Самотата

Разпространение : повсеместно
Потенциални жертви : всеки
Въздействие : ако не бъдат взети навременни мерки може да доведе до социална смърт(а това е участ, по-ужасна от физическата смърт)
Предпазване : be careful, be very careful

Благодатна тема. Писано е много и е говорено още повече. Редно е към определението за „самота” да се прибави и думата „болест” – защото се прихваща неусетно, действа подмолно и поразеният разбира, че е болен, когато вече е късно да се предпази, а крайният резултат може да се сравни със затъване в тресавище – общо взето няма измъкване освен ако не ти протегнат ръка за помощ. Лечението е трудно, бавно, иска много обгрижване и май никога не може да се доведе изцяло до край – once a loner, always a loner. Защото самотата оставя привидно затворени рани, които се отварят наново всеки път, когато телефонът мълчи, а icq-то не присвятква с ново съобщение. Хвърляш гладен поглед, за да провериш дали изолацията ти не е по технически причини, но не би – телефонът е включен, user-ите от списъка са online – просто никой не иска да си говори с теб. It’s simple as that. Чувството за отритнатост бие шут в корема на достойнството и се заричаш да не потърсиш пръв, да не издадеш слабостта си. Криеш се, само че никой не те търси. Пускаш се като по водна пързалка, увлича те все по-надолу и още по-надолу, докато накрая цопваш в басейн от депресия и неудовлетвореност. Паякът на съмнението плете в мозъка ти мрежа, която улавя всички „ако” и „защо” и ги опакова за по-нататъшно предъвкване; запасите се трупат; започват да се развалят и вмирисват, докато накрая зловонието пролазва във всички кътчета на душата ти, замърсява чистотата й, отравя надеждата. Накрая някой се обажда, но злото вече е посяло семето си, плевелите на омразата избуяват и задушават радостта. Усмивката ти си е отишла сякаш завинаги. Заклеваш се никога вече да не се доверяваш на хората, защото те само това чакат – да отвориш сърцето си, за да забият по-прецизно нож в него.
Самотата е съвременна болест с много устойчив, непрекъснато мутиращ вирус – тъкмо решиш, че си се спасил и те поразява наново с още по-голяма сила. Действа подло, цели се в най-слабите места - дори не подозираш, че ги има; търпеливо си сглобявал бронята си парче по парче, слепвайки cool outfit, технически джаджавки, дзен заигравки и много изкуствено напомпано самочувствие. От толкова много напомпване парчетата поддават, не издържат на вътрешното напрежение и цялата уж сигурна конструкция се срива, за да остави самотното и жалко пищящо за помощ „аз” на произвола на съдбата. А съдбата, като глутница побеснели кучета, надушили страха, само това и чака – захапва и не пуска, докато не паднеш с подвита опашка, молейки за милост. Милост обаче няма. И си казваш, че следващия път ти ще си този, който хапе и бие; ти ще си този, който ще е лошия; защото е по-добре да си насилникът, отколкото жертвата. Не че това ти харесва, но по-добре да биеш, отколкото да те бият.
Няма надежда – има празнота; няма очакване, че нещо ще се случи – има страх, че може би нищо няма да се случи; слънцето от погледа ти изчезва, удавено в прилив от паника; всички стълбове, на които се екрепял сигурният ти досега живот, се разлитат като семенца на глухарче. Остава...оставаш ти – сам. Животът ти е карнавал – непрекъснато играеш роля, сменяш костюми – само и само да не си ти. Защото не се харесваш?
“Everyone I know goes away in the end”
Няма нищо красиво в самотата, нито романтично. Не си принцеса, затворена в кула от някой персонифициран злодей, чакаща на прозореца с поглед, вперен в хоризонта да зърне освободителя. Кулата си я построил сам, злодеите са всички останали и заедно сте врътнали ключа. А принц няма. Седиш си затворен в тъмното и усещаш как стените се приближават една към друга, затварят се все по-плътно около теб, прогонвайки слънцето, въздуха; позитивните мисли се спасяват в търсене на по-благодатен от теб приемник. Нищо не ти остава. И започваш да се самоизяждаш. Появява се спасителна мисъл – да скочиш от прозореца; всичко е по-добро от това да останеш вътре.
Самотата се храни с надеждата; изяжда я до последното парченце. А без надежда си загубен. Самотата те затваря в някаква твоя си вселена, в която времето тече различно, чува се само твоя глас, виждаш само твоя образ. Светът се превръща в first person shooter – непозната местност, населена с враждебни инопланетяни, които само гледат как да те прецакат. И стреляш напосоки, по всички; стреляш, за да оцелееш. Защото няма кой да ти каже, че това не е игра.
“What have I become my sweetest friend ?”
Самотата убива човека в теб; превръща те в бъдеш спомен на това, което би могъл да бъдеш. Болката и огорчението се превръщат в скъпи приятели, с които отказваш да се разделиш, защото все пак имаш нужда от приятели; каквито и да е приятели. Моментите на радост те карат да се чувстваш неловко, защото това е непозната територия. И бързаш да се върнеш в Огледалния свят.
Не можеш да теоретизираш за самотата, ако не си я практикувал.

