Ought to be sleeping already

I have at least six decks of tarot cards and not one can give me what I am looking for: answers.

Answers can take many forms.

If every choice is valid, then it is almost self-explanatory that we should strive to avoid pain and experience happiness.

Now, almost everyone makes the kind of choices that in the long run will make them unhappy. If asked, the answer is almost always the same.

"I didn't know."

Didn't you?

It seems absurd to me that we spend such a big part of our lives getting to "know better" and then, once we do know better, we are too old to choose between wisdom and passion. There is only wisdom as a choice, because passion has departed forever. We are too old to be passionate without being ridiculous. We are too old, period. We are way past our prime, way past the age we inspired others to be naughty, daring, to seek moments of passion within our arms, in our company.

It's just absurd.

I see the first light of dawn seeping through the balcony door and I wonder: is it too early? Or too late?

Does it matter?

I have to choose wisely.

I always have to choose.

There is not enough time.

Time is an illusion of the mammal brain.

Time makes me most unhappy.

Time heals all wounds to replace them with new ones.

Time is a tyrant.

There is no escape.

There must be another way to do things.

There must be something.

I will just sleep now.

Sleep lies outside the clutches of time.

Ah.

The complexity of being

Most of what we think is never known to others.

Passing feelings, notions and ideas are never known to others.

I share myself as much as I am capable of.

Yet there are things that cannot be shared.

Moments when the sunlight has a specific way of illuminating things.

The feeling of being content when I hug my favourite animals.

[Perhaps it is the "here and now" these beings encompass fully that reminds us so well what being content in the present tense is. Not expecting happiness and fulfillment. Not thinking of times past. But BEING here and now.]

There are things I cannot share, perhaps because of our human deficiency, perhaps because I safeguard the inner core of my being in such a manner.

There are those things that cannot be shared and sometimes are driving me insane.

The feeling of sexual hunger for a curve or a smooth line on someone's body.

The hunger for eternity while I immerse myself in the hue of blue on a pre-Raphaelite painting.

The hunger for life itself while watching an astounding performance.

The need for vanity as I caress a smooth fabric.

The yearning to leave as I look at the line of the horizon.

The arbitrary hunger to fly while a splendid sunset blooms like a wound in front of my eyes.

The feeling of power in my guts while my favourite music shakes me to the core.

Those things, and so many more, only remind me of one thing.

Live well.

Love deep.

Forgive.

One day you will close the door behind you and leave it all here.

Make sure you leave no loose ends.

Blessed be.

Cats, butts and radioactivity.

Experts from a letter to my penpal B. in Canada.

I am positively positive that if I don’t do something different than what I usually do, my brain will explode into sparkly little thingies the colour of shit. So here I am at the kiosk beginning a letter to you, or else. I still haven’t got a letter from, I should say, your demented Highness, or nicely round Butt Excellency, but hope dies last. Fear not! I will try everything, even come there to freeze my equally nice round butt together with yours in order to get that darn letter. I can see both our asses side by side at the mantelpiece. Hey, I can see our asses pressed against the windows of your house, mooning the non-existent neighbors. What the hell. At this rate, you may attract neighbors as well. I can see our asses on TV, on t-shirts, on two page spreads in magazines. I can see our asses mooning the moon itself if we have to. It’s Assholy war.

See what I mean about my brain exploding? It’s like goddess Eris herself has climbed on my shoulders and she pulls my ears and kicks my kidneys while stuffing LSD up my nostrils. I have no choice but to write bullshit under the serious disguise of a letter addressed to someone who’ll understand my ass fixation. I need a choir of Asian 17-year-olds who can and will dance nekkid in the moonlight and won't make everyone laugh themselves to hospital because of how pitifully small their ahems are. I don’t mind if they can’t sing. To hell with singing as long as they have other redeeming qualities. I want to wake up tomorrow and know Japanese without the need to scribble down kanji on scrap paper four million times each. I want to wake up tomorrow and be in Japan already, with a steady job that is somehow connected to violating the aforesaid choir. Even though to be honest with you I look forward to a trip to Japan with mixed feelings. I am afraid that my poor little Jap boys will no longer be fun to chase through the darkness of the night, because there will be no challenge; they will glow in the dark. I am afraid that I, too, will glow in the dark if I spend time there, and it certainly hasn’t been on top of my list of priorities, “things to do when you turn 35”. Elizabeth as a life size Halloween decoration, ew. Imagine the worst scenario: only my vagina turns radioactive through contact and gives new meaning to my life; it literally sheds light on matters concerning my sexual activity. Those private moments under the sheets will no longer hold any mystery; there will ample illumination on the subject. Gahhhhhhh…

[Q: You work in an office. How can you tell which pretty boy fell victim to Elizabeth’s devious sexual charms the previous night?

A: You simply tell them to stick their tongues out. Anyone with a weird glow effect on their tongues either has a penchant for fireflies, or has been in a particular bed last night.]

So I am sat at the kiosk, surrounded by an army of pieces of scrap paper thrown everywhere, all of them covered in kanji that I have been practicing in the vain hope of remembering them the next day. The idea someone will get by looking at this scene is that the whole place has contacted a nasty case of the measles, but an alien strain of it, with black squiggly thingies instead of red spots. I’m munching compulsively whatever my dirty paws can get a hold of while raising my butt every now and then and farting discretely in the pillow. There’s a perpetual stink around the kiosk like someone cracked open the door of a mausoleum full of cholera victims. I am pretty certain sooner or later a demon with a strong business sense and nefarious taste will come and shake hands with me, then offer me to bottle the essence and sell it to the market of Hell as air freshener and make us both rich. He’ll later confess to me that it was the subtle rotten egg aroma that underpinned the basic stink of death and dismay and made all the difference. I am also pretty certain that if I stand up and start hitting the pillow on the wall, ominous green clouds of stink will emerge out of it, and if I try to disperse them by fanning at them with my hands, I will discover that they are solid enough to need breaking them with a hammer into smaller pieces first.

I am absolutely positive that if I ever live together with a companion, they will die in their sleep by gas attack while I’ll be snoring in the pillow next to them without a care in the world, my ass accidentally poised at them and firing non-stop. I am also pretty certain my orange tom-cat has no sense of smell. The Persian is devious; she sleeps under the bed. He sleeps curled near my ass. Can you imagine that. Just next to the stirring volcano. Perhaps he likes it there because it’s so warm and breezy.

I do know one thing for certain. If I see areas where his lovely soft orange fur is curly and singed, I will not wonder why. One cannot escape the inevitable! Sooner or later, special becomes mundane, holy becomes profane and the grim reaper of my butt becomes the hair dresser of my cat. The mighty have indeed fallen.