AntiJurnal - Atelier d'Art Obscur

...pentru cei carora le place sa scrie

Hold your breath and count to ten.

Mesajde darkshines » Joi Mai 03, 2007 10:14 pm

- So tell me..

- My mother told me one could never have everything, she interrupted.
- How forward... but please, continue.

- She told me many things, but the one which she accented the most was that I should not aspire to have everything. As much as she tried to implant this belief in me, I do believe that the reason why I stand here today, why I am as I am today, is the fact that I denied this specific teaching of hers and I clung to the hope of one day attaining all that I thought was necessary to lead a fulfilled life.

The man sitting before her was old, yet his features refined, reminding her of a portrait in oil on canvas whose age shows only in the fine, irregular cracks of the surface. He wore glasses, small and circular, unfashionable but fitting and smoked an expensive brand of cigars whose smoke filled the air between them. Seated in a large armchair, he seemed laid-back and relaxed, in such contrast with her anxiousness and discomfort. He puffed on the rather large cigar and urged her to continue.

- I’ve never been much of a faithful, religious person. I’ve always believed that the single most reliable thing that one should put one’s faith into is themselves. Thus while others rejoice in having a God to pray to and hope to receive help from, I can only hope to find strength within myself and when that bastion of strength and hope fails, I am left without nothing. And God knows, she chuckled, yes, perhaps God knows, that I have failed myself countless times up to now. And what is strikingly strange is the simple fact that no one seems to take notice. So many people appreciate me, and learn from me, and compliment me, and look up to me, and yet I cannot see anything within myself so important or wise to be worth such attention. But I digress. As I was saying, I’ve failed myself. And it has everything to do with what I was saying in the beginning. The dream of having everything. The dream of being all that I could, of conquering all that I saw, of having no enemies, of the absolute. How foolish of me, no? How foolish to believe in the absolute of one’s own destiny. I had read so many books on the matter and not in one did I find a story of one who took on the absolute and succeeded. Death, spiritual or physical, ended all these stories, leaving their protagonists empty, vacuous. May I borrow your lighter?

- Please do.

She searched nervously in her bag for the pack of long, cherry flavored cigarettes and while balancing one between her lips , extended a frail hand towards the lighter. She lit it and took a long drag. Her exhale sounded more like a sigh.

- Where was I? Ah, yes. Vacuousness. And the absolute of course, ah, what a mockery of sorts, this quest for the absolute. I should have listened to my mother on that one. For you see, too late did I realize that there is no such thing in the tangible world. The nature of my existence, of my entire life was against that principle of perfection. My body, she looked herself up and down, is far from perfect. But at a point I started believing that this is the least important thing that should concern me. My professional life has always been erratic, I suppose because of my natural inclination towards procrastination. There were times when I was nothing short of successful in everything I undertook, and there were times when failure was a constant companion. Nevertheless, I put my faith in the romantic. Ah, yes, the wonderful romantic. Love, passion, and all that. What a glorious thing, no? I fell in love with love, however cliche that may sound, from the first blossoming signs of it. At perhaps an early age, I fell in love for the first time, and I truly believed that all the stories and novels that wrote of the all-consuming flame of passion were no less than dead accurate. The butterflies tumbling in my stomach, the shaking hands before the first kiss, the need to never let go from his embrace, ah, all those and so much more, so much more that couldn’t be perverted by putting it into words. The only absolute that I could ever achieve, or so I thought at the time, was mine for the taking, and I relished in it, I loved it.

- So why do you speak of vacuousness? Surely you must be aware that most people live their entire lifetimes without ever knowing such feelings.

She took another drag from her cigarette and carefully searched for her words.

- Because, you see, after several years I realized that what I had felt was purely in my imagination. There was no all-consuming passion. It was just another relationship, filled with many things, good and bad, but a plain relationship nonetheless. Those feelings I had exaggerated, yearning for something more I simply fabricated it in my mind and lived with it just as if it was real, tangible. Like my lover’s body. Like our embrace. But I’ve had my share of bodies and embraces. I’ve felt that way a thousand times, each lip I kissed in my mind was that absolute passion, yet the morning after, I found only emptiness. I shrouded myself in a lifestyle of recklessness, drunk on the moments of simple pleasures like fine wine, tobacco and unslept nights. I danced in the rain and tasted the sweet taste of so-called freedom. And in return, I always awoke to the same barren world.