Защо не го написах в първо лице? Защото така звучи a bit less унизително.

"Now you know this is what it feels like"

Food for thought

From Anton Chekhov "Lights"

" The student stood motionless with his hands thrust in his pockets, and did not take his eyes off the lights. He was not listening to the engineer, but was thinking, and was apparently in the mood in which one does not want to speak or to listen. After a prolonged silence he turned to me and said quietly:
"Do you know what those endless lights are like? They make me think of something long dead, that lived thousands of years ago, something like the camps of the Amalekites or the Philistines. It is as though some people of the Old Testament had pitched their camp and were waiting for morning to fight with Saul or David. All that is wanting to complete the illusion is the blare of trumpets and sentries calling to one another in some Ethiopian language."
And, as though of design, the wind fluttered over the line and brought a sound like the clank of weapons. A silence followed. I don't know what the engineer and the student were thinking of, but it seemed to me already that I actually saw before me something long dead and even heard the sentry talking in an unknown tongue. My imagination hastened to picture the tents, the strange people, their clothes, their armour.
"Yes," muttered the student pensively, "once Philistines and Amalekites were living in this world, making wars, playing their part, and now no trace of them remains. So it will be with us. Now we are making a railway, are standing here philosophising, but two thousand years will pass -- and of this embankment and of all those men, asleep after their hard work, not one grain of dust will remain. In reality, it's awful!"
"You must drop those thoughts . . ." said the engineer gravely and admonishingly.
"Why?"
"Because. . . . Thoughts like that are for the end of life, not for the beginning of it. You are too young for them."
"Why so?" repeated the student.
"All these thoughts of the transitoriness, the insignificance and the aimlessness of life, of the inevitability of death, of the shadows of the grave, and so on, all such lofty thoughts, I tell you, my dear fellow, are good and natural in old age when they come as the product of years of inner travail, and are won by suffering and really are intellectual riches; for a youthful brain on the threshold of real life they are simply a calamity! A calamity!" Ananyev repeated with a wave of his hand. "To my mind it is better at your age to have no head on your shoulders at all than to think on these lines. I am speaking seriously, Baron. And I have been meaning to speak to you about it for a long time, for I noticed from the very first day of our acquaintance your partiality for these damnable ideas!"
"Good gracious, why are they damnable?" the student asked with a smile, and from his voice and his face I could see that he asked the question from simple politeness, and that the discussion raised by the engineer did not interest him in the least.
...
Nikolay Anastasyevitch Ananyev, the engineer, was a broad-shouldered, thick-set man, and, judging from his appearance, he had, like Othello, begun the "descent into the vale of years," and was growing rather too stout. He was just at that stage which old match-making women mean when they speak of "a man in the prime of his age," that is, he was neither young nor old, was fond of good fare, good liquor, and praising the past, panted a little as he walked, snored loudly when he was asleep, and in his manner with those surrounding him displayed that calm imperturbable good humour which is always acquired by decent people by the time they have reached the grade of a staff officer and begun to grow stout. His hair and beard were far from being grey, but already, with a condescension of which he was unconscious, he addressed young men as "my dear boy" and felt himself entitled to lecture them good-humouredly about their way of thinking. His movements and his voice were calm, smooth, and self-confident, as they are in a man who is thoroughly well aware that he has got his feet firmly planted on the right road, that he has definite work, a secure living, a settled outlook. . . . His sunburnt, thicknosed face and muscular neck seemed to say: "I am well fed, healthy, satisfied with myself, and the time will come when you young people too, will be wellfed, healthy, and satisfied with yourselves. . . ." He was dressed in a cotton shirt with the collar awry and in full linen trousers thrust into his high boots. From certain trifles, as for instance, from his coloured worsted girdle, his embroidered collar, and the patch on his elbow, I was able to guess that he was married and in all probability tenderly loved by his wife.
Baron Von Schtenberg, a student of the Institute of Transport, was a young man of about three or four and twenty. Only his fair hair and scanty beard, and, perhaps, a certain coarseness and frigidity in his features showed traces of his descent from Barons of the Baltic provinces; everything else -- his name, Mihail Mihailovitch, his religion, his ideas, his manners, and the expression of his face were purely Russian. Wearing, like Ananyev, a cotton shirt and high boots, with his round shoulders, his hair left uncut, and his sunburnt face, he did not look like a student or a Baron, but like an ordinary Russian workman. His words and gestures were few, he drank reluctantly without relish, checked the accounts mechanically, and seemed all the while to be thinking of something else. His movements and voice were calm, and smooth too, but his calmness was of a different kind from the engineer's. His sunburnt, slightly ironical, dreamy face, his eyes which looked up from under his brows, and his whole figure were expressive of spiritual stagnation -- mental sloth. He looked as though it did not matter to him in the least whether the light were burning before him or not, whether the wine were nice or nasty, and whether the accounts he was checking were correct or not. . . . And on his intelligent, calm face I read: "I don't see so far any good in definite work, a secure living, and a settled outlook. It's all nonsense. I was in Petersburg, now I am sitting here in this hut, in the autumn I shall go back to Petersburg, then in the spring here again. . . . What sense there is in all that I don't know, and no one knows. . . . And so it's no use talking about it. . . ."
