So That’s Why.

Mood Capsule.

 

It’s an Astor Piazzolla kind of night. I’m yet to hear another composer who manages to make time stop in its tracks like he did, quite effortlessly too.

 

I’m at a weird place of my life right now, but I’m surprisingly calm, and I guess that’s all that matters, isn’t it?

 

The crows still come back to the tree where the nest used to be, although the nest is long gone, along with their parents. They don’t have to come back, but they do anyway, and not because they need it, because they want to. I think that’s beautiful. Humans should be capable of that too, but they’re not, because they complicate everything, and it is because they complicate everything that they find it so hard to feel. Feelings are no longer spontaneous, they’re triggers for things they don’t want to go through again, and they think being numb will protect them. Crows are smarter than that, they’re too free to compromise for their own protection. I like crows.

 

My pinky hurts like hell, I’ve been graphic designing for 14 hours on a laptop touchpad, and now I’m considering chopping it off to silence the pangs. Occupational hazard has never been this lame.

 

Every once in a while you come across a wild thing, and you stand in awe to behold it, and try so hard to make it part of your life, but you should have known better because it will never let you. The only way you could keep a wild thing is by being a wild thing. Such a rare commodity these days, people are afraid to think, they’re afraid to feel, they’re afraid to be, and they’re afraid they’ll do something wrong. That’s no way to live, how did we ever get here?

 

I have asthma now.

 

People should really stop dying.

 

Buddhism was the only philosophy that got it right, the only way to get out of this life whole is through detachment, you neither love nor hate, and you’ll be whole. But you’ll miss out on a hell lot, besides, who wants to remain whole if our time is limited? It would be practical if we were immortal, but choosing that when you’re gonna die anyway, perhaps really soon, is the most idiotic thing you could do to yourself next to missing out on a chance to spend a day with Erik Satie or Kurt Vonnegut.

 

Who cares?

 

I got one hell of a week ahead of me, so many midterm projects, midterm assignments and work that would usually take three weeks crammed into 3 days. The first thing I’m gonna do when I’m finally done with that will be to play piano until I can’t feel my fingers. I miss playing piano, I haven’t played in a while and I think that’s ridiculous because it’s one of the very few things that make me feel like I belong somewhere, or that I’m getting somewhere. It’s a very odd sense of comfort, one you’d naturally associate with home.

 

There’s that one bird that usually wakes up before the rest, and it would make a huge difference when he’s finally gone. He doesn’t know that, and I don’t think he ever will. I don’t think the bird understands that without its significant little tune at 4:25 am everyday, none of the other birds would wake up, and mom, dad and I wouldn’t smile in the middle of the night in recognition. Little things matter.

 

I’m lost, and I don’t mind it.

 

Nobody reads this, and it’s one of the main reasons why I like writing here. That applies to more than one department in my life right now. It’s weird growing up, you’ll never have that childlike certainty again. Never again, and most people  hate that. I wonder why. Don’t the people who are certain of everything feel claustrophobic? What’s left to live for if you know the answer to everything?

 

My hand hurts. I think I will read game of thrones now.

Respice post te! Hominem te esse memento! Memento mori.

Roll The Credits.

And who are you, the proud lord said,
that I must bow so low?
Only a cat of a different coat,
That’s all the truth I know.
In a coat of gold or a coat of red,
A lion still has claws,
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,
As long and sharp as yours.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
That lord of Castamere,
But now the rains weep o’er his hall,
With no one there to hear.
Yes now the rains weep o’er his hall,
And not a soul to hear.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
That lord of Castamere,
But now the rains weep o’er his hall,
With no one there to hear.
Yes now the rains weep o’er his hall,
And not a soul to hear.

Time travels to learn
your secret life
in your mausoleum
And Berlin
is so ugly in the morning light
but with them
I could never feel so right.

This Is My Kingdom Come.

Nerds Will Relate.