Just a quick sudden crisis of not wanting anyone or anything. So I figured I’ll just stay here and write. By the time I manage to turn the laptop on and bring this page up, all the while repeating the first sentence of what I wish to write in my head like a mantra, almost the whole of this mood is gone. Disparu, disappeared, gone with the wind. In the wind? In the repeated sentence? Nobody knows. Is it the release that begins even in the first steps of thinking about what you want to write? Is it that really it did work as a mantra, and that mantras do have a special power after all, and that any kind of sentence can be turned into a mantra if you repeat it times enough?

I’ve got unanswered questions about my moods, but then again I’ve always had, and I can’t complain, because whoever asks is given answers, and through the year I’ve been given sufficient answers so that I can freak out less and less when the mood swing strikes. Trying to attribute it to something is not always easy, and maybe not always useful, certainly not always fruitful, and it’s a double-bladed sword since it can very well turn against you and push you further down the great hole of wondering and doubting. I pause. I reread. Why are my sentences suddenly so strangely huge? I choose not to correct them. As long as they’re readable, let them be. I had something else to write about, what was it?

Of course, the attempts to attribute the sudden cloud to something. I pass right on by PMS, higher sugar intake and the weather this time. It could only be the third objective, a cloudy weather always brings some clouds, psychologists even have a name for this. But this time, oh this time, I believe I know the culprit. And I think it’s called fear.

Once again the lovely entity of fear slipped into my mind as I was mindlessly – mindlessly huh? what an irony – riding the bus home. Come think of it, it must look kind of like a Dementor, only not so concrete nor so dangerous. After all, let us not forget that Joan depicted depression with her Dementors, the ultimate step of the conquest of fear, and luckily we’re way behind that. So it must look like what a Dementor leaves behind. The shadowy ribbons and ragged threads at the edges of his gown. And then it passes right through the open window of the bus, or better put, right through the open window of the unsuspected, wondering mind, and you’re pretty much screwed.

What can we do about it? That begins as a rhetorical question but at some point I’ll ask it to myself. For now it’s like that. The mind trails off from time to time. What does the mind need to be absolutely content? I modify the question, what is the mind’s worst enemy, the open invitation to the shadowy edge of the Dementor’s gown, the cloudy weather on the inside? I’d say it’s uncertainty. And instability. Within the fast-paced era, I’ve never not known uncertainty and instability, even back in those days when I couldn’t pinpoint them as the root of all evil. At an age when everything is changing, (yeah, I mean middle 20s), the cause of the trouble is clear, and sometimes even loud to me. I guess it needed to be collectively reflected upon the eyes of my friends for me to notice its ubiquitous presence.

It’s the not knowing. And it’s the always changing. Routines, places, countries, cities, priorities, ideas, possibly goals in life, Windows. (That last one fucks us all up).

Well, instead of getting into it, putting all the different hues of the fear down on paper, analyzing them like crazy, trying to reason with the newborn/old-soul thoughts, I’ll just say to myself, and to anyone this might help (I’m thinking of my two or three friends who might actually read this) :

It’s an illusion. No, fear is not, fear is very much there for you to touch it. But… Certainty is. Stability is. These two little things have always been, are, and always will be, an illusion.

Let that sink in.

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Hey, we live on an ever-moving globe, which is not only always in a dance around itself and around the sun at incredible speeds, but also constantly travels through a mostly undiscovered  space, in unison with the rest of the globes around it. What, did you miss the physics class where you were supposed to learn that solar systems are constantly moving through space? What, am I making your existential crisis worse now? Relax. It’ll pass, again. So. We’re ever moving. We don’t know to which direction, and we don’t know why. But if any of those ever-moving things stayed still, we’d all die.

So once again, moving, even towards unknown directions, – or maybe especially towards unknown directions, is life. So yes, we live in constant uncertainty and instability. And that’s okay. We acquire balance skills. And nobody can throw a spoiler at us. We’re ever-changing and unstable and uncertain. And that’s okay.