He listened to the engineer without interest, with the condescending indifference with which cadets in the senior classes listen to an effusive and good-natured old attendant. It seemed as though there were nothing new to him in what the engineer said, and that if he had not himself been too lazy to talk, he would have said something newer and cleverer. Meanwhile Ananyev would not desist. He had by now laid aside his good-humoured, jocose tone and spoke seriously, even with a fervour which was quite out of keeping with his expression of calmness. Apparently he had no distaste for abstract subjects, was fond of them, indeed, but had neither skill nor practice in the handling of them. And this lack of practice was so pronounced in his talk that I did not always grasp his meaning at once.
"I hate those ideas with all my heart!" he said, "I was infected by them myself in my youth, I have not quite got rid of them even now, and I tell you -- perhaps because I am stupid and such thoughts were not the right food for my mind -- they did me nothing but harm. That's easy to understand! Thoughts of the aimlessness of life, of the insignificance and transitoriness of the visible world, Solomon's 'vanity of vanities' have been, and are to this day, the highest and final stage in the realm of thought. The thinker reaches that stage and -- comes to a halt! There is nowhere further to go. The activity of the normal brain is completed with this, and that is natural and in the order of things. Our misfortune is that we begin thinking at that end. What normal people end with we begin with. From the first start, as soon as the brain begins working independently, we mount to the very topmost, final step and refuse to know anything about the steps below."
"What harm is there in that?" said the student.
"But you must understand that it's abnormal," shouted Ananyev, looking at him almost wrathfully. "If we find means of mounting to the topmost step without the help of the lower ones, then the whole long ladder, that is the whole of life, with its colours, sounds, and thoughts, loses all meaning for us. That at your age such reflections are harmful and absurd, you can see from every step of your rational independent life. Let us suppose you sit down this minute to read Darwin or Shakespeare, you have scarcely read a page before the poison shows itself; and your long life, and Shakespeare, and Darwin, seem to you nonsense, absurdity, because you know you will die, that Shakespeare and Darwin have died too, that their thoughts have not saved them, nor the earth, nor you, and that if life is deprived of meaning in that way, all science, poetry, and exalted thoughts seem only useless diversions, the idle playthings of grown up people; and you leave off reading at the second page. Now, let us suppose that people come to you as an intelligent man and ask your opinion about war, for instance: whether it is desirable, whether it is morally justifiable or not. In answer to that terrible question you merely shrug your shoulders and confine yourself to some commonplace, because for you, with your way of thinking, it makes absolutely no difference whether hundreds of thousands of people die a violent death, or a natural one: the results are the same -- ashes and oblivion. You and I are building a railway line. What's the use, one may ask, of our worrying our heads, inventing, rising above the hackneyed thing, feeling for the workmen, stealing or not stealing, when we know that this railway line will turn to dust within two thousand years, and so on, and so on. . . . You must admit that with such a disastrous way of looking at things there can be no progress, no science, no art, nor even thought itself. We fancy that we are cleverer than the crowd, and than Shakespeare. In reality our thinking leads to nothing because we have no inclination to go down to the lower steps and there is nowhere higher to go, so our brain stands at the freezing point -- neither up nor down; I was in bondage to these ideas for six years, and by all that is holy, I never read a sensible book all that time, did not gain a ha'porth of wisdom, and did not raise my moral standard an inch. Was not that disastrous? Moreover, besides being corrupted ourselves, we bring poison into the lives of those surrounding us. It would be all right if, with our pessimism, we renounced life, went to live in a cave, or made haste to die, but, as it is, in obedience to the universal law, we live, feel, love women, bring up children, construct railways!"
"Our thoughts make no one hot or cold," the student said reluctantly.
"Ah! there you are again! -- do stop it! You have not yet had a good sniff at life. But when you have lived as long as I have you will know a thing or two! Our theory of life is not so innocent as you suppose. In practical life, in contact with human beings, it leads to nothing but horrors and follies. It has been my lot to pass through experiences which I would not wish a wicked Tatar to endure. "

