There are stories you should miss

There are stories you should miss.
There are memories you should forget.
There are friends you should avoid.
There are missions you should fail.

There are thoughts you should omit.
There are favors you should refuse.
There are battles you should lose.
There are words you should not use.

There are pictures you should make.
There are paths you should not take.
There are hours you should waste.
There are days you should not rest.

There are joys you should regret.
There are pains you should prevent.
There are things you should ignore.
There are news you should scorn.

There are duties you should neglect.
There are choices you should reject.
There are passions you should block.
There are rights you should protect.

There are sins you should commit.
There are people you should deceive.
There are ideals you should renounce.
There are beliefs you should betray.

There are secrets you should hide.
There are houses you should divide.
There are truths you should deny.
There are fears you should push aside.

There are books you should not read.
There are places you should leave.
There are events you should not attend.
There are times you should pretend.

There are interests you should defend.
There are troubles you should halt.
There are emotions you should feel.
There are treasures you should steal.

Sympathy for the devil

Once in a far away country by the Atlantic ocean where the sunshine is brighter and the stars seem closer to the eye than the moon, a curious oddity fell upon my gentle psyche – for a brief moment in time I was possessed by the devil. Even a year ago I wouldn’t have ever believed myself or any other fellow creature of good-humored constitution and rationally sound nature that such a dark and gloomy predicament was accessible for human exploration and was open to an unbiased interpretation and unprejudiced judgement – indeed, in my scholarly naivete, I thought that the production of wildest chimeras and fantastic fancies is the sole prerogative of those poor and deficient souls who are deprived of the creative element and who lack the supreme faculty of imagination, i’m referring, of course, to the religious and artistic types – but now as I recall to my shame the strange sequence of events that took place on that fateful night, I cannot but restate the bold and simple truth of the obvious facts – the great Lightbearer was leading me down the path of ruin. After having thoroughly examined the matter myself retrospectively under the careful scrutiny of reason and the microscope of logic and with the guidance of the scientific method, this was the only credible account and reasonable explanation that I could come up with. All things considered and all angles approached, in the nonsense of life only devil makes sense.

The Artist and his Gloves

Here’s a quote I read a couple of days ago. I will quote it here in its entirety:

“The artist is originally a man who turns from reality because he cannot come to terms with the demand for the renunciation of instinctual satisfaction as it is first made, and who then in phantasy-life allows full play to his erotic and ambitious wishes. But he finds a way of return from this world of phantasy back to reality; with his special gifts he moulds his phantasies into a new kind of reality, and men concede them a justification as valuable reflections of actual life. Thus by a certain path he actually becomes the hero, king, creator, favourite he desired to be, without pursuing the circuitous path of creating real alterations in the outer world. But this he can only attain because other men feel the same dissatisfaction as he with the renunciation demanded by reality, and because this dissatisfaction, resulting from the displacement of the pleasure-principle by the reality principle, is itself a part of reality. ”

My writings are a Picnic

My hands are sweating. I feel the pressure in my lungs. The pressure to waste my dear life by putting these letters in half-meaningful knots – symbols – which, so I am told, have meaning beyond themselves. My breath goes in and out – in her own separate and flirty way. I don’t follow her. I only wish I could. I would like to capture and to seduce her.  Out of the blue and into the dark. She rises so mysteriously and so swiftly. She recedes into silence from whence she comes again and again. I am full of vigor and life when she is near. But when I catch and hold her, if only for a moment, I am out of breath instantly. I let her go in the hope that she will be back soon. Indeed, she returns shortly, only to disappear again. So many breaths wasted and so many more to come. Life is but a breath. Be wise and waste it. Allow it to run freely to no end, down the hill and through the valley.

How to write novels with one’s fists?

Let me make you a little guilty and depressed. Perhaps, you won’t be. But in this case, I will doubt your humanity or what is left of it. And this is fine too. You are not obliged to risk your precious sanity with an outburst of perplexed negativity.
But here’s the story.