The smoke from the man’s cigar and her own cigarette grew thicker, hovering like a cloud above them. She sighed and extinguished hers in the small bronze ashtray on the table. She sat back in her chair and breathed in deep. As if to repress her feelings. He drew his armchair closer and stared at her attentively. After a few moments of silence, she sat upright and started:

- The truth is, that this story is no different from the one’s I’ve read about as a child. I’ve become a character in the books that I told you about before. My emptiness spawns from the abandon of the search. No, there is no absolute. There is no way to attain something even close to it. For the people who try, there is nothing more than the hope in the search. Once it is given up, there is nothing. There is nothing more for me. Only my daily existence. My daily, puerile problems. The bills, the car, the cigarettes, the lovers, the haters, the friends, the work. This discussion.

- Perhaps, my dear, perhaps. But what gets most people talking like that about their life is a lack. Perhaps, my dear, there is something missing in this equation. You might simply be missing something...

- Oh God, she interrupted again, do I miss something. I miss the excitement, the verve, the incessant toil. I miss the rush I got when everything I did was wrong yet seemingly for a cause. I miss the days when all that was irrelevant to my quest for ideals did not seem important to me. I miss myself before becoming old. Before settling down, and caring for things as plain as when to take the dog out, or Sunday coffees, or boring dates in the same places with the same person, devoid of excitement, of passion, of any true feeling. The only way I can put it into a single word is “warmthâ€Â

To speak is to be silent
The concept is dead. There's nothing death should interrupt,
I went to bed last night with one sip left in the cup.
Avatar utilizator
darkshines
 
Mesaje: 2260
Membru din: Joi Aug 02, 2001 11:00 pm

One, Two, Three...

Mesajde darkshines » Mie Mai 09, 2007 10:52 pm

I started sword fighting because fencing was similar to tongue kissing.

They say that the wonder of the world lies in one's ability to discover it bit by bit, over and over again.

To speak is to be silent
The concept is dead. There's nothing death should interrupt,
I went to bed last night with one sip left in the cup.
Avatar utilizator
darkshines
 
Mesaje: 2260
Membru din: Joi Aug 02, 2001 11:00 pm

Sword fights and tongue kissing

Mesajde darkshines » Vin Mai 11, 2007 12:50 pm

Astazi vreau sa fac ceva. Lucrurile trec pe langa mine si ce bine ar fi sa ma fi exprimat doar metaforic, dar lucrurile intr-adevar trec pe langa mine. Sunt in masina, la volan, masina merge dar soferul nu conduce. Vreau sa fac ceva cu mine, cu viata mea, cu momentul asta. Vreau sa-l storc de potential, sa fac astfel incat sa insemne ceva, sa ma umple in intregime, sa nu mai simt golul, nevoia. Vreau sa nu mai vreau. Sa nu imi mai doresc nimic, sa nu mai fiu obligata sa-mi doresc atatea lucruri ce nu vor fi niciodata destule. Copaci, copaci, campuri nesfarsite de rapita, gropi in sosea. Lucrurile trec pe langa mine. Imi vine sa plang, sa urlu, sa imi las piciorul sa alunece pe acceleratie, sa se intample ceva, sa existe o scanteie. Vreau sa rad cu toata gura, sa rad cu totul, sa fiu un ras, un ecou de clopotel, o minunatie de ras de femeie. Sa imi misc corpul si sa se auda doar un raset, sa opresc masina si sa umplu lumea de rasete. Deseori ma simt inutila. Mi-as dori sa cladesc ceva, un principiu, o casa, un om. Sa rup din mine si sa ia nastere altcineva. O femeie minunata, din mine sa iasa o femeie. Voluptoasa si carnala, lipsita de complicatiile nevoii, cu un ras cristalin.

