Leave a Secret.

My blog's turning a year old soon so I thought it'd be cool if I could commemorate its one year anniversary with a semi-interactive post.

I've enabled the 'anonymous' feature on the comments' section so feel free to drop a secret about yourself/someone you know/a situation you're in that you just want to let out or/and have been harboring for much too long.

Conditions are:

• You can write as much as you want.
• It can be in any language, as long as the message gets across.
• DO NOT leave any sort of identification. No hints, no initials, not even inside jokes. 

I can't track down IP addresses for the life of me,  so you can rest assured knowing that this is a safe space.

Thanks for reading my blog. If this is your first time here, hey whassshappninnnn?! Grab a chair. 

Oh and Happy (pre) Birthday, Thickety-split.

Harsh.

Hi. Have you met the filtered, idealistic, always upper-half, never bottom-half side of myself that I have specially moulded for the internet? Pleasure's all mine.

Science Fiction.

Imagine experiencing one thousand years of life, without the uncertainties of youth and the pains of old age. Personal aspirations would be rendered meaningless, making way for dreams based on sudden spikes of interest in any field of study available to us now. We would be released from time's restrictive clutches.

The concept of fate has us all believing that we will only do one great thing in our entire life. A politician can deliver riveting speeches that inspire great movements of freedom, but his musical endeavors and analytical journals on the human psyche would only appear as footnotes in historical accounts. What would transpire from an extended lifespan is a super race -unaffected by the absurdity of seeking veneration from the masses- with a blazing curiosity that rivals the fiery depths of Dante's inferno.

Ultimately, what limits the scope of our ambition is not our incapability to learn, but our swift and inescapable mortality.

Scratch That Thought.

Late at night, I see projections on my bedroom walls; still images of tomorrow, the next day and the seemingly endless days after.  I'm sitting at a kitchen table with three mouths to feed -with hands so terribly small- and I am fueled only by a half-hearted sense of obligation. Their father's eyes, drained of its wonder.

I come back to the present in a cold sweat, writhing in an empty bed, with my hand placed under a pillow as a miserable replacement for body warmth. With each of these untimely fits of panic, I feel a longing (longings similar to that of a school girl, a washed out bachelor, a distressed damsel, and the like) that is incongruous with my instinctive nature to doubt the follies of love.

I don't know what my permanent stand on monogamy is, but at the moment I do not wish to actively pursue it. Loneliness is such a bitch, though.

Landslide - Fleetwood Mac (Cover)

Change has a way of pinning my wrists down and leaving me helpless.

Jumbo Japan Trip Update.

Jingumae.

I heard your memory capsules are full of train wrecks. It's not everyday you get to meet someone who doesn't have a past full of ordered files and numbered figures.

Who told you that? Was it the girl with the fake opal eye? She looks like the type who thinks rain comes from tepid water.

Don't mind her. She's a flickering sound wave. Her screen saver's the internet. She stopped a boy from flying and it made her hurl.

So she was the one who told you?

Look, this isn't about her.

To hell it isn't. I can't believe she told you. I should've never let her read the lines on my palm yesterday. She made me believe that my fate was sealed in sand dunes. The nerve.

There's no reason to get all bothered. She read your palms, she anchored my feet to the ground, she's a flickering sound wave- she's the main act of a circus show. She's irrelevant.

Wait, you were the boy who wanted to fly away?

Oh no, don't you go and turn this around on me! We were talking about you. You like crashes right?

No, I'm a fan of train wrecks. 

Same difference. I like Messiahs.

I don't see the connection.

I don't see how you CAN'T see it. With everything as screwed up as it is, you might as well call every religion in this world a train wreck.


God plans. Crashes happen by chance. Messiahs plant ideas in your head, train wrecks plant bodies in the ground. Frankly, I don't see how they mesh.

Don't make this more difficult than it really is.

If you really want to talk you can start by telling me why you wanted to roam the skies.

I would but your memories only leave space for wreckage. You'll forget about me.

Oh, I wouldn't think so. You seem like a colossal mess.

**************************

I was on the Shinkansen heading for Osaka when I heard a couple arguing in Japanese. The language sounds so mythical and light that I decided to have a bit of fun and just translate it on my own.