So I’m not trying to reason with your fears here, or tell you they will pass, or comfort you (and me) that soon everything will be set and stable and we’ll have no huge changes in our lives and no doubts. I’m telling you, and me, embrace the doubt. Immerse yourself in it. Do you have anything better to do? Would you rather settle in a fifty-year-old’s never-changing fixed routine, existent only in fiction which freezes moments in time and turns them into clichés? I’d rather have the Dementor’s ragged gown edges slip into my brain from time to time, have them make a fist and clench my stomach in fear, a thousand different hues of fear, have me open up a Word page, cleanse and carry on with the process of living once again.

Think about it.

Enjoy this while you’re thinking. It will probably help more than I.

 

Yeah, well. Kind of seeing where I’m standing, now, with everything. Yesterday he was throwing these words, like, how our relationship is super-complicated, and how of course he’s going to not care about the room being clean or dirty in a while, for every time I’m there, since being with me and my craziness is not an easy task at all. It’s so obvious to my stuck mind he’s still holding a grudge, and it makes me go back and pinpoint the exact moment when brainwaves flawlessly meeting each other became super problematic walls and the easiest thing in the world suddenly became complicated.

Only a couple of weeks ago, he didn’t have a clue. He thought he could deal with all my peculiarities just fine. Maybe still seeing me like the angel, then, that I’ve always tried to show him I am not. Loves that expect from the lovers to be angelic are the worst you can create, so do yourself a favor in advance and hide nothing.

Well I tried to warn him about it, in this mindset. It’s not as if it is my fault anyway. Ocd is not a word I use to describe how I want my office clean and my color-coded folders in place. In fact I could care less about color-coded folders, even though they do satisfy my aesthetics when someone buys them. It’s rather a word I use for… hey, at times I suddenly see it all black and I doubt even my own existence. And it’s hormones and neurons out of my control, and sometimes I can do nothing.

You think you’ve warned them about everything. But they never realize, it’s not going to be plain sailing. And maybe neither do you. Would it ever help to pin it down? Say I feel this was because of this or because of that? Because I felt so unloved by my parents?

Tears, tears running down all the time, I wake up decided I will put an end to it, not to the relationship, no, to my problems. To my disorders. Maybe to my insecurities. I feel unloved because of my craziness, and I have no one to ask for help anymore, as none of the things that I’ve tried so far will cut it.

I torture and chase away everyone that is by my side. That’s the truth of it. And if they forgive me, maybe I don’t forgive myself. That I’ve creased something so pure and untouchable. That I’ve managed to put a stain on the prettiest surface. That it’s now never going to be the same again.

Am I the one to always bring the misery into the play? Does it have anything to do, that when I compose music only sad melodies come out? Ever since the beginning I’ve felt like I had too much darkness inside to be with this person. And that is still with never underestimating my bright light. Which, however, chooses its moments for when to appear. I have ups and I have downs. It’s who I am. And there is nothing more I can do than to hope for the ones standing by my side to be able to withstand the bad times in order to get to the good ones.

Is it too much to ask for?

Our human nature perplexes me. It was supposed to be way easier than that. It’s what I feel most of the times. It’s what he makes me feel. Like the only thing that matters is love and compassion. Like the only things I want to do in life are to love and write and play music. Then it somehow gets twisted, when a mere hormonal imbalance makes me see everything through a black veil and I get it out on them until they’re all worn out.

I am sick and tired of being the drama queen. At times I believe my belief that I am such a drama queen is what makes me a drama queen, if that makes any sense to anyone. I am tired of creasing surfaces, but I’m more tired of people expecting surfaces to never be creased. Our loves are so imperfect, as our human natures are.

Where was this writing going to end?

I woke up today with a purpose. I woke up to say, the 18th of April of 2017 would be the last day I put anyone through hell because of my fears and insecurities, because of an unstable brain of doubt that cannot trust itself. If you go through every day of your life thinking, “here are my ocd and trichotillomania. Now I have to live with them. I’m stuck with them for life.” If you wake up every day thinking “I am these two things. And I have to get through today trying not to allow them to mess with my otherwise beautiful life.” If you whirl these thoughts around your brain, every single day, where do you go? Do you maybe just perpetuate? The situation?

My best friend once told me he thought the reason for my problems was that I had accepted this as who I am, and I had accepted that I cannot change. I responded you’re supposed to embrace such disorders with acceptance, in order to finally cure them.