As vrea sa fac ceva cu mine, astazi, cu noi chiar. Sa ne fac mai buni, mai bogati, sa fiu destul pentru tot. Vreau sa ma schimb, sa ma valorific, precum un moment. Nu vreau sa ma mai dau pe gratis, sau pe prea putin. El crede degeaba ca ma are. De fapt, nici eu nu ma am si pun pariu ca stiu la ce s-ar gandi daca i-as spune asta. S-ar simti jignit pentru ca oricum nu intelege. El este irelevant la ceea ce se intampla acum, aici, in masina, pe drum. Vreau sa plang doar ca sa umplu linistea. Nu-mi plac golurile. Vreau sa zvacnesc, sa palpitez, sa pulsez, sa bat, sa fiu o inima, macar un atriu. Macar atat, daca nu ceva. Trebuie sa ma dau mai departe, sa fac ceva cu mine. Sa fac ceva prin mine. Sa dau de gandit, sa provoc, sa fiu tot ce pot si vreau dar nu reusesc. Nu ma lasa nimeni sa o fac. Ii urasc pe toti pentru frica pe care mi-au inradacinat-o in minte, pentru toate hibele si inhibitiile cu care m-au invatat, pentru toate regulile pe care le stiu pe de rost, pentru toate rugaciunile pe care nu le-am invatat niciodata, pentru toate intrebarile pe care imi e incomod sa le mai pun, pentru toate raspunsurile pe care inca le mai astept, pentru toate scuzele pe care mi le gasesc, pentru toata vina pe care o arunc asupra altora. Urasc pentru ca asa am fost invatata, ca trebuie sa urasti, ca este imposibil sa nu urasti, ca poti ura si fara sa ii spui pe nume, ca poti discrimina fara sa te lauzi, ca poti judeca - inevitabil - fara sa recunosti.

Nu imi place nimic cu adevarat, nici macar sa urasc. Imi place sa cred ca imi place. Dar pana si asta e doar o expresie. Nu stiu cine sunt, nu stiu ce ar putea sa-mi placa. Vreau sa fac cunostinta cu mine la fel de usor precum cu tipul singur si dragut de la bar. De care nu ma pot apropia pentru ca sunt domesticita deja. Vreau sa nu mai apartin nimanui, sa nu mai port nici o zgarda sau medalion. Si ce jignit te uiti la mine cand te reneg, si ce jigniti va uitati cu totii atunci cand fac ceva ce nu va convine. Si cat as vrea sa nu va mai vad ochii murdari cu privirea lor jignita. Vreau sa imi vad doar inima, sa o simt, sa o palpez si sa pot spune ca intr-adevar e acolo, tangibila, reala, vie. Sa stiu sigur ca traiesc, nu doar din spusele altora. Vreau sa fiu libera desi nu stiu ce inseamna, pentru ca asta nu am invatat niciodata. Vreau sa renunt la tot si sa am totul, sa nu imi pese nici de tine, nici de voi, nici de mine. Sa stiu ca nu mai am ce pierde, si ca nici macar de-as avea ceva n-ar conta.
As vrea sa conteze doar rasul. Sa radem cu totii cu adevarat. Sa rasune peste campurile astea de rapita, rasetul ala cristalin de femeie minunata. Vreau sa fiu toate cartile necitite, sa fiu toate padurile neexplorate. Sa aduc totul nou din mine si sa-l arunc peste voi intr-o explozie magnifica. Sa va minunez, sa va distrez, sa va ajut sa va nasteti. Sa fiu moasa tuturor si sa va aduc cu adevarat in lumea asta. Sa va intrupati din mine si din mine sa nu mai ramana nimic. Vreau sa opresc masina. Vreau s-o opresc in primul copac nevinovat de pe marginea drumului. S-o izbesc de trunchiul lui fara sa ma gandesc la consecinte. Vreau sa traiesc cu adevarat, sa fac ceva astazi. Dar masina merge, iar soferul nu conduce.

To speak is to be silent
The concept is dead. There's nothing death should interrupt,
I went to bed last night with one sip left in the cup.
Avatar utilizator
darkshines
 
Mesaje: 2260
Membru din: Joi Aug 02, 2001 11:00 pm

extremely loud and incredibly close

Mesajde darkshines » Dum Aug 05, 2007 3:03 pm

I’m old. I feel old, and I am older than I look. I’m 19 today, more precisely, I will be 19 at 10:22PM, August 4th 2007. I’ve never had a birthday without the need to talk about the people in my life or my life up to that moment. This one is no exception. I know many people. Friends, acquaintances, people I’ve known for less than a day, an hour, 5 minutes. People I’ve talked to in train stations, subways, airports, cabs, bars, during exams or waiting in line for something. All sorts of people, the ones that drink expensive vodka and the ones who smoke cheap cigarettes, depressed, anxious, happy, inert, all kinds of people.

