A day of distractions, aka a break-through, digging deeper into carnal pleasures through porn, reading about characters of the world which make more sense of why some decide to come to Earth. Waking up later, not late, no pretending to be disciplined, at least not for today. News of recent pandemic decisions make the panic subside, the world goes back to no ending and our sick minds survive. I am reaching a channel, hoping for some telepathic transmission, hard to tell if others are actually stwitching (switch + twitch). I think with no thoughts, only rumble inside as to detect if something has changed of my previous self, am I still kind? Some memories are reshuffling, another compilation for trialing a new perception. Déjà vu overloading. Some dark shit springs up, I catch it mildly and sink it back. It’s easy to do this after a while. New plans to go dancing outside, 3m from each other, on a field. I like how it looks in my mind, I even like it in general. ‘No touching’ is cruel yet many more survive it (good news for abandonment wounded). I see it as a theatrical dance scene on a virus-poster as part of a collection in a higher dimension. Oh well, we tried – says someone who never used disinfection.

The word of today:

Pataphysics is the study of imaginary solutions. Carrying out a ‘pataphysical’ investigation involves assuming the reality of something that does not physically exist.


(While reading Sally Rooney ‘Conversations with friends’)

If life wasn’t so simple, I could’ve fallen in love with it. I could’ve really enjoyed its complications and try laboriously to decipher its mysteries. Yet, it is an unpretentious congruence of unflattering patterns which happen in predictable formats and aren’t especially appealing even to strangers of this world. It does have its surprises, for the unknowing ages of growth, but essentially it is pastured with over-relevance. Discoveries spin it while giving no thrill for the movement observers and humans pet themselves thinking they should be owned by magnificent forces and if they are not anymore, it’s only because they are not worthy. And they are not worthy. This can be easily proven by compiling a dead-boring recount of morning thoughts which push bodies out of their beds and make them walk towards urination and/or hopefully pleasant defecation. Every bit of it, life that is, counts though. Momentary pleasures are the ALL that keeps the spinning wanting to deepen itself for a better visual effect. I am not a big fan of visual communication, simply because I suck and so I can’t be bothered with it because there are humans who do it good and fast and I have always and shall always give us the credit of a superorganism, unconsciously so, boiled in juices of boredom and continuous need of self-flagellation. Uniqueness is just not a happening. It springs out of some random bullshit from some imaginary pool of unfulfilled desires, and this has nothing to do with dreaming about guns, because I never dream about guns. I choose knives, and I cut myself with every cooking occasion. The right hand needs more education but it has too much power and the willingness to exercise my left-hand dexterity is close to null. I begin to reconsider how often my mind spins in these debilitating patterns and how much I believed, when I was young and beautiful, that I am here to invent a new pattern and how much encouragement I have received in this direction from giants which I met after birth. Inevitably, every giant became a pitiful specimen because I had to eventually rise from my knees and stand tall. Looking down I wonder, how did life acquire such a quality of irrepressible smallness.