A girl on a video I was watching had named her ocd Oscar. It was the monster she had to tame. She did it so that she would know, her disorder was not who she was. It was just someone inside of her trying to mess with her head and ruin her life.

Another girl embraced the beauty of such a differently-working brain, which made her excel in everything she did thanks to her need for perfectionism and obliged her to lead a balanced life because of her need for equilibrium.

I read the other day, it’s just a mere problem in the cortex, or something. The medical terms didn’t exactly stay with me, and I’m not going to research them for this post. The main point the scientists made though was, our brain gets stuck in feeling something is wrong, and that we need to do something to fix it in order to alleviate the stress, but when we do something to fix it it still won’t go away, like it would to any other normal person, and it makes us stuck in the never-ending cycle of doubt and repetitive action, against all logic. Against even our logic. Just one word comes. Molasses.

It dawns on me that I am doing this just now, I’m stuck in such a circus circle, all this time, just by writing this post. And I refuse. Because this is not why I woke up this morning.

It was an almost-fight and a couple of bad days. It was mistakes that I committed. If I go on down the road I’ve been following all my life, I am never going to forgive myself for committing those mistakes on those days. For upsetting the person that I love with senseless fears, for putting doubt in his brain because of my own unnaturally-caused doubts, for talking unkindly to him sounding to my ears just like my mother to my father, so compassionless at times, so what I never want to end up being. For making him relive even for a moment what he thought he had gotten away from. For hurting him. For ruining our peace. For not talking my problems out in a communicative, human-like way when I was supposed to.

I might make efforts to make it right. Immediate, sporadic, spasmodic. The kind of efforts that are pointless and never get you anywhere. Because this is my instant ocd impulse. To try and make it right again, so that I can feel okay again, because this is what living with ocd is like. It was just a couple of bad days. But they stay with me until I feel I’ve set it right, and this can eat me up. Because it goes on whether or not the other person even remembers what has happened. And it becomes the reason for a possible new trouble in paradise, until there is eventually nothing left but hell.

I’m never going to achieve undoing it this way, and more than anything, I’m never going to manage to absolve the guilt that has made its nest upon my heart and it’s sat there. It’s going to ruin everything, the way it has before. And it doesn’t matter whether what I’m secretly in search for is love, kindness against all odds or simply acceptance. Because that’s no way of getting those either.

Still feeling like I’ve done something terribly wrong, – hey, that’s what ocd is all about – , still feeling like I’ve lost all of his love because of this one mistake that I made…

Still feeling unloved because of my “craziness,” (it hurt how he threw it at my face, the only one thing my biggest fear consists of, doesn’t life have its ways of toughening you up), still feeling like I am not even worthy of this love and I can never demand it, and like after all he is right, I am indeed indebted to anyone who is by my side for merely their staying there despite the how unbearable I am to be around, despite the how crazy and dark and the most awful person…

Still feeling all that to my marrow, still not having resolved anything, and with my inner peace very much distorted…

I decide to make true to my words and my decisions. This time, which is high time, if you consider all the sleepless nights I’ve been through, I decide to put an end to it.

Fully knowing I cannot always be a happy shining butterfly for everyone around.

Recognizing we all make our human mistakes, with our human imperfect natures.

And that making somebody sad does not mean it is the end of your lives.

That you are also the receiver of some b-shit, you just either get stuck in them for less time or not at all.

That overcoming this is actually possible. That all it takes is time and love and more of the right kind of actions, another thing my best friend taught me.

Recognizing, that to my mind everything is going to be ten times direr and more severe and unmanageable, but that at least I know it, and now I can do something about it.

I am not going to be the same. Because I’ve accepted the problem merely to let it go.

I decide to move on. Without further thinking about it or hesitating. Think less, I cannot. I am a writer and a constant thinker. But it’s who I am, and they’re the things I love the most about me.

You see the one thing I adore the most about writing, it makes my words flow. Without it, all my thoughts get stuck, and I can’t do any actual thinking. It’s as if a paper and a pen, or any kind of writing device, liberate me. Writing sets my thoughts free. It cleans up all the molasses, and lets the thoughts flow like a river to take forms and shapes and finally become something.

