one last time

one last time. i promise.

one more beer, one more cigarette, one more joint. the lies we tell ourselves, i tell myself. to what end? to what purpose? one more night i cannot fall asleep. because of four years, FOUR YEARS!!! falling to sleep alone, crawling out of bed alone. there has been the scent of some other body, of some other soul, in my nostrils in the morning. never enough, it's never enough.

is it time to draw the balance? NO, NO, NO, a hundred times NO!!! no more balance sheets, no more melancholy, nostalgia, depression, desperation. i've lived my life and i've made my mistakes. and there's a great chance that many will follow; countless times i will ask mysels "could i've done better, could i've taken more out of this?" yeah, probably. but it doesn't matter. what is done is done, what will follow will follow. no, i don't believe in fate and karma. i know that my history is my own doing. that's the most painful thing to endure, the responsibility.

i type, i think, i smile, i i i i i. isn't it strange how much an i and a 1 look like each other.

one last time, i promise.

and then i remember that life goes on. that all those friends, all those bodies, smiles and tears go on. regardless of a "me," regardless of an "i." no, no fear. just my stupid half-smile, my headphones and the keyboard. what is my life?

one last time. i never say goodbye because it's terrifying but tonight i say goodbye. to the blog, to a life. for all those who played their parts - thank you and i love you and i hate you with all my heart. to all those who played their role - i wish we had more time.

all that is left is to count down the days. 10,9,8... no, no death. worse: life. i wish i was someone else. i wish i liked that face of mine more, that choices of mine more. but wishing is never enough. nothing is ever enough. nothing fills a bottomless hole.

one last time, i promise.

thanks you.
i love you.
i hate you.

the last time.

exhibitionism or the act of sharing some pointless blah blah?

why do i feel any need to type some words of questionable quality which do not bear any sense whatsoever? and even more, why do i feel a need to not only punch the keys of my remarkably dirty/dusty vaio, but also to post them online? what is the point? what is it with the obsession of the internet community and all the posting in a "place" that everyone has access to?

people say that sharing is important. the need to share experiences, thoughts, ideas, obsessions with those closest to us. having that in mind, i think that typing some words - more as an exercise because quite frankly i haven't done anything "literary" in a while - and sharing those chaotic sentences with the few people who follow that blog (if they are still around) won't do much harm even if they don't contribute to anything good, creative or constructive.

so, for the first time in a long, long - what? - time i feel somewhat inspired. thanks to a fellow by the name of philip roth and his novel exit ghost. i don't want to say what the book is about not because i am too dumb to know, but because i am still reading it. i just want to share with myself, a few friends and possible the world (a thought that makes me laugh) that this is a remarkable read and that i hope and dream that one day i will be capable of producing a text which will be as good as roth's. i just want to think and believe that if i decide to sit on my ass and dwell into the process of writing i will be capable of polishing the little talent i am confident that i have and create something... i don't know, something good. i know it's vague, but this is the closest i can get to expressing what circulates in my childish mind at the time.

this is all. nothing more, nothing less. i just feel inspired again. despite the BB person i see all the time on TV; despite the fact that my city feels and looks like a god-forsaken village where life doesn't happen anymore; despite the provincialism that i feel even in my lungs every time i go out for a walk; despite the patchy friendships i am exhausted maintaining; despite the fact that i am not certain whether i can call my home, in which i grew up, 'home.' despite all that, i feel like i can manage somehow, somewhere, one day.

Neuromancer

"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel." opening line of Neruomancer

A couple of hours ago, a friend posted this very interesting info on the topic of Gibson. As it turns out, a movie based on the novel is in pre-production. I am just starting to fall in love with Case and Molly and I find out this. Thank you life, you are not such an ass-whole after all.

And by the way: listening to TOKiMONSTA is kinda cool while reading Gibson's cyberpunk.

P.S. I am not in love with what director Vincenzo Natali (Cube,, Splice) has already said about the project and his approach to it but I am willing to give him a chance. Especially considering that I am still in the middle of the first book of the Sprawl trilogy and I am far from being an expert.

BIUTIFUL

Don't Forget Me




Biutiful

— MOVIECLIPS.com

my whole being is shaking

it is biutiful

remember me, please

don't forget me.