A very big deal

Artist: @wiresandtrees

 

I was talking with a friend of mine on the phone. We were discussing the human personality, how traumatic experiences affect a person, and how a major traumatic event will often create a subpersonality. 

The idea is not new. Shamans say that the soul comes to earth to experience love, but more often than not, it will experience pain and rejection. Every time the soul experiences major trauma, a piece of it breaks off and goes away. It may go anywhere; to the past, the future, another dimension, it may attach itself to another person, an animal etc. The possibilities are endless. There is a chord that connects the broken piece to the rest of the soul, and as a result, it cannot really get lost. Still, that piece is absent, and it won't return unless it feels safe again. It is the reason abuse victims will often say that they don't feel whole. There are even people who will do this on purpose; they will hurt someone just so they can claim that small, valuable piece of their victim, and keep it both as a trophy and an energy source. 

Personality, from that aspect, is not very different. It can break to pieces too. A big traumatic event may create a subpersonality that affects the whole in its own special way. These subpersonalities often remain hidden, and play their hand whenever conditions similar to the original trauma trigger them into action. They mean well, but they are the source of many self-limiting beliefs, trauma responses, wrong choices, etc. Their way of protecting the whole is always a trauma response that usually creates worse problems than the one they are trying to solve. And of course, this whole sorry mess needs therapy.

So I was talking to this friend and explaining how I am working with these subpersonalities, through dreams, symbols, etc. I was also explaining what I believe was the root cause/ inciting incident for each of these subpersonalities. My friend listened carefully. After I narrated to her one of those incidents, she made the sarcastic/ humorous comment that gee, I had a lovely childhood, and what she just heard wasn't traumatic at all, God forbid. It was all stability and unicorns.

It hit me then. It hit me that this was indeed an awful thing to happen to a child of that age, and it should not have happened to me, or anyone else for that matter. After we hanged up, a felt a terrible sadness overwhelm me, and I understood that I was given permission through the eyes of another person to experience that sadness. I did not have a safe space to experience and unpack that pain when it happened. I had to push forward and survive. Mentally, I've known it was traumatic, however until now I did not want to make a big deal out of it. I know people hurt other people all the time. I wasn't going to be spared. But my friend put the incident into perspective with her comment, and helped me realise that it was more than just a story I read, or yet another example of how imperfect and hurtful humans can be. It was something that happened to me personally, and it changed me forever. It was an occurrence that made me understand that there wasn't a single adult in my family I could rely on. I wasn't safe with them. I couldn't trust them, I couldn't lower my defences and rest. I still can't. And if this isn't a big deal, then I don't know what is.

Please, do yourselves a favour and stop seeking validation and healing from the people who hurt you. You need safe people who will see you for what you are, and they in turn will help you see yourself clearly. These people are not the same ones who abused you. If they were, they wouldn't have harmed you in the first place. 

Read more on subpersonalities here.

(As per usual, if you'd like to support this silly goose of a blogger, please buy her a coffee.)

Dilemma

 

I think the basic question should be- 

"Do you want more power, or do you want peace?"

Most people try to find inner peace by seeking power.

Power over others, power by being in control, and more rarely, by becoming tyrants of themselves.

Power does not grant you peace.

If you want to find peace, you need to let go of power.

Of course that is easier said than done.

You will be crushed, time after time, until you think you'll never be whole again.

You'll sit with yourself, trying to hold your own hand, while everything is falling apart.

You'll frantically struggle to be in control while there is no control over anything. Control will always be slipping through your fingers like water.

You'll doubt and second-guess yourself until your brain aches.

And that's not even a full list of what happens when you seek the path of peace.

I'm sad tonight. Whatever woke up by the full moon is having a party inside my head.

I'm also dead-tired. Tired to my bones, to my very core. 

I need to find a job that does not make me hate my life.

I know I need to let go of power and control, and instead exercise self-discipline over my thoughts and feelings.

No guarantee this will work, of course. 

It's ironic to need a guarantee to let go of control. Similar to removing your life jacket, but not before you have been handed a life ring.

Life, by definition, always hands you jack shit before kicking you right in at the deep end.