OM F***KING G

NIИ have European tour dates for 2007 !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
OMG
OMG
OMG
OMG
Oh... :)))))))))))))))))))

"Isn't anybody stopping me?"

That is the saddest line ever.

I hate weekends

Every Sunday my “so called friends” are busy doing I–don’t-fucking-care-what and I find myself sitting in my favorite cafeteria for hours reading, writing in my journal and smoking tones of cigarettes. And I start to hate them for leaving me to be on my own in the company of my sick mind only. When I am alone everything gets twisted, white becomes black, black becomes a hole that consumes me and can’t find my way out. Sometimes I think I am a good listener for no other reason but because I prefer to give all my attention to someone else’s problems so that I would forget about mine.

On Friday I spent quite a time reading a certain blog by a person whose mind suffers the same disease as mine – he feels out of place all the time and he doesn’t understand why. He thinks he’s depressed and I’m sure he has his reasons to believe he is but…he is only 23…he doesn’t know what it feels like to be 33 and still to be asking those questions and there to be no hope left they will ever get answered.

My wish of the day : to belong.

“Every day is exactly the same”

The perfect "him"

I was amusing myself making a portrait of my perfect man.
“He” :
- is not perfect at all; just…perfect for me
- is very clever; and withy
- takes pride in himself but doesn’t think he’s the center of the universe
- loves animals (an absolute must; if you don't love animals I don't care how gorgeous you are)
- is nuts about music(and art in general)
- has a good voice
- respects his body
- is tolerant, considerate, compassionate
- holds to his word and is not afraid to admit his mistakes
- is protective but NEVER controlling nor patronizing
- finds me perfect for him.

