Magicy Fairytale thing

The super fantastic happiness that is music. Ain't nothing quite like it. Writing is so much easier if you have some tunes ringing throughout the place. So now words are put down on several places at once, as if there were no worries at all. And it's interesting to see a universe step out of the dark areas of the brain. It's the great "what if" and i love it. The author is not always just a teller of stories, sometimes he's the shaper of entire worlds, a god among his creations. Impossibilities on earth might not only be possible on that distant reality in your mind, it may even be plausible. This is the Disney magic, this is where true love and epic events come from. This is the very pinnacle of a persons dreams.

Writing Unblock

Post like mad, the end is nigh! Only two more years untill the magical year of 2012 that is promised to be 2000 all over again with its apocalypse and death and destrucion. Cuz the Mayans said so and they were smart beyong belief. So I post more and more so that I at least get to live on in this eternal new entity that is the interwebs. Or not. Truth be told I have no real idea why I've written more this half month than I've done in ages. Maybe I'm fucked, maybe I'm unfucked, maybe I'm overfucked. Whatever the reason I do enjoy it though. As any person mad enough to read all my rabble might have noticed I seldom write for any particular reason, some times I don't even make ANY sense at all. I write for writing itself. It feels good just to write something, put words on whatever floats around in the goop called my brain at any given time. It doesn't have to make sense, it doesn't have to be smart, or sensitive, or remotely close to reader friendly. This being said I do actually appreciate anyone reading this very much, and though I think you must be mad to find interest in my writings it warms my heart whenever someone reads it. So I continue, until the day I'm kicked off the interwebs or the world ends, whatever comes first. This is my sorry for last years' poor posting and a vague, though not completely hollow, promise to shape up and become a better person. And now that the writing block has lifted and I've realized that I'll just write whatever it might just be that I can fulfill that promise ^^

Emotions

As the last post was about feelings and emotions, so is this. I went to see Avatar today with a bunch, and as the movie unfolds I get swept along into this romantic (sub?)plot that is mandatory for these kinds of movie. And as so many times before I am fed this story about how two people (or Na'vi or whatever) endure unimaginable hardships to end up together. Love. The grandest emotion of them all. The queen of sensations; none above, none beside. And I start to love her; the object of the main persons' love. I start to feel what he's feeling, like a true empath and I get lovesick as the movie reaches its climax and they get each other. Lovesick because I got to feel the feeling of love, but don't have anyone to channel it to, or anyone channeling it to me. So I get emotional and bitter, and I wish for nothing but a glass of whisky and that feeling that once again managed to tease me out of apathy just to elude me. But I have neither Whisky nor love, so instead I brew myself a pot of coffee and prepares for a night of writing emo-poetry that no-one (luckily) get to read, ever. I know channeling the spirits of the goth-kids of South Park will do me no good, but I'd rather spend a night feeling sorry for myself than spend a night trying to quell all feeling with apathy again. Tomorrow I'll buy a bottle of good Whisky and a cigar. I promise.

Dreamscape

My mind is slipping. Each morning I sleep 3 or 4 hours longer than planned, or healthy, and during those hours I have the weirdest dreams. Just this morning I had a dream that started off with a picnic or festival or something with a lot of the kids I grew up with, now all imaginary grown up. My childhood "love" had gotten herself a baby before she'd had an accident that had given her a brain damage and left her totally unpredictable and really insane. I had to look after her and her baby child reliving all the feelings i had as a kid. I woke up after she'd been taken away by the childhood bully but drifted right into another dream. In this dream I tore down every facade of every building in something that was supposed to be the main street in Oslo for Michael Jackson, who had bought it from the goverment and planned to use it for his comeback. But this wasn't the same Michael Jackson that died this summer, this was a Michael from another dimension who was still black and really down to earth. After we'd torn it all down we went to eat in a weird restaurant where a guy was harrassing this woman, and it all started a brawl, where my brother, who'd help me tear down facades became pissed of and declared that he'd never want anything more to do with Michael Jackson and left without getting paid. I also left, but was supposed to return the next day to do some finishing touches. Flying homewards I saw all the buildings I'd torn down facades on covered in paper and thought it to be one of the more spectacular sights I've ever seen. This dream ended after I'd landed on a bridge, cuz my arms were tired from the flying, but the bridge had also been reduced, so I had to help a bunch of people climb it. 

Yet, it isn't the dreams in themselves that I find disturbing, it's how they somewhat seems more real than reality that's so freaky. The feelings and sensations feel more real, even after I wake up, than their awake equivalents. Further it sometimes takes hours before I'm able to determine if something was real or just a dream. It's like the walls between dreams and awake is thinning out and they're seeping into each other. And most freaky of all; I'm not sure if I dislike it.

As a sort ending: If you ever wake up from a dream by pinching yourself, you're sure to be dreaming. Pinching yourself in a dream doesn't make you wake up.

Social Suicide

Last post was a good example of the point in that post; a potential social suicide but nonetheless a truth as that was a thought that hit my mind and caused an internal debate....

New Years Rambling

New Year and new questions. Seeing how I remain single, that alone raises several. How, when, who? But I still lead a good life, so such worries remain just worries rather than obsessions or troubling depressions, like I can observe in news. I do want a cat though, to keep me company, and keep me from becoming too lonely on the gray days. But cats are living things too, and as of yet I'm not sure if I should take care of one. Knowing myself, I will hate being tied down to the apartment too much. But then again, who knows? Really? Which brings me to a topic I wondered a lot about the other day. Someone told me, Your former girlfriends are all a bit weird, what's up with you and strange women that end up hurting you? And I thought about this, long and well. I have not given the answer, but I think I came up with it in my head. I do not see a female fit to be a companion in life out of how strange she is, truly, such a thing is somewhat suicidal in the end. Neither do I wish to get hurt, I certainly hope at least. Yet still again I find myself in the situation where I do something to someone and ends up getting mindboggled in the end, again. And it has indeed to do with my very person, as it seems the non-strange part of the opposite sex detest me. I suppose I am the oddity for the rest of the world to point and giggle at while they continue leading their lives of what is seen, by me, as something somewhat boring. Why spend a lot of time lying about everything and everyone to each other when all you have to do is tell the truth? Well, obviously it's because nobody wants to hear the truth. I hear this all of the time as I'm told to shut up and stop telling the stories of my life; but why I could never fathom. They happened after all, I was there, and most of them aren't really about me doing anything wrong; they usually encompass that parts of my life where I get the privilege to witness something completely absurd and, yet again fully in my opinion, somewhat hilarious. If a story of a thing that has happened has to be lied about, why did that story happen in the first place? Why lie about something that could bring truth? What are we to learn if all the great stories are left untold by people too morally upstrung to accept that they did in fact happen? Maybe man is happier left unknowing, but certainly he is not left smarter, unless again the pursuit of happiness is the same as being smart....

And having said all this I would like to point out that I do not indeed agree fully with that statement given, not nearly all have been bad for me, or even remotely close.