I do know one thing. If self-discipline doesn't bring results, at least I'll suffer less. 

And that's about as good as it gets.

(As per usual, if you'd like to support this tired old cat, please buy her a coffee.)

Let's talk about fashion

More specifically, let's talk about things I hate. Since bad fashion and bad taste make me suffer, I decided to give you a glimpse inside my wonderfully sarcastic mind. I am sick with Covid and feel extra bitchy these days, so there you are. You're welcome.

The wet cement hair look:

Picture source is here.

Came across this picture, and I will not say a word on anything except the hair. So, the hair. This magnificent hairstyle is very simple to achieve; judging by the colour, first you pour mustard or diarrhea on your head. Then you wait for it to dry a little before styling it in that dashing "my hair is trying to run away from my head and I had to take measures" pinnacle of achievement. 

The nude lipstick (as seen in the pic above):

Ladies, your lips are not supposed to be the same colour as your nose, unless you are dead, or on the way there due to severe anemia. The human mouth is usually darker than the rest of the face. Trying to make it disappear is not the goal. You want to use make-up to look more alive, healthy and attractive. You won't achieve that with a lipstick several tones lighter than your natural lip colour. I understand intense red may not be your thing, but tuberculosis brown or cadaver beige is not your thing either, believe me. In fact it's nobody's thing. The only exceptions to this are: Halloween make-up, zombie make-up, a significant other who's a necrophiliac, OR having dark brown or black skin. In that case other rules apply, and beige or even white lipstick can look sensational. And please oh please, do not use a dark pencil to define your lips and a visibly lighter hue on the inside. Only professional clowns do that. Are you a clown? I didn't think so.

The cheap green

This shade of green always looks cheap and tacky. It also doesn't look good on anyone except maybe foodball players, who get paid millions to wear sponsored shit, so colour choice is the least of their worries. I'd give it a wide berth. It screams last discounted items and misery. It is particularly ugly in shoes.

Stiletto nails 

 

I don't know which hellish hole this style crawled out of, but it needs to return there and die asap, and failing that, be killed by fire. It's one of the most unpleasant and anti-erotic trends I have seen. There is a reason old ugly vampires are portrayed with such nails in horror movies. I am an avid horror fan; however, horror is not the feeling you want to inspire when you caress a person. And how on earth do you manage not to put your eyes out by accident in your sleep? Do you sleep with oven mittens on?

Animal print anything

How many times have you seen members of the old European aristocracy, or politicians, or bankers wearing animal print anything? Do you really think it's because they haven't discovered it yet? (Spoiler: No, that's not the reason.)

 

I think that's enough for today, as I feel exhausted. Needless to say, opinions are my own. Feel free to disagree and wear whatever you like, however it works for you. Life is too small for uniformity.  

 

(As per usual, if you'd like to support this grumpy old cat, please buy her a coffee.)

The best Christmas gift is to help someone in need

Arnoldo Lopez Contreras was labor trafficked in San Francisco, then seriously injured on a job, and has been struggling to get back on his feet ever since. Because of the prohibitively high rents in the Bay Area, Arnoldo has been living in his truck for several years.

On August 2, 2021, Arnoldo's truck was stolen in Oakland. Thieves took his transportation and his home. They got all his personal belongings, $4000 worth of tools, and his newly won Green Card. They took the small foothold he has been carving out for years, as he's been working to gain stability and send money to his family.

Arnoldo is working hard to regain what was lost, but it is challenging to start back at square one. He's been working as a handyman and painter, but he needs to replace his tools in order to work. He needs a reliable truck. He needs a place to sleep.

Please help another person have Christmas. He can hardly believe that complete strangers would be kind enough to donate when he has been through so much. Let's show him that despite what he has been through, humans can still be kind.

Anything you can spare, no matter how little, will make a difference. You can find more info and donate here: https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-a-labor-trafficking-survivor-stay-sheltered

Listen carefully to your gut

 

Your body never lies to you. You should listen to it, especially if you want to follow a path related to magick or if you are an empath or psychic of any kind.

