Up up up, on the downside.

"There is one big advantage to being a lonely prick. You don't have to go christmas shopping." Frank D'hanis, seemingly kidding around.

My friends are all getting themselves marriages at a pace that, to me, seems ludicrous. they are also all buying houses in the city. Even worse, my enemies are also getting married. Luckily I don’t have a lot of enemies, nor do I have a lot of friends. (As a matter of fact, I don’t think I have, even a single enemy, which makes me wonder if I’m really alive at all.) This is a good thing, I am grateful for it, since I never cared a lot for the presence of other people. I am a product of the individualistic west, a private and introverted person, social sickness is a game we all play. But even so, I can’t touch a girl and not fall in love with her. I just can’t. So better not to touch anybody, but that, of course, is also impossible.

Nobody, however, wants to feel totally alone, no matter how misanthropic he might be. But we have no choice, as life progresses, as we get old, as we start wearing the cloak of old age, as we get wrinkled, hands, knees, back and face. We are rocks, sinking in the ocean, we are all apart and blind, alone in the blue, stranded in the deep, till darkness swallows us up completely. Gobble, the heart is