Phylosophy out of a friend's messenger nickname (XXVIII):

I don't need the sour side of love. Yes, you do. We all do. We can't have it any other way. When it comes to love, we also need to taste its bitterness. It doesn't necessarily means that it is rotten; most of times, it merely means that it is still alive, and it's worth fighting for. If nothing else, we need the bitter side of love to know how sweet it can be sometimes.

In a way, it might as well be a good thing. Maybe it will push me back into the right track again.

I'd give anything for my bed right now.

Missing* (I)

Riding a bike. It's been seven years since the last time I rode one. Actually it's been seven years since the last time I've done any serious physical exercise - which might explain many things.

Dislikes (I)

Using my cellphone in a public place. I know, I know, the purpose of a cellphone is to allow us to talk (nowadays, to be "online") anywhere, anywhen, anyhow, whatever. But I seriously dislike talking on my cellphone in public, and it really annoys me when someone's doing it. In a bus, for example. People tend to talk really loud on their cellphones if they are in a bus, and everyone can hear - or rather, cannot avoid hearing - their pointless conversations. Likewise, I don't like to be tagging along with friends and to be constantly paying attention to whoever is calling me or texting me - in other words, to someone who's not anywhere near me, physically speaking. People who never let go of their cellphones, who are talking to me while ceaselessly texting someone, they piss the hell out of me. Most people seem to consider the cellphones a great progress. I think they were the first step into the destruction of what we call "privacy".

Quoth the raven (LI):

Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.

Benjamin Franklin

One could switch "safety" for "love". Love also doesn't blossom in a cage.

Likes (I)

The smell of wet earth right after the season's first rain. It's even better in the countryside, where one can see all the colours becoming clearer under the gray skies, and where the frogs can be heard. Still, here in the big city, that smell is the closest thing to paradise we can dream of getting. It kinda made my week start promising, but it turned out to be just another boring, pointless time. Not that it was the rain or the earth's fault, of course.

Pavlov

From Wikipedia:

Ivan Petrovich Pavlov (September 14, 1849 – February 27, 1936) was a Russian physiologist, psychologist, and physician. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1904 for research pertaining to the digestive system. Pavlov is widely known for first describing the phenomenon of classical conditioning.

(...)

In the 1890s, Pavlov was investigating the gastric function of dogs by externalizing a salivary gland so he could collect, measure, and analyze the saliva and what response it had to food under different conditions. He noticed that the dogs tended to salivate before food was actually delivered to their mouths, and set out to investigate this "psychic secretion", as he called it.

He decided that this was more interesting than the chemistry of saliva, and changed the focus of his research, carrying out a long series of experiments in which he manipulated the stimuli occurring before the presentation of food. He thereby established the basic laws for the establishment and extinction of what he called "conditional reflexes" — i.e., reflex responses, like salivation, that only occurred conditionally upon specific previous experiences of the animal. These experiments were carried out in the 1900s, and were known to western scientists through translations of individual accounts, but first became fully available in English in a book published in 1927.

I don't even try. Can only imagine what would happen if I was to.

Back and safe. Thank you, Shelyra. You're my lucky charm.

Dark sky

Tonight would be the night when I would tell you about the stars. Tonight, of all nights, when the dark, moonless sky will be burning with shooting stars, debris of the above creating a celestial fireworks show that would shine only for you and me. Tonight, we'd travel through space together, we'd blaze with the shooting stars, we'd shine like the distant constelations. We'd see each other under the starlit sky, and we'd know. But tonight, of all nights, the sky will remain dark, veiled. There will be no sound of crashing waves echoing far below us. There will be no whispering of the pine trees. There will be no stories about ancient legends, forever printed in mankind's memory with invisible lines that connect the stars. There will be nothing - only the dark, the usual dark.

The road by the river

Or how the most trivial thoughts are able to trigger something.

There was a road by the river. It had been built many years ago, following the course of the river along its northern margin, as it collapses into the ocean. It was a well-kept road, and a busy one too, especially during the rush hours; but more often than not, it provided not only a fast way to return to the city, but also a scenic and rather pleasant one. Most people seemed to enjoy it in those warm, sunny days of Summer, when the sky is sky-blue, when the sea is sea-blue, and when the sandy patches between the road and the waterline are crowded with people enjoying themselves. It was a nice sight, no doubt about it: the river and the sea, the cliffs on the other side, far away and yet always there, the endless sea up until the straight line of the horizon. He, however, prefered to ride down that road during storms, when there's no one in the sand, when the waves swallow the beaches with their merciless pounding, swinging back and forth with unkept violence. When the roaring sea is gray, and when the horizon fades as if the ocean and the sky merge in turmoil, pouring rain on the ravenous sea, cutting the dusk with the blinding light of lightning strikes, sharp as knives. In those moments, as he watched the storm consuming itself in wind and fire over the ocean, he felt small, insignificant as he faced the raw power of the elements; but he also felt at peace with himself, as nature itself revealed it's terrible beauty only for himself. No one is willing to endure a storm just to watch it, he thought. If only they knew what they're missing.