 
If you're feeling stressed, or angry, your body is trying to give you a message. Whenever I feel angry, it's because someone is violating a boundary and entering my personal space uninvited. My mind may not be up to speed with what's happening. I may need to discuss with a friend to put my finger on the exact reason I feel mad and how that person is disrespecting me. It's not always obvious, but I know something is wrong. I know it because I'm irate. What my mind can't immediately locate under layers and layers of social conditioning, pretence, and polite coercion, my body understands just fine. The animal in me bares its teeth and wants to bite. I should listen to the message for my sake. Careful here: listening to the message does not mean acting on it. Feelings exist to give you feedback. They aren't there to tell you what to do. Impulsively acting on them is not going to take you to a better place.

What if I'm wrong, you'll say. What if the person or situation is OK and I'm the one who has the problem?

 

Even that is a valid reason to back off. They may be safe, they may even be suitable. But if you are not feeling comfortable, then you're not ready. Not being ready is as valid a reason as they come. And if you're right about feeling uneasy, believe me, you don't want to find out why the hard way.

A few nights ago I was out, doing my walking routine. I usually pass by an old building with a large garden. The garden fence is mostly non-existent. If I step into that garden, I find myself walking alongside the street. The street and the streetlights are no longer visible, because there are large bushes that act as a natural fence. I need to take thirty to forty steps in that garden before I find myself on the street again, exiting through a hole in the fence. 

 

It's usually quiet in there, and sometimes I take the detour because I want to feel the change in atmosphere. This building is very close to Ymittos mount, and even though it's next to other houses and in theory I am still in the city, the atmosphere is different than walking on the street. I don't take the detour every night; only when the mood strikes.

 

So here I was, strolling without a care in the world, listening to All About Eve. I love that band, especially their sad songs, and I was in a good mood when I reached that place. I walked five steps in and realised I was terrified, though there was nothing there. I took one look at the way the light wind was making the tree-tops shake, another look at the darkness, and something inside me screamed, "get out, get out now, return to the light." 

 

For a split second my mind attempted to barge in and convince me that everything was fine. You know: there is no reason to feel that way, there is no-one here, you should not act like a baby, blah de blah. Thankfully I'm way past the point I need to prove myself to anyone, myself included. I elbowed my mind in the nose, metaphorically speaking, turned on my heels, and I was outta there. I admit I breathed a huge sigh of relief as soon as I stepped back into the safety of the streetlight, and I kept looking behind my back until I had put some distance between me and that place.

Now you're probably expecting some dramatic explanation, some proper justification for my behaviour. I am sorry if this is going to be anticlimactic. I don't have an explanation. I can say that the particular night was in the time-frame between the two eclipses. During eclipses various gates open, as eclipses are powerful astrological phenomena that release a lot of energy. Maybe something had stepped out of one such gate. What I do know for certain is that I am too old, and have had too many nasty etheric encounters in my life to shit in my pants just because the wind was blowing. I was spooked that night, I was downright terrified. I like darkness a lot, but that night, the wrong kind of darkness awaited in there. It was the hungry darkness that lurks in bad places during the small hours; the darkness that causes car accidents to happen, that makes normal people decide to bash their wife's head in because she said the wrong thing. That sort of darkness. And honestly, exorcism rituals are a lot of work. It's just plain stupid to have to go through one because you carried something home with you. 

 

To sum this up, don't ignore your own body screaming something at you. Feeling like an idiot for being spooked without a reason is a hundred times better than going through damage control because something bad happened. And some bad things cannot be undone, so please be vigilant. These are strange times.

Hope the new year will be better. Take good care everyone.

(As per usual, if you'd like to support this scaredy old cat, please buy her a coffee.)

The unprepared runner

Roughly the effect I was aiming for...

The following incident happened a while ago. I finished work, took the bus, got off and went to the supermarket. I said the same thing I always say: I need just a couple of things. I don't know if there are people who walk into a supermarket and indeed get out with "just a couple of things". Maybe there are. I'm not saying it's as improbable as spotting fairies or dragons. I, however, am not one of them.

So I get out of the supermarket with my backpack bursting at the seams. I have no use for the average feminine bag; if I could carry with me a military backpack (or three), I would. In the one hand I have a chocolate milk with a straw, in the other hand another bag with what didn't fit in my backpack. I say to myself, no way you'll walk a kilometer carrying so much weight. You'll get the bus. 

