Violent Passion Surrogate

23 45 & Fivesta family's Ya budu is one of them.

Here I am sitting on the edge of my youth, of when all the roses should be at their blooming peak, when they are the redest; when all the birds are together singing their summer morning orchestra; when all colors in the world fade and zoom and blend and mingle into multi-layered multi-colored kaleidoscopic canvas pictures.

But the truth is, here I am sitting in front of the PC, my eyes fixed on the screen, and I'm increasingly lured into that pseudo experience of adventures, of love, of hatred, emotions, of the world changing and moving around me.

But since nothing has any value from the beginning, even change has no meaning at all.
So time is passing, but in a circle: and we are but marathon athletes running around and around in that circle, with no starting point as well as finishing line.

And so what we have to do, and must do, is to find meanings to them.
The marathon race we are all running.

And I need some Violent Passion now. With a glance of the eyes to a stranger in a public place, I smile wittily, knowingly. Then he looks at me, and during that single nano-second moment, something is born. That distance between us contracts into a breath: he suddenly stands in front of my eyes, his hair gently flutters in the wind, his eyes hungrily investigating my every singly cell and corner, and he whispers: "Kiss me, hug me"

And suddenly the world turns into a giant symphony orchestra....
Roses are red. So is my blood, and his, too.

His hair has a very gentle scent. I sniff it. Like i would the fresh pages of a new book, or something mysterious I happen to find in my drawer.

The time has come. I've to go now.

movies

I love those political revolutionary movies, as they offer me a kind of escape from my everydayism, channeling my unused mental energy into a form of pseudo unknown-of experience, my craving for liberation, anything that can act as an alternative to the hollowness felt inside me. Sometimes while I watch the scenes going on before my eyes, a vague feeling of frustration silently crawled up inside me; a devastating realization of my powerlessness in doing anything other than indulging in theoretical masturbation and banal self-pondering. I wish I was born in those days, when revolution was running everywhere in the world, in Europe, in America. People with hot hearts and burning passion to fight for a cause. Am I the only one who listens to “La Rage” and feels turned on?

“Dope chokes up young people’s revolutionary energy” (The Edukators)

Is it dope or is it the very process of development that halts my mental energy?

Maybe, maybe not. Maybe both.

Walking the rue d’Assas, dropping by a patisserie for a hot French toast, stopping at a sidewalf café for a hot morning mocha. Smoking, reading the morning papers, chatting with friends, bathing in summer sun light.

Other than that, on weekends I spend my days like a lazy cat cuddling up in its warm, furry blanket on a cold winter day. Weekends locked in my home, having a movie watching run, thinking. 

Real slow life. Beer everyday in a run. Scenes dancing before my eyes, people’s lives, tears, happiness, revolution, guns, bloodshed, everything that exists. Now I feel the very core of what is called “mobile privatization” learned in my media studies class. People rooted in one place watching thousands and millions of lives happening around the globe. The sky’s the limit. No time or space oppression. 

writing

Writing is a way to detoxify myself. Here as I am sitting on the wooden floor of my room, looking at the laptop clock showing 12:11 AM, splurting out shit, I see my existence at the very core of it. Suddenly felt stomach-empty a while ago, I tried to struggle with the instinct to pull out all the evils hidden in my kitchen cupboard, by making some corn soup to calm myself down, and store up some energy in order to write this.

Let’s put it this way: I am, after all, a human being. By a human being, I mean a single one, not two, not together, totally detached from the social definition of our human race (the same as in gender vs sex). Even when I talk to friends/my family, exchange flirting sms with my boyfriend, go to class, go to convenience store to grab some coffee and cigarettes, I am eventually by myself. That means, the way the world revolves and things happen take place inside my head, and mine alone, not shared or determined or controlled by any means by any other external factors. I have a whole world with its own stories and melodies inside my head. And here, at this very moment as I mentioned above, I see my existence as a lonely, socially detached, single form of living creature that happens to be awake at 12:19 am, sitting straight up on my wooden floor, splitting out shit and eating corn soup.

My life is an everyday fight with the virus that has not only taken its evil root inside me but has spread and permeated every single cell of my body. Yet, the even more scrary fact is that it has eaten into my nerves, my brain, controlling every single movement of me, driving me crazy until my mind screams and I finally burst out in a chaotic mess, ending up with the obnoxious muddy stinky pool of my own bodily puking.

Please, do not read this if you are eating. Alert to those biologically fragile to human feces stories during meal time or hypocrites trying to appear sophisticated or ladylike or whatever terms you call it.

 The idea of social accompany gives me a nausea. That does not mean I am anti-social, or hate human, or look down on them. I do hang out with people; indeed I can never forget the time spent with the crazy kids from my high school time. I do enjoy the social and emotional aid that hanging out offers: it releases pain, it strengthens my beliefs, it enforces my own egoistic thoughts. Yet, I do not believe in the technical meaning of social accompany. Decisions are after all made by you and yourself alone.