Routine

[Albioni]

I’ve finally plucked up the balls to pick up a pen and WRITE!
It’s not solely through laziness that I haven’t been writing for the past six months, but also because I’ve been (or at any rate thought I’d been) preparing myself.
By preparing I mean reading judiciously, and living, or trying to live—giving license to all the passions that arise within me. I’ve consigned myself to a strict diet of literature for the past few months. At the moment I’m re-reading Crime and Punishment. I read it about 3 years ago, while I was doing the leaving, and, although knowing that it was pretty special, had no where near the appreciation I have for it now. It is almost like reading a different book.
Compared to how I feel and think now, I believe I was an idiot then. Although I haven’t completed any degree or even a full year for that matter (in either of the colleges I’ve attended since), I feel vastly more intelligent, aware, ready, than I did then.
Up until about, say…..2 years ago (about the time I quit my job from pizzeria, I was strictly reading Mao and listening to Jim Morison unplugged constantly) I lived in this kind of dull, semi-conscious torpor.
How I even did things; simple, mundane things like getting on the right bus, shaving, exams, I can’t understand. My life hitherto this “awakening” was a sort of sluggish, unaware, amoeba like existence. The word automaton forcibly springs to mind.
As I reflect on this, I can’t help feeling robbed of the first twenty years of my life. Consolingly enough though, some fuckers go through their entire lives in this listless-torpor like existence. The parent of this malady is ROUTINE.

It was only when I wasn’t working or at college that I thought about things and started to read in earnest, indeed having the time to read became possible. I would come home from work or college or whatever utterly consumed by whatever meaningless nonsense I had been doing; drained! I’d have about as much desire to read—nay, think, as the cat would.This routine, which would steal my waking hours, insidiously beat me into a kind of non-existence. These mesh of distractions and useless activities only served as an escape from myself and my true aims. Thus I became commonplace and as dull as horse dung, one of the herd.

Now, if while reading this you’re tut-tutting and gently, with a mocking smile, nodding your head, it’s too late for you my friend, you’ve been caught….

by somebody

[qyfyri]

Storms such as the one you are experiencing are in any case life’s orgasms, uncontrollable spates of a true awakening, the problem is keeping them alive, the multitude of colors that seems to now be available to your flight of fancy was always there, just never visible from where you had positioned yourself. Literature is NOT a diet, neither is it the true form of comprehension, it is the end of the rope to which you cling yourself feverishly, while flapping your feet to get away from the self-perpetuating routine that crowd your waking hours. It is nevertheless an awakening and as such it should serve the purpose of shaking your conscious to existence.
Until a month ago, I myself was in such a predicament, and although I read and functioned properly by any means, it was automation at best and a complete loss of the human senses at worst. It was necessary that you were comatose for a few months, it makes everything more comprehensible as you are now initiating yourself at point zero, nude of any articles of clothing (such as prejudices, dislikes and so on).

I felt compelled to write because of your honesty and because I myself have been robbed of my months and years before, I know it feels like betrayal.

Qyfo

[kulla]

and if you wake up, kick the cover, get on your feet and as you turn your head to see for the last time the bed of your misery and temporary death, instead of it being empty, -warm, yet empty- you see that you are still sleeping in it, rhythmically breathing under the cover? I'm sure my dearest fuc*king qyfo has a diagnosis for that too, but that's not what I'm interested in. what puzles me is the absolute certainty of albionline's last sentence; a desperate shout to a generation of people in their midlife crisis who happen to be in their twentie's. a wet dream dedicated to thousands of wanking mirorrs. damn you, cheap comercialist! that cry is to all those lazy ones, who wouldn't walk the jungle, unless there is a path opened by humans.
indeed, the net I'm caught in is more of a buble wrap. as I struggle to cut it through, I merely add the same note of a bursting buble over and over the same tune. jumping a thought I should say: ne puke, ne puke shkofshi te tere. but I can only twitch, the words don't come out, they echo back within me, till I will finally break the unbearable peace, or burst like one of the bubbles. god bless the sleeping beauty!

[qyfyri]

Leave me alone bitch, it was early morning.....


Can't fuc*king making make an honest mistake without armies of liberated monkeys trying to show you the way...

A real clusterfuck...

**** me and **** you and **** Albionline too for that matter for opening this.....

I am in such a fucking mood!

****
****

Qyfo

[qyfyri]

Wait wait...I thought about it again......

Lessons learned:

1) It is easier to let it all go to hell and place yourself in the observing isle, maybe even masturbate while it all happens, but never let it take the route that it is tending towards.

2) It is all in the eye of the be-fuc*king-holder no? Kulla is my arch-nemesis whenever the idiotic voices of doom take my armpits by surprise but he tends to my flock when I am away...What was he again?

I got to go

got to go to ....ehhh fuc*k it....

Qyfo

[kulla]

I could tell you, but you'd get confused again and as usual try to fight the confusion by jumping to conclusions instead of learning any lessons at all. fuc*k it!
as for your flock, believe me, it is not yours. the reason for that is very simple. you are not the shepherd. you are only one of the sheeps. to be precise, you are the favorite sheep. without going into the moral values of the sheepshagging culture (very widespread in Wales), all this physical affection which you've never had before, has sent your confusions to the heights of completily losing it. accept what you are and you will slowly become yourself. I know; I'm a sheep too.... what is I again?

I think this is becoming routine. why do I feel you won't reply?

as for albionline, I totally agree. **** you too

[nimf]

I’ve been reading and re-reading you...thus hoping to bring to surface some long-existing yet submerged answers (as if I think one might help!) Me… I think it is solely through laziness that I haven't been writing. Every time I slip under covers and turn my f...ing abajour (pardon my French) on, I know I could write my masterpiece. All this laziness, roots in the apathetic idea that, no matter how momentous the masterpiece is, the sun rises in the morning and sets at night. No matter how un-trivial my life, there's nothing new under the sky. Am I continuously going back to routine, although wishing to dismiss routine as my anti-inspirator? I must be nuts!
In fact-in fact I think I am lazy to write my masterpiece down because somehow I feel that would prevent me from living it every single day. Merde! ...'somehow' is not good enough.

no such phases should be taken seriously. The out-comes are still to come-out.
aaa, and as my hands tremble on the keyboard from this enlightening yet un-revolutionary scintilla of ideas, I feel the urge to contribute to the sequel...I don't want to f... anyone...lol.

[Albioni]

Now life is plain I think-I am, nothing could be so clear, nothing need I fear nothing clouds my judgment everything is Lucid. But why, why then everything is so empty. My soul is Opaque.
No hate or love or anything like that, there only is Void. I can’t see across I can’t live life, It’s all unknown, they say don't worry is just some kind of life-routine that causes all this. who the **** are they? Friends? Enemies? Society? Myself? what is routine?

I look behind me.... It’s all so lucid, I look ahead nothing is clear. Right now, my soul, my self, my being ( I guess our life) is just a fucking R O U T I N E

[Cruel]

I'm only 21, but it has been a long time since I started to throw up every time someone talks about eternity. I wish it would have been hate rather than disgust, afterall "hate" is a more human definition. At the end, it doesn't make any difference...

like someone once told me: "Same shit, different pile"

cheers

[MtrX]

Teme e vjeter, po interesante...