I start walking towards the bus stop. It's at a distance. I take sips of my choco milk and walk, not a care in the world. Then I turn and glance behind me and realise the bus is at the traffic lights. Shit!

I start running and develop a good speed. Great, I say to myself, you'll manage to get to the stop before the bus. At the same time I feel that my trousers have begun sliding down, and my smile vanishes. I start opening my stride as much as possible, to stop the damn trousers from slipping further down. I probably look like a chubby pelican doing ballet leaps, with my legs stretched to the max trying to stop the inevitable. Just before my butt is fully revealed, I stop and place the milk on my right hand, the one that carries the bag with the groceries. I slipped the index finger of my left hand inside one of the belt loops of my trousers to keep them in place, and resumed running. 

Thankfully, the bus driver saw this grown, mature woman keeping her pants in place with one hand and carrying what looked like a week's worth of provisions for the Mongolian army in the other, and he took pity on me. He stopped before the bus stop and let me onboard. Thank you, Mr driver.

I probably don't need to refer to the fact there was a bus stop just outside the supermarket, in a small street nearby, and I discovered it months after that incident. Do I?

(As per usual, if you'd like to support this lunatic, please buy her a coffee.)

Four of Swords: Forced Rest

And so I'm reading. I'm re-reading bits of my saga, which I wrote in 1999 and 2000. Yellowed pages that smell good, and have water stains on them. The ink I used to write has been smeared and erased in places, and my writing style, twenty years and thousands of pages later, seems too descriptive and overly emotional. But there are parts of me in them that shine effortlessly even now. It makes me happy and sad in equal parts. When I'm looking for a comforting place to hide in and recuperate I hide in there. In the world I brought here in bits and pieces that have never been connected in one, larger body.

I'm tired. Nothing new. Trying to push on, trying to keep walking. I'm terrified of stopping. In this world we live in, where dog eats dog, humans fight over nothing and find nothing to unite them, I am terrified of stopping. I'm chased by a battalion of anger and sadness, people, circumstances, unfinished jobs, unattainable dreams, frustration and tiredness. I need to find a safe place to rest, to put down my burden and sleep. I'm starting to think I'll sleep when I die. I've been chased by Gods, demons and mortals for almost forty three years now. I get bitten a lot, and before the wounds are healed I get new ones. I'm a goddamn geological formation of scabs. I don't even stop to think about it; anyone who gets too close on the other level gets incinerated. The only problem is you can't kill real, actual people without going to jail. Ha ha ha.

I'm tired. I need to rest. I need to hide and live the rest of my life invisible. It's impossible, of course. No matter where I go, they'll find me. I stink. My being is inhabited by my soul, and my soul stinks to them. That small pulse inside called soul colours my entire existence, skin and bone and blood, and it smells of the Other Side. It smells like understanding and forgiveness, taking care of every life from the smaller to the biggest, protecting the weak ones and the different ones and using resources to promote well-being, health and literacy, justice and medical care. It smells like safety and individuality and different families and fucking utopia. I stink of it. I stand out like a flower in an abattoir. And I can't help it. I am what I am, I can't change. I can't stop caring and wanting to protect the ones who can't protect themselves. I can't stop hating injustice, pettiness, vanity, racism, stupid mind-games, cruelty and hypocrisy. It's who I am. I know right from wrong. Loving, evolving, moving on is right. That's what I want for me and everyone else. And those who don't want it, well, I just wish to stay away from them. I don't want to change them, or educate them, or make them change their minds. I can't change them anyway, it's futile. Just want to keep my distance.

This world hates my guts, and I suffocate in it. It will pass. I'll push on. Time is always on my heels, biting me like a hyena, trotting behind me to tire me until I collapse. It circles above me, a carrion bird. And I give him the finger. And I walk on.

I recently came across this poem that pretty much says it all. Enjoy. And if you'd like to support me, please buy me a coffee.