So it is in a sense the thing that creates the problems that can finally solve them. Because I think too much and that’s why I cannot just live my happy life, but at least I think too much, so I can put all of this thinking into work and be creative. Finally create something. No longer destroy.

And so I name my own monster Sparky. Because my ocd is a spark. It’s no longer a condition or a problem. I accept its existence, only so that I can use it to my advantage. And so that 18th of April will indeed be the last day that it causes someone I love to hurt. And today will be the day I finally let go of etiquettes, I am no longer the person with this or that condition; I am just an artist.

Today my spiritual sister asked me to write about realizations. About the art of letting go, and growing away from everything that has been weighing you down. We hadn’t talked about the things that were on my mind, neither about my intentions I had woken up with this morning. And I was already halfway-through writing this, when she asked, so I think it’s a sign. Sparky agrees.

On my mind there is an endless sea,

It plunges surges and it speaks,

Every time it finds a voice.

The silken waves awaken me,

The muffled murmur at the crease,

Tamed by the winds, sealed by the loins.

 

Conceal the heroine of the tale,

Ariel who gladly gave her tail,

To earn her the silence of her sounds.

And if you catch a glimpse don’t sway,

Heroes are always born to stay,

Inside the minds that live on clouds.

 

Cloned in the dark and frowned upon,

Clowned crowned with myrtle at the top,

Arrest the forehead in palms praised,

A psalm left all the faithless phased,

It made a new stitch on the seams;

 

And yet it never touched the core.

Of a serene-like yet unborn.

 

You ask what use I’ve of my mouths,

My twisted straightness that allows,

For breeze to speak when no one’s home.

It’s why the world keeps rolling on.

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White. White, blank space. She turned her head left and right, she looked at her hands. Suddenly the sensation like she were floating within space, because there was no more time. All clocks were frozen. All else was unimportant. She had her wish granted. She could catch a breath within the ever-moving universe. Now what would she do with it? Smooth strumming of guitar. The image of her, dressed in white and gold and light blue. Not a dress exactly. Uneven to all sides, tattered-like with ribbons hanging everywhere. Thin limbs. Soft skin in the light. The light of an unstoppable time having been frozen. The light of a frozen ray, its full warmth still powerful upon her. Time in her hands, at last.

What would she do with it? What did she need time for, in the first place? Why did she keep wishing for it to come to her? For hands to stop turning and clicking threateningly? Fear clenched her stomach. How long would it last? She shouldn’t be worrying about time. There was no time. It was the timeless. At last it was the timeless. Yet how could she not relax? How come there was this fear, fear it would end too soon, fear it would never end? Is it time we are afraid of? What is it with this wicked dimension?

“Do you exist?” she whispered to the nothingness. All existential questions had become one great worry. Now she wished there really were Gods up there. She wished one of them was Time, she wished she could somehow please Him, Her, It, so that It would move to her favor. What was her favor? What would be favorable to her?

“You inspire things in me…”she whispered. She talked to the guitar. That strumming was god-like. It had no origin, but every time she had put her thoughts into creation she had somehow been inspired by this sound.

“You do this thing in me… There really is no time….” The fear she might have offended some omnipotent God. The momentary arrogance, like she didn’t care. The clenching once again. Her stomach clenched and unclenched like a squid swimming in crystal-clear waters for eternity. She imagined herself again. The way she swirled into blank space, arms stretched halfway on both sides, pieces of cloth making her look like a faery. Squid in her stomach opening and closing, from utter safety to total terror.

“This fog around is me.” The thought comforting. Confronting all the world’s hesitations and limits. “This fog is essence I don’t know. It will come and get me in the dark.” The squid sprang ink away.

“Breathe. Stand on your feet. Rise to your proper height. Time is no more, and we can’t know for how long. We can’t count the time.  Think of all the things you’ve been wanting to ask yourself about. Now is late enough, now is soon enough. Now is the moment.” She had no other wishes. Suddenly she was blank space as well, suddenly she was either too tired or too rested to think. Without time, these existential questions did not matter. Let alone the questions of herself. Of her own mind, or her peace of mind, or the pieces of her mind, of the decisions she’d been wanting to make, and the ones already decided. They did not matter. Everyday life was a particle of dust within this blank space. Yet there was no dust around.  Blank, blank space, white warm light. Tattered ribbon. Tattered ribbons of time, destroyed. Her destruction. Her fear, her hope, her blessing. Her wishes granted. Her tremor of the night fulfilled.

