2050

The depth of 2am sees friends express deviant love for each other, pissing away in the wind, kicking hideous architectural designs (*cough* ROM) and reminiscing past infatuations. Talks of absinthe and romanticism have polluted the very last breaths of air this year has to offer. And semi-schizophrenic DMN impersonated Juliet and yonder lights, pirouetting on the shimmering stars of uptown Bloor, to the sheer horror of virgin ears.
Half an hour later, a subway ride home, ethanol enzymatically metamorphosed, the brain starts bathing in vague lucidity of the after-hours: the mind tries to encapsulate a year into a few minutes, labeling the days, annotating the faces, sticking the yellow footnotes onto filled pages.
2005 will be remembered as a year of uncertainty and indecisions, of very highs and very lows, of letting go and letting in. It will be a year remembered for taking chances.
There will be no more of what if 1984 had been 1948.

21 now. Le ciel me tombera sur la tête.
Clap your hands and say yeah, I'm listening to Elvis.

No mindfuck.
No Great Expectations.
All meant genuinely.
End of story.
***
////

Ma chère Baby sister,
It’s the fourth year I’m spending another Christmas and birthday without you. And for that, I am sad.
I am always amazed at how different we are or have become. And yet, you still understand me more than anyone in the world, because you peel off the layers of bullshit I wrap myself around. You see me, as lame as crazy as silly as I really am. To you, I will always be the girl you sang Backstreet Boys with at the top of your lungs and danced to old Mariah Carey songs in some barewalled room. Simple. Silly. So me.
Gone are days when we would secretly down a bottle of wine hiding underneath blankets. I’m amazed I still could cut the cake properly…
Gone are days watching idiotic shows and keeping the lines busy for hours on end.
Gone are tears that came when we recoiled against closed doors.
I wonder if I could still be able to play that Hungarian violin solo you gave me then. Time has passed and the fingers have stiffened.
You’ve been there, and you’ve heard it all; the insecurities, the petty meanderings of the mind and the truly nonsensical monologues. And even if I can still get your birthdate confused (January uh...5th? 9th?11th?..), you somehow still love me, think of me and praise me like a queen. And for that, I thank you.

Love,
Big sister
...growing a wise white beard. I wish.

Gorfwhompgoo, I want myself back.

I think I’ve changed but I’m just a gerbil in a cage running as fast as I can…someday, I’ll get…nowhere. I have been trying to take the world by the inches it can give, finally willing to approach a new relationship with as much truth as I can give… and yet, I still feel something odd, a hairy monster of a lie…still as if I’m squeezing emotions out of an empty toothpaste tube. Some days, I still feel that way.
Then Explosions in the Sky will radiate out of those speaker phones oozing magic into my four by four room with sunlight peeking through those red curtains and CC’s arms wrapped around me. We play those silly games, catching pictures in the shadows of falling cloth, inventing absurd fairy tales and drawing out endless futures. And I realize that you can never deny the intimacy of naked flesh and the wordless communication of living moments. Something always goes beyond the limitations you set yourself to have and the conditions you think yourself to need.

They might say you're a dreamer, but you're not the only one.

"The Obsessive-Compulsive-Disorder brain shows abnormalities in the basal ganglia, where part of the sensory information is coordinated. OCD patients become chronic doubters and cannot trust their own senses.
...
Probably the most impressive demonstration that OCD is a physical affliction was unwittingly carried out by a 22 year old man who compulsively washed his hands hundreds of times a day. This made his life so unbearable that he decided to kill himself. Remarkably, he not only survived the self inflicted gun shot wound to his head, but cured himself of his compulsion. Apparently he had blown away the diseased part of his brain...."- Chemistry of Drugs

This made my day. How sickeningly funny.

It’s funny how stressful attempting to study really is. There are definitely more coffee stains on absolutely illegible notes. There are two or three, maybe even four, more pimples on the forehead. I have decimated an entire box of cereals: just me, myself and the beginnings of an ulcer. And I’ve been pacing around the apartment like a mad Beethoven on his 5^th Symphony.

Except this is still the extent of studying I’ve done. But be amazed! there IS a title at the very top! Glucose:Glycolysis, Glycogenesis, Gluconeogenesis.

Now, I totally redefine productivity.
There are after all 134 new music files in my computer.

***

Today, I need to escape subtlety.
Subtlety is a nice way to hide one’s foolishness until it comes back and gives you a taste of its own medicine.
Down with letters to no one. Posts addressed to a postee that can or can not be addressing me. These spiraling lies make me nauseous because we are people running in fear, making stupid barriers, reinventing dull reality, trying to break away from daily routine.
Maybe one day I will meet you and it will be nothing like words. No magic, just reality. As dull and uninteresting as it can be or as full and interesting as it can also be.
And even though the you may seem as elusive as ever, you know who you are. I can’t be any more obvious. Well I can, but what fun would that be...
And I confess, I was and am intimidated as hell.
And there is only so much electric impulses can communicate.
It's always amazing to see how subtle my "unsubtlety" is.
Tired of the absurd? Today we escape.
Next chapter, please.