Pursuit, by Stephen Dobyns

Each thing I do I rush through so I can do

something else. In such a way do the days pass--

a blend of stock cars racing and the never

ending building of a gothic cathedral.

Through the windows of my speeding car, I see

all that I love falling away: books unread,

jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?

What treasure do I expect in my future?

Rather it is the confusion of childhood

loping behind me, the chaos in the mind,

the failure chipping away at each success.

Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape

and so move forward, as someone in the woods

at night might hear the sound of approaching feet

and stop to listen; then, instead of silence

he hears some creature trying to be silent.

What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly

down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks;

the other ever closer, yet not really

hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill.

From “Cemetery Nights” by Stephen Dobyns (Penguin Books: 100 pp., $14.95) Copyright 1997 Reprinted by permission.

Taken from here.

Atonement

"...And it is the people most capable of forgiveness that are the only ones made to atone."

Emi Mahmoud

Things are definitely looking up!

We're in 2030.

The Greek refugee problem has been solved. Not because the wars ended or Europe opened its borders or anything. The entire Greece sank into the ocean after a colossal earthquake that stopped exactly at the country's borders. Rumor says it was courtesy of the legendary bad luck of the family of Prime Minister Kyriakos Mitsotakis. Now the remaining Greeks are someone else's refugee problem, and they don't like it. In response to their constant complaining, they are reminded that they were the ones who voted for him, and besides, they still owe money to the European Union, even though it does not exist anymore. 

The corona virus returns every September, just as swallows migrate to Africa, and goes away in April, when swallows return. The biggest companies in the world are the ones producing toilet paper. They have bought Amazon, Google, Twitter, and launched an app that finds your ideal mate comparing toilet paper preferences. Parties where you go dressed in nothing but toilet paper and a surgical mask are a thing. There are also new revolutionary masks that can double as panty liners, swimming suits, camping tents,  nuclear bunkers and spaceships. 

There is a heated public discussion that has been going on for a decade, whether the numbers of medical personnel are adequate or the governments should hire more people. Unbeknownst to politicians, all the medical personnel died during the first corona outbreak. They turned into mutant zombies that still frantically treat patients because they are so busy they have not realised they are, in fact, themselves dead.

The icecaps melted. Most cities are partly or fully underwater. A lot of babies are born with webbed hands and toes. Trump has been elected yet again, and claims it is all fake news and that the communists are behind it. Communists, on the other hand, are too busy learning to swim and forage underwater.

The British politicians haven't noticed any of these things as they are in an ongoing Brexit phase. The Queen is still alive and makes public announcements about how unhappy she is she outlived everyone of her relatives and generally, everyone she's ever known. In her free time, she commands the armies of the undead, including the medical personnel.

Remember the girl or guy you liked? The one you were bananas for, and hoped that they would eventually see the light and break up with their icky significant other? Well, good news is, they finally saw the light and you are in a relationship with them! Problem being, one of you has erectile dysfunction and the other is in menopause, which means you mostly spend time on the couch watching pre-disaster movies, eating unhealthy shit and farting.

The author of this entry is dead/ does not exist/ was sucked into the black hole of Greek economy and never returned. Do not try to find her. If, however, you'd like to support a dead person, please buy her a coffee.

Dumpster diving and other unpopular choices

So here is an interesting fact about me: I dumpster dive. My specialty is books. I also salvage clothes, toys, anything that still works. I don't understand why people throw away what can be donated to charity, passed on, or simply left on the street to be taken by someone who wants it. You have something you don't want? Take it to the bus stop or to a park and leave it there. It will be claimed sooner than later, and someone else will use it. Why throw it away and not give it a second life?

Other than saving what I can from dumpsters, I collect stamps, books and plastic caps for charity, pass books on via bookmooch, and try to help in many little ways. For example, I no longer buy plastic pens (I use fountain pens for writing) and don't buy lighters. I use matches instead. I reuse every bit of packaging material I can get my hands on, since I regularly post things abroad. I switched from panty liners to a Ruby Cup, etc. There are so many things one can do if they care enough to bother. They can also donate to a charity of their choice, support a small business instead of a large one, not be assholes... The list is endless. 