Is that too much to ask? Apparently yes. Well, I can’t put up with anything less.

“Bye bye life
Hello loneliness”

Hummm

I red in an article that depression that lasts for a few weeks can be classified as “severe”. A FEW WEEKS !?!?! How about 10 years ? According to that article I should’ve been dead by now. Sometimes I am amazed by my own strength. By now I should’ve gone insane at least. I am neither…so far. But that can change in the blink of an eye.
And I couldn’t care less.

It sickens me to be around people whose greatest tragedy is they can’t afford to by the latest FURLA bag.

I DO realize that things that make me feel good are as much as possible away from reality . Reality is like a pop-up window that appears on my screen constantly and I have to close it down.

Art will save the world

or at least my mind and as far as I'm concerned it means the same. I keep browsing through online art galleries mainly fantasy and comic orientated. Amazing ideas.
Today I feel almost human.

Scull addicted

Aleksi Briclot

Lovely

by kuzyaka

Pretty stuff

Enayla

Martin Mckenna

Daily

As if I am in the 4th dimention in a 3-dimentional world. I speak in a different frequency and no one can hear my voice.
Sometimes I'd wish to get terribly sick just to see if anyone would care.

The sound of silence

I'm in the middle of a desert and music is my oasis.

I love the sound of silence in the morning-when everything is just about not to happen.

My reasons why I will NOT have children

1. “It is cruel to bring a life into this terrible world”
Woody Allen
Husbands and wives

Don’t you ever watch the news? People killing each other, people killing nature, nature responds by wiping out hundreds and thousands of (probably) innocent human beings from the face of the earth. The realm of death. Look for hell no further-it’s in your backyard. The more people get born the more people die. No one is safe. No matter of your good soul, your purity. Why would I condemn someone to such a misery? It IS cruel.
2. I cherish my freedom too much to sacrifice it for the sake of a child. Once you have one of those…”things”…and you can kiss your personal life goodbye. You become a slave to your child. That is how I see it because the proper way(to me) to raise a child is to devote yourself to him/her.
3. I suppose having a child means the end of childhood, of youth, and becoming a grown up, becoming mature. I’m not ready to give up my youth. I’ll never be. Even if I live to be 100.
4. Responsibility. The greatest of all, the mother of all responsibilities. And if I am to take such I’d have to know EVERYTHING there is to know about raising a child. If it is to be done it has to be done the right way. No room for mistakes.
5. Let’s face it : (for most people; almost all people)having a child is an act of selfishness. Some do it just to bring meaning to their miserable leading nowhere pointless existence. A child would keep them busy, would bring a purpose to their lives.
Some do it out of fear of death. Their mind fails to accept they’ll die without leaving a trace and the world will just keep on without even noticing the difference. The child would keep a part of them on this earth. Pathetic !!!
Some do it just to have a nurse to look after them when they grow to be old.
Some use their children as an instrument for fulfilling their own unfulfilled ambitions, to be the people they failed to be.
6. Puppies are cute…but they become big dogs…sometimes heavy to handle. Kids…cute as babies(to some; I’ve never found a baby to be cute), but babies grow and at a certain point they start to respond not always in the fashion you’d fancy. And then you as a parent will have a god-I’ve-created-a-monster moment.
I can’t bear the thought that someone would think of me all those horrible things I think of my parents. My ego is to blame, I know; sorry !
7. I refuse to be a burden to anyone especially to someone dear to me and that someone to grow to hate me because of that.
8. I don’t want anyone to miss me. I don’t want anyone to moan for me, to be in pain when I’m gone.
9. Carrying my father’s genes, knowing the person he is, knowing the freak I am-why would I pass it to someone else ?!
10. Last but not least: disfiguring. Ever considered a pregnant woman to be beautiful? I have never. Gaining weight and looking like a balloon-are you fucking crazy ?!?