Some of them liked me, some didn’t, a few hated me. I liked most of them, either way. Some I cared for deeply. A few I loved. Some I hurt, some hurt back, some hurt first just for the hell of it, mostly willingly, a few without realizing. To make a more detailed list would be kitsch, unnecessary and completely idiotic. And yet I find thinking about them in retrospective absolutely charming. I like to replay things in my head, hoping that those moments would just barely replay in my heart. And sometimes, it does skip a beat or two. And all these people I’ve known have helped me in some way or another. In an struggle to define myself - a need that has plagued me for too many years to count - I like to think that I am the collective effort of all these persons who have been in my life even for the shortest of moments. The truth is, I can’t define myself. I have no sense of self because I see myself through all these eyes that I’ve mentioned before. I need the people around me to keep me from falling apart, from disintegrating into bits and pieces of a person that I’m not sure exists. I need them to draw my contour, to help me be something. Who am I, if not something for everyone but nothing for myself. But I digress.

I don’t regret meeting any of these people. Though I know for sure that some regret meeting me. In 19 years of being, I’ve done many bad things. I will refrain from making a list, yet again. This is not a confession. Nor an apology for that matter. I’m sick of those. What I’ve done these past few years, to me, to my friends and to others around me needs no apology, as I need no apologies from them. We’re all parts of each and everyone else’s evolution, and we shape each other like clockwork. And sometimes all the things that I’ve been through seem overwhelming. And I feel depressed and sad and angry and on the verge of regret. And the more I immerse myself in those feelings the more they accentuate until one day they become unbearable. And then I purge myself by forgetting. It’s a cycle that almost comes natural to me. But each time around, I refuse to regret.
I do not regret any of you.
And I’ve already said too much.

And to tell you the truth, at 19 years of age, “sometimes the past seems too big for the present to holdâ€Â

To speak is to be silent
The concept is dead. There's nothing death should interrupt,
I went to bed last night with one sip left in the cup.
Avatar utilizator
darkshines
 
Mesaje: 2260
Membru din: Joi Aug 02, 2001 11:00 pm

This will make you love again

Mesajde darkshines » Mar Sep 04, 2007 12:14 am

Am obosit. Mi-am taiat desenele vechi si le-am facut un colaj. Un colaj in care zac ani intregi, cuvinte moarte, rahaturi inutile. De ce ne agitam atat? Pentru ce?


When the joys of living just leave you cold
Frozen from the failing mess you've made your own
And if you want an ending to your screenplay life
Well here's the consolation that will change your heart and mind

All the glitz Messiah's just pass the time
A cure for no real sickness, cross your hopes and die
Your supermarket Jesus comes with smiles and lies
Where justice he delays is always justice he denies

This will make you love again
This will make you love again
This will make you love again
This will make you love again

And now you save
Love again
To feel the rays
Love again
The sweet delays
Love again
And shoot the breeze

Early Thursday mornings, wipe away the flies
The crossfire fight for action in between your thighs
Every touch is sacred, when they leave the room
If I have to switch the lights off, I wanna switch them off with you

This will make you love again
This will make you love again
This will make you love again
This will make you love again

And now you save
Love again
To feel the rays
Love again
The sweet delays
Love again
And shoot the breeze
Love again

To speak is to be silent
The concept is dead. There's nothing death should interrupt,
I went to bed last night with one sip left in the cup.
Avatar utilizator
darkshines
 
Mesaje: 2260
Membru din: Joi Aug 02, 2001 11:00 pm

Mesajde darkshines » Sâm Sep 22, 2007 2:50 am

And I'll take you for who you are
If you take me for everything
And do it all over again.

It's always the same.

To speak is to be silent
The concept is dead. There's nothing death should interrupt,
I went to bed last night with one sip left in the cup.
Avatar utilizator
darkshines
 
Mesaje: 2260
Membru din: Joi Aug 02, 2001 11:00 pm

Mesajde darkshines » Mar Ian 22, 2008 2:49 pm

Faster and faster until we die.

You wake up and go to the subway. How many people do you pass by every time? How much time passes by you during your five minute journey downtown? How many of those people are like you, worried that the world is going to hell and sick of their unfulfilled lives? How much will you miss those five minutes a year or maybe ten years later? How many more mornings of walking alone in a sea of people await you?