An opening of the tentacles. Serene, slow breathing and the strings of the guitar. She was in nothing. To be worried about nothing at all. “Do not disturb”, there would be a sign on the door had she had a door around. A door? What was a door? What’s it to her? Why did people need this privacy? What could they possibly do, not done by everyone? What could they do, that wouldn’t interest all of them? She wished one day they’d finally bend to their need to share everything. In horror she stopped herself, remembering what had happened to her former wishes. Blank, blank, timeless space in her hands, she had no power over.

A purging? A love loss? A loss? A note not nestled in a pentagram. Never having nestled in a pentagram. Greyish lines too conforming for her style. A loss, a purging, a love loss? Many colors, and no color, and nor black, nor white. Words are nothing, and thoughts are nothing, and floating ribbons and squids. The question always has been… What will we do about it?

 

“Old loves go to Heaven,” a song says. It troubled me for quite some years, because in a sense it could fool you to be right. What must you do in order to go to Heaven? Follow rules and regulations. Christians follow their rules, and lovers are led apart because they follow theirs. Christians will say the Word of God has set their Rules, and lovers will claim fate caused their steps to deviate, so in their ways they will both be pretty self-deceptive, but the mantra goes like this: The old loves showed abnegation in preferring a greater cause over their greatest desire, which was to be together, and so yes maybe they died, but they earned their ticket to Paradise. They were selfless, pious, a thing too pure, so they ended up up there. I say let us not give old loves such naively attributed properties, so oblivious to the fact that the greater cause they left their love for was nothing but changes in preference and life decisions.

It does not seem right to me that we should coat our personal choices with the cloaks of something imposed on us. They are our choices and our lives. Let us support them fully. You make a choice and it shapes your present and your future and it defines you. I choose not to steal because I like to earn what I have. I cannot bear to pretend like I am doing it to get something in return, to be forever in serenity when I die, to not burn in some cauldron of hell when all is over. That’s not why I don’t kill people either.

There was a time when I used to think in such a fatalistic manner, about the whies surrounding the death of old loves. I would think, it was the circumstances. It was the timing. It was the train that came too late or too soon. It was my not getting on the right train. Million other things that I would find to blame, it’s just that tragic heroes driven by external forces have so much more allure than the ones who simply take a left turn instead of a right. But now I know, the train came just fine. And I was already on board. In fact, I was driving it, and I took my own turns at my leisure.

To say that old loves did not hold together because something made them change course, this is just shutting your eyes to the crystal-clear truth that at some point one person wanted A while the other wished for Z. There is nothing selfless and worthy of the heavens in making the right decision. Neither is there anything selfish or punishable.

To say that old loves did not dare is unfair to everyone who ever opted for a difficult change in order to be truer to themselves. It is derogatory. Who said they did not dare pursue their greatest desires? It seems they did just that.

Old loves did not die a pious death of self-negation. They died a noble death of not being what others wanted them to be. They were never what they seemed to be to begin with. They were not Infinite.

That’s not to say these people did not love truly. It was its own unique kind of love, for as long as it lasted. But there were the different wants, and there was the hesitation, and then the backing away. This does not translate into religious devotion. It doesn’t mean what could have been the perfect story but wasn’t, because the characters did not dare. The story of the love that died is complete as it is. With its gory end and all the glory of the wounds that led to bleeding it out. This was its purpose in this life. To come, to teach, and die.

Old loves do not go to Heaven. Neither do they go to Hell. Old loves are ghosts. They roam the Earth hidden in songs, hidden in words, bitter words or inside jokes, hidden in corners of a certain street or park benches or a perfume. Hidden in the way the stomach clenches involuntarily to a certain behavior fearing a new bloody end by instinct, when there is nothing to be afraid of. They hide there, they pop from one place to the other. They leave and they return. They pass through walls on a very gloomy night, summoned by some long forgotten melody or something someone said.