People think they are weak and have no power in their hands, and that governments are in charge of their lives. Too often they expect someone else to take responsibility and lead them. They don't realise that the goods and services they buy are the greatest tool of pressure, and their waste has a global effect. When you buy a new smartphone every six months while you don't really need it, that is a choice, and it affects the entire world. From the obvious way of choosing how to spend your money, supporting a brand and its policies, to the not so obvious of expecting a material item to make you happy and give you identity, indirectly perpetuating such situations as child labour for the necessary cobalt, creating toxic waste and making landfills even fuller. The way you spend your money is a statement. The garbage you produce is a statement. What you buy creates demand and demand creates offer. No demand, or different demand, means in turn different offers. And there is no greater way to teach than setting an example by the way you live.

 

Next time you're in the supermarket, please remember that each choice you make gives feedback to the companies about your needs and priorities, and that in turn creates demand. Why not try to create a different type of demand? For example, are you really going to eat that? No? Then don't buy it. Does it have to be wrapped in 3 different types of plastic? Does it have to come all the way from Peru? That one is a plastic spoon, which means it will still be around when you are long gone. Maybe you can make another choice? And so on, and so forth. It's a matter of changing habits. Not much else. Since collective habits brought us to where we are now, different habits will take us to a different place. Why not give it a try, see how that feels? And please don't get disappointed by small failures and relapses. Just keep going. The whole world (and this is not an exaggeration) needs that.

(If you'd like to support me, please buy me a coffee.)

Some reading resources:

How to Reduce Your Carbon Footprint

Zero Waste   

Kiva Loans

Ordering the vegetarian meal? There is more animal blood on your hands

Minimalism

Stupid Things 

Fleeting or fleeing

Tonight I miss you again. This song reminded me of you, and how you once grabbed a shotgun to save lives, including your own.

Grief is a strange animal. It resembles an old injury. You think you have healed and then the weather changes, or you make a sudden move, and your body reminds you of the exact places it had been broken. It's the same deal with grief. You think the worst part has passed, and then you see or hear something and sadness pours out with such fierce intensity that startles you.

The funny thing is that lately I am content. I am tired, sure, and vulnerable, and everything is far from perfect. It doesn't stop me from being content. This contentment is not apathy. It embodies a quiet sense of being in the present moment. It has sadness and curiosity and hope and my sense of humour and a generous amount of disbelief for the stupidity of mankind. You can be content and hopeful and sad and dog-tired at the same time. It's not the same as being joyful, or happy. 

I recently noticed that the blog is a breath away from 100.000 pageviews. Well, as blogs go, it's old. It turned 14 years old in October. I don't write here as often as I'd like, and have no idea who reads it. To be honest, I don't know why anyone would read it as it is so personal, and sometimes repetitive. I get no income from it and I don't get contacted by my readers. I never have comments. In a way, it reminds me of a person posting letters to themselves. I write here because I have to, just like I grieve and laugh and eat and sleep because I have to. And it seems to me that is reason enough. 

Take good care of yourself tonight and every night.

Don't be someone's reason for grief if you can help it. 

Good night my dears.

Good night my darling.  
I miss you very much.

(If you'd like to support me, please buy me a coffee.)

Bookhopping

I have been feeling weird for the past week; dizzy, weak, disoriented. My sleep hasn't been good either. It's nothing new. From time to time I find myself feeling ill for no reason. After forty one years on this earth, I've come to realise that being psychic to some degree is similar to having a chronic illness. I do not mean to make light of the daily struggle of people suffering from a chronic illness. They alone know what they have to deal with and the dehumanising effect of chronic pain. Under no circumstances would I say I face even a portion of the challenges they do. However, there are similarities. For example:

• During the day, I may find myself feeling ill, or drained and exhausted, for no apparent reason.

• My sleep is often awful. Not always, and not always in the same way, but getting a good night's sleep is way more challenging for me than it is for the average person.

• This one is thankfully rare: I wake up to find that the world is spinning round and round, though I am perfectly still. If I try to move, even in the slightest, I am apt to vomit. Everything hurts and I feel wrecked. I don't drink alcohol, ever, so I don't want to hear smart comments about a hangover. This happens to me infrequently, usually every few years. When it does, I am rendered useless for that day. 