The wreckage

Sometimes my mind drifts away, and I dream about seeing you again. It would happen in a distant future, many years from now, many years since the last time we'd seen each other, since last time we'd spoken bitter words. When everything we'd lived together would be but a dim shadow, a worned out memory that we wouldn't often see under the daylight. Life would be different then. We'd meet by chance; and after the initial shock, we'd look into each other's eyes and see the distance between the paths we'd both walked since the moment when we'd let ourselves fall and crash. We'd remember us. Everything would flow back into out waking minds, every memory, a tidal wave we'd be powerless to stop. All the questions. All the doubts. All the fears. Everything would rush back into us. And we'd go. Each of us would resume the walking through the paths we'd chosen many years before. Only that time both of us would know the why, and yet we wouldn't change it. Somethings are never meant to be, regardless of how much we desire them. That, in the end, would be the lesson we'd both taken out of the wreckage.

My 2010 summer nights

Dazzlingly drawn and coloured by Christoph Niemann, who publishes his excellent and very funny drawings in the Abstract City Blog, The New York Times (it's also this kind of stuff that makes the NYT the best newspaper in the world). This one I found here, and as I mentioned in the title, it describes perfectly my summer nights after the lights go out:

Colourless

I'm guessing we're both aware of each other. We are both sitting on our own, having a drink, smoking a cigarrette, writing scattered thoughts on a notebook. I'm writing about you; there is a chance, albeit remote, that you're writing about me. Probably we're both wondering the same: who are you? If this was a movie, I'd leave within some minutes; but before I would, I'd rip this page off, fold it in four, and drop it by your table. You'd read it as I'd walk away. Then you'd get up in a rush and walk right after me. You'd catch up with me outside in the street. It'd be raining, and we wouldn't care. We'd stare into each other's eyes and know, suddenly and irresistibly, that we were meant to be together, and we'd hold each other and kiss under the pouring rain. Life, however, is but a pale imitation of the famous technicolour sequences I once saw and believed in. As such, we'll both remain silent. We'll go on writing, now and them glancing at each other furtively, averting our eyes when they happen to meet. You'll go on waiting on whoever you're waiting for; I, waiting for no one, will finish my drink and leave. Without a word, without a note. Without looking back. Without rain outside. You won't read my words. You'll forget about them the second I walk out the door. The one you were waiting for will arrive at last, and all will be forgotten. And the only memory of this moment will be these words, describing your dark curly hair resting down your shoulders. Describing your big eyes, surrounded by shadow. Describing the way your lips hold the cigarrette frozen still seconds before you light it up. Describing the way your hand holds the pen as you write. Describing the way your feet dance quietly under the table, following the rhythm of the random music. Words describing you, fixing your image of this moment better than any photography would. Words that you'll never read, written by a stranger whom your eyes shall never meet again. This is how things are in real life. Colourless. Grayish, dull, never meant to be.

Brilliant

I stopped looking for my dream person. I just want someone who isn’t a nightmare.

Here. Thanks for the suggestion, r..

This ain't "cheering up the blog". This is sending it straight into a reverie.

To belong

Some people want to belong. Just that: to belong. Where, you might ask? With whom? Somewhere. With someone. Never ask them that: they don't know. They just want to belong. To be a part of something. Most times they don't even know where they would like to be, or what would they like to belong to, or with whom, they are as clueless as a newborn. They are merely looking for solid ground, for a foundation to their own selves, for an identity that they cannot create and give themselves, or that they cannot accept without it being first accepted and approved by others, whoever they might be. To belong. We belong within ourselves. Sometimes we belong somewhere with someone else. But for that to happen, we need to know where, and with whom - and we need to know the exact answer to both questions. We cannot settle for less. Or at least we shouldn't.

Silence as a weapon

As it seems, the solution was not in being blunt or evasive or even rude. The solution was silence. Pure silence.

Euphoria and broken glass [republished]

The problem of life is, it's not all fun and games. Most of time, life is dull and boring. Yes, there is euphoria now and then - and when there is, we forget about everything and plunge into it and let ourselves go and live fast and nothing else seems to matter but the rush of the moment. But eventually it will be over. It might take some time, yes, but euphoria always ends. And when it does, what remains? What is left with us? It's just like tossing a party at home, see? Everyone shows up. Great music. Buckets of booze. Laughs. People dancing, people screwing and being screwed in the toilet or in some empty room. But once the music dies and the party is over, everyone leaves while we remain at home, alone, cleaning up the mess. Euphoria is just the same. There is the rush, the vertigo, the dizziness, the wild ride on the whirlwind. But then it is over, and once it is, we're stuck right back into the old and boring and dull life. And then what's left? I'll tell you what's left: the ruins of what we had before the hurricane and broken glass.

One might have met a lot of people during the whirlwind of euphoria, in parties, in wild nights. i don't know. But how many of those acquaintances remains? How many of them become true friends? And the ones who do, was it due to the euphoria, or did it happened after it wore out, when both found themselves walking the dull path of routine?

The useless struggle

You cannot see how useless is your struggle. How far away from you is what you want. Like I told you, there was a time when I would encourage you to go on. There was a time when I believed that we must chase our dreams. As a matter of fact, there was a time when I chased my dreams, dashing unafraid towards them, regardless of what stood in my way. But my days of knight in shiny armour are long since gone. It's winter here now, you know? So flee. Flee while you can. I cannot give you want you want, what you seek, whatever it is - near me, you won't find it. Near me, you'll find many things - and you'd be happier without most of them.