The escalator moves slowly upwards, carrying a large crowd towards the start of their new day. When at the top they start running towards the exits. Where are we running to? What are we hurrying for? Why so much bustle for things that give us no true satisfaction? Why do we push and shove the ones around us in the race towards nothing spectacular? What do we really care about?

You float around, alone and silent, and you watch the world turn and churn, and in the clarity supplied by the feeling of not belonging you see what the world truly means. How every person walking by you has a face, a glimmer in their eye, a trace of empathy, overshadowed by this race that we are taught to run no matter what.

A dead pigeon lies stiff on a marble bench. People walk by it without noticing. Even the street sweeper picks up the garbage yet leaves it behind. No one sits on that bench despite the lack of seating space. An elderly woman holds a box of baby rabbits at her feet, selling them as cheap as possible. They dig into one and other for warmth. A sick dog begs for food near a group of old men reading newspapers. It is invisible and you feel privileged to be the only one to see it. A lone woman with dead eyes stands next to the fountain, half of her face bruised and her cheeks flushed. No one dares to look at her as if they are ashamed of her misery.

Across the fountain you see me. I am the dead pigeon. The rabbits. The dog. The bruised woman. I am everyone you see on your way to the subway. The gypsy selling flowers at the corner. The old man asking for change. The three-legged cat sleeping near a sewer. The divorced mother of three that sits next to you in the train. The kid without an eye that cheers himself up with thinking he’s like a pirate. I am all the stories that people do not want to know about. All those five minutes that you will miss dearly in the future. All those worried, hopeless people. All those cold mornings.

I’m not part of the race. You come sit besides me on the marble edge. You look into me and we both become invisible. For you the race is over. You grab my hand and we fall into it, like a fever.

To speak is to be silent
The concept is dead. There's nothing death should interrupt,
I went to bed last night with one sip left in the cup.
Avatar utilizator
darkshines
 
Mesaje: 2260
Membru din: Joi Aug 02, 2001 11:00 pm

Mesajde darkshines » Sâm Apr 05, 2008 5:16 am

This room smells musky. Dirty and misplaced. The mold makes it almost unbearable to breathe.

I look at you. Your features seem strange, unlike those I had grown accustomed to. Nothing about this moment is familiar. It seems torn from another life, one that I was supposed to live but have abandoned. You lean in closer, closing the gap between us, but I am still. My head feels heavy, like my heart. Still and heavy. An old factory puking dust in the middle of nowhere. My throat is dry, just like my voice and thoughts. I feel nothing, despite the almost forgotten closeness between us. And even that my soul rejects, like a forged memory or an unnatural array of sounds, there should be nothing between us. We should be still and heavy.

This room, this godforsaken room, chaotic yet unmoving, a broken bow to an old violin, brings us together despite our efforts to stay apart. It’s walls clad in decaying stripes of paint, stuffed animal heads and old memoirs of who knows’, dull lighting and persistent smell of mold. You kiss me and I feel sick. My skin wails at your touch, though in the past it used to sing. You deepen the kiss and it cracks. So does my heart. The factory begins to crumble. Your fingers burn me, your lips are nauseating. This is not what I need. You and I, we were one and other’s biggest mistake, I’ll give you that. Two people who shouldn’t have met.

I fall to the ground and you fall after me. The kiss doesn’t break. The factory turns to dust. The burning continues. The nausea persists. My hand trembles as I touch your face. And yet, after all this, I still don’t recognize it.

The window hits the wall violently, and the wind scatters the dust. We wilt together in our kiss. Only a broken bow could ever play an old violin.

To speak is to be silent
The concept is dead. There's nothing death should interrupt,
I went to bed last night with one sip left in the cup.
Avatar utilizator
darkshines
 
Mesaje: 2260
Membru din: Joi Aug 02, 2001 11:00 pm

Mesajde darkshines » Lun Ian 12, 2009 11:29 am


To speak is to be silent
The concept is dead. There's nothing death should interrupt,
I went to bed last night with one sip left in the cup.
Avatar utilizator
darkshines
 
Mesaje: 2260
Membru din: Joi Aug 02, 2001 11:00 pm

Anterior

Înapoi la Scrieri, ganduri si jurnale

Cine este conectat

Utilizatorii ce navighează pe acest forum: Niciun utilizator înregistrat şi 2 vizitatori

cron