• Interacting with the wrong people is a one way ticket to hell.

• I can't touch, hug, or have sex with random people. Hell, I can't even dress up, put on make-up and go out without returning home feeling sick. It's fun, you should definitely try it. Not.

Yesterday was one of those fun days. After a bout of the merry go round effect (it happened on Tuesday), on Saturday I started feeling unwell. It got progressively worse. Headache, muscle pains, disorientation. I went to bed early and also took a painkiller. It didn't help much. I spent the biggest part of the night tossing, unable to find a comfortable position to sleep. Then I started shivering. I had to get an extra blanket. Then I started sweating. I had to keep just one blanket in order to stop sweating. I ached everywhere, and woke up feeling exhausted. I still feel exhausted and my body aches. Hopefully by tomorrow I'll be better. I am grateful for the fact I don't have to work on Monday because it is a national holiday. I would have been the equivalent of the queen of zombies working as a secretary.

I didn't begin this entry to air my woes. I wanted to refer to my bookhopping. Bookhopping is like barhopping, only with books, and for different reasons than locating a place with lots of excitement. Let's say you read a book, and the protagonist is about to break up. Being emotionally drained, you decide you can't handle it, so you hop to another book. You read that other book, only to discover that the heroes are facing a difficult challenge. Can you handle it? The answer is no. So you hop to yet another book like a frog that's chased by an army of hungry snakes. Gee, maybe I should start reading books for first graders about butterflies and shit. Maybe I should stop reading in general and start, dunno, knitting. What are the chances of abandoning a scarf because I am emotionally vulnerable?

Other than that, I am alive and well. I read two very interesting articles I would like to share with you. They both touch on how language and repetition/ stereotypes define and program our beliefs.

 

(Update in 2021: unfortunately the first article does not exist anymore.)

http://leftbrainedhippie.com/2017/02/25/8-words/

https://markmanson.net/negative-self-help

I would like to close this entry with this photo. 

She was found shot seventeen times, with one ear cut off, blind, pregnant and with a broken jaw. She survived, got adopted and now she is a therapy dog. Look at her. She is the living example of not letting your pain define who you are, but turn every bit of pain you've been through into solid gold. I mean LOOK at her. And maybe, just maybe, next time you face a challenge, instead of "I can't do this", say, "I'll give it a go." Just give it a go.

As per usual, if you'd like to support me, please buy me a coffee.

More info on the dog here: 

https://www.ladbible.com/news/animals-pregnant-dog-shot-17-times-has-qualified-as-a-therapy-dog-20190713

Storming paradise

"From this flesh my spirit longs to break away. 
Did you ever feel this cosmic circumstance was never enough? 
Wake me slowly if ever at all. 
Wake me slowly or watch me fall."

I do long to break free from my flesh tonight. Only I don't want to die.
Desire makes me weak, it makes me crawl, yet dignity wins every single time.
I still need to find the one who won't force me to choose.
I have to keep on fighting though I can barely stand.
It's OK though. I'm used to watching my world burn.
I am slowly regaining my hope, not because the situation is improving. Because it was mine and you took it away.
The rest will take care of itself, fuck you very much.
Desire will pass. It always passes.
Hey, even life will pass, let alone desire. 
I wish I could take a single drop of my longing and put it in a glass.
Then watch the unlucky person who drank it go mad.
You obviously knew what you did when you gave that much yearning to me.
You knew I could host it. 
Not sure who else can take it even by association, and not go insane.
Long ago, there was someone who could take it, and he used it to create worlds with me.
He is not here now, but watches over me.
And late at night I find myself imploring him.
"Show me the one who can take it.
Show me the one who'll manage not to be consumed and pushed into madness
but will use my love as a key to unlock paradise.
We'll take paradise by force, true Sons and Daughters of Lucifer
and our love will burn so brightly that angels will cover their eyes."
I do long to break free from my flesh tonight. Only I don't want to die.
Desire makes me weak, it makes me crawl, yet dignity wins every single time.
Until the night I won't have to choose.

(If you'd like to support me, please buy me a coffee.)