was open to questions on stage. She remained there, just the two of us in that comfy part of the room, so under the pretext of borrowing a pen I ah officially turned and talked to her, at the same time grooming for my next move. "Excuse me, mademoiselle, allow a burning soul to disturb your peace. The thing is, my lady, that the next one which is about to be shown is Svyato which I heard was worth the trouble. And I've been contemplating over the bold quest whether you would grace my existence by permitting me the privilege of accompanying you in the appreciation of this film, to determine for ourselves whether it was truely as good as I've been told", excited and gleefully I harboured the phrase which was repeated over and over during the whole session.

Then on the way out I finally gathered enough cojones to tap her lightly on the shoulder. She turned and ah, Svyato, Svyato, open air movie, I stammered. "Ah, yes, it's the one at 1930" and then she continued on with her intended course, seemingly undisturbed by nothing, nothing at all. Because nothing came out to change that course. So nothing changed, just one more difficult night and the subsequent torture in the following days till the next opportunity presents itself before my eyes. And round and round and the concentric ruin survives.

On How to Spot Someone with Inherent Slave Attributes

Definition of someone with inherent slave attributes: less freedom is more and vice versa.

It's very simple with this spotting someone with inherent slave attributes thing. First, you observe how was his life before and after he got a job. Second, if he's happier now because he doesn't wake up at noon during weekdays no more then you just got yourself someone with inherent slave attributes.

On Faith and Something Else

Sometimes I find it difficult for me to think of the possibilities that a person should say what he believes in,... no, I rephrase, that a person to think that he believes in what he believes he believes in. Reason behind this is quite simple: how do you know what is it that you truely believe in and not just legacy of the collective knowledge or something else?

The victim for today's blunt libel is religious faith, the thing is that you can't prove or disprove anything, you can't show that god or transmigration of the soul does exist or just pure fantasy, of course, there're are lots of books out there as testimonies to their existences, but they're just anecdotes, good for telling the kids and killing time, but not suitable to be taken as the truth despite how scientifically testified claimed by some.

They try to convert me into a christian and it's just impossible, I'm not going to be a follower to a certain religious faith if I don't feel it myself. I really don't understand why they're so eager and preoccupied in absorbing new members. Yeah, spreading the good news I know, but if I don't truely believe it and yet say I do and get baptised, will that bring me salvation? Or am I just a irresponsible hypocrite and coward worrying that I might go to hell so want to hitch a ride onto the stairway to heaven to get my candies?

So many people say that they believe in god or past lives or whatever, but do they? Do they truely believe in what they're talking about or are they just reading out loud what they've been told since they were little and thus mistakenly think that's what they believe in? Same with the ideologies and everything else on earth.

No wonder Thales said that it's difficult to know thyself. Are you really what and who you think you're? And then again, according to Buddha, the enlightened one, there is no self.