At some point sooner or later after the death occurs the ghosts become more lazy scarers and their old tricks do not work anymore and nobody is phased. They still pass occasionally, it could be once in a blue moon. It is not once every full moon though. Many things that used to be the perfect hiding spot for them are purged soon after.

Old loves don’t go to any place special after death. Spectres of what two people used to be and what living thing they created when they merged into one, they roam the Earth forever, faded as the years run their course. Not substantial but neither insubstantial. Not important neither unimportant.

Why do they still roam, you will ask, if their business is finished. If the love is dead why should there be a ghost of it, and why can’t it rest in peace. Remember their purpose was to teach. Many times their businesses cannot be finished. They still have things to show. When you see a ghost, don’t panic thinking it to be a living dead. Search for the lesson.

Old loves do not go to Heaven. They were never this ideal. They were merely little maquettes of clay taking you closer to your Truth.

 

http://lyricstranslate.com/en/quotoi-palies-agapes-pane-ston-paradeisoquot-old-loves-go-heaven.html

She cannot see the so many ways she has been wrong. But it runs deeper than this. She should never see the hurt she has caused. That’s why she will never choose to see it. It is self-protection. Someone should have protected her from witnessing the things that made her turn into someone who would have mouthed such words. Nobody was there. Then it is not anger nor pity you can feel about it. You just sense the need to contemplate life. The need is surging the more you look right at the eye of the stormy story that hides so much history.

I wouldn’t know what to say about this woman to sound not too judgmental nor too understanding nor too much of anything. I don’t know what to make of such a life. I guess it mainly makes me sad for humanity in its entirety. It has me thinking; if someone can be so blind about one’s life… what are we doing with ours? How are we still walking on this Earth, moving forward, how can we ever be so sure about the steps we make? Our accomplishments… Without faith and trust in what we do, how can we ever accomplish things? And what faith and what trust can you have in beliefs or decisions or reality or this life that you are leading, when you see someone being so wrong about such things from so up close?

What if I’m the wrong one?

There are no wrong or right answers about how to lead a life.

Because the “right way” depends on social norms which depend on time and space which depend on gods know what. In-between lie layers of co-dependency of infinite factors. That’s why you can always see something many ways. That’s why it might be a great feeling to feel right or justified but I am always wrong. Or I have the potential to be. That’s how I can prove it any day, the wrong that I am. And being able to do this, I can never judge. So the fact that I am always judging, in my own form of self-protection, sends me into a spiral of unproductive infidelity to who I am supposed to be. And I am dangerously tempted to say the doubt is because of her. Which would make me one and the same. Do our rivals make us or do we make our rivals, and isn’t it the same thing whichever way it goes?

But I see no rival in her at the end. Neither do I see the one who made me, I am sorry. Maybe I am more sorry for my own self-deception. She did make me. Not in the traditional way. She’s tossing the blame selfishly until I do just as much. It is the one thing that I cannot let pass. So I have to judge me instead. Send me down the spiral of indecision and uncertainty. Impede my own accomplishments, because no one ever accomplished anything through self-doubt, but at the same time, you can’t ever be too harsh on others when you’re rougher on yourself. Self-doubt saves me from becoming like her. And I see it just now.

So what do I do see in her? I see a fiftish-year-old child in doubt still. I see much more that I don’t even want to get into. Thinking about the regrets of others somehow becomes more self-reflexive the older you get.

I will keep fighting not to be like her. But this also means making dreams happen. Which means believing in myself. I guess I’m lucky in the end that life is such a mixture of bipolar moments. I can’t always not doubt, but neither can I always not judge.

 

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I am terrified of histories that repeat themselves… of vicious cycles… of tides that change direction with the moon. You can’t mess around with this fear. You cannot stand up against It, you cannot compete with it or eliminate it.
I have lost someone. I will always be one caught-up breath away from accepting that you’re gone. Maybe each time you come back home it can be a miraculous surprise. Maybe one morning too soon or too late I will have to force this breath back out again, put on the songs that guide the steps to gently letting go, and welcome the never quite forgotten greatness of solitude.
I will always be fearing that this moment has come. I will be trembling at the sombre thought of its arrival. No matter how many times you come back or you never leave, no matter how many words you choose to jewel loyalty. I have lost someone. And it is something you cannot fight.
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