Lazy from C-Z

She had some sort of wicked mystery to her; the kind that suffocates a man with temptation and desire. One that I wanted no part of, and yet here I stand ranting about her effects on my character, as if a mouse allured by the music of a pied piper. Fitting that the aforementioned woman here is from Vienna, where music plays a vital role in its culture. Where symphonies and orchestras, balls and whatnot, intertwine to form a cavalcade of passion, decadence, and other posh leanings. Suffice to say I am intrigued by the prospect of a short visit in her motherland, if also only to see Sabrina in all her glory. It had been such a long time since we last shared the same air and space, and eager to create new crooked smiles and tragic mishaps. However, this woman in question is not Sabrina. She is of a different flavour and context; she is fire when Sabrina is ice; she is work when Sabrina is play; she is ambition when Sabrina is happiness. One whose future denotes a compound of worthwhi

Once there came a man of youth who fought for life as if he fought for love; He had no spouse nor child nor pet; only a pen which he grips on to like a moth to a flame. His weapon completes him; it complements his strength as a vagabond. No other tool is more useful than when he seeks the right word, for the right time, and for the right moment. Everything else in the world they stutter but words Words carry a man steadfastly in time Words give value to a man's present in someone else's present in time.

There are lots of things to like about a good night out when you happen to wake up the following afternoon dishevelled and nauseous, ready for another go, and aching to jump back into the fray of that missed opportunity. I played with some woman's heart. In the end, she played mine. She always wins. No matter who this "she" happens to be at any given moment. If you ask me whether or not I do regret these, well, to be honest, sometimes, yes. I never get things right the first time. Repetition is something that is etched into my core that whenever I fail to get the chance to do something all over again, I lose all momentum. That was what happened to Mioseon, and everything else good that happened before or after that. My profession, if you even call it that, has the same conundrum, and now it's buried amongst the long-forgottens. Before Friday night, Angelo asked me to tell Eva to come join his party. She immediately responded, and it was a foolish thing for me to

The smell of food attracts the prey. I fell for it, it seems. There was no miracle in my life but the sound of her voice. Hoarse, but oddly comforting. Ugly. Rather enchanting, however, was the habit of having to listen to it every day. The first wind of her morning breath permeating in bed. As foul a smell as turd can be. But I had no cause to complain. Morning sex. She responds, never resists. It was anticlimactic, and how can one reach climax in something like that? Underwhelming, sure. Nauseating, yes. Definitely aversive. But... doesn't it always ,  always , always  seem to go that you never know what you have until it's gone?

Was I ever wrong? About things. Things that influenced me, big or small. Boy, was I ever wrong about things. But I could never tell where it was that I was wrong. About things. Only that I was wrong, and now that I admit that I was wrong I still will be wrong. Over and over. Again and again. And pretend I never was. Even if I am. Because I just know now that I am and will always be wrong. Even if.

Thus began a new chapter in my book of life. Armed with jazz, I move on towards new endeavours. Officially I am now alone. As if I was ever in the company of someone else's. It's hard to assume the best when the worst keep imposing itself upon me. Independence, what do I make of it? I could run off now to who-knows-who and god-knows-where. At least I have some semblance of sanity knowing I can express my thoughts now, if this is what would pass as. I try to be decent. I try to blend in, to actually flow along the tide now. Tomorrow I have a guest at home, and it's been years since the last. Feels like forever. It is forever. The past year or two, a blur. A blur of literal nothingness, no jest, of my own doing. Rebellion of a heart that will forever feel slighted. No voice of reason. No one to calm my wits to tell me all is right. Every single thing is a sham, and now I swim with the shammery and yada-yada. Let's taste the shit that shit will endure. Father,

I want to walk but not run; Running tires me easily And I still have a long way to go; If for a chance I fall I'll just lie down and rest and keep going when the sun has rested as much as I have

And suddenly I'm wanted It feels nice to be loved Now I feel that strange burden again Holding me back Acting as if love is a crime And I don't deserve it It just would not satisfy No matter what I do I appreciate it I really do But I have been kept in the dark for some time now That any light shining through my eyes Feels ten times as painful So this fear inside me is growing Out of something very beautiful I cannot foresee a happy ending to this I just want to run away But then where do I go from here? Scratch that I have an infinite number of places to go The problem is where to stay

Something dawned on me yesterday. Despite my inner desires to break free but the shackles of my whatever-this-nagging-feeling-is, I was never really even that. Subconsciously, it was something else, and I still could not comprehend why deep down what I wanted was never really what I needed. So when Erica invited me to come with them and a new (some at least) group of people, all of a sudden, there was no longer any urge from me to go, but still I did, not out of necessity of whatever-this-nagging-feeling-is, but because I want to be in the company of acquaintances I have, in a span of weeks, grown fond of.

A Priori (310715) But is heaviness truly deplorable and lightness splendid? The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in the love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man’s body. The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously the image of life’s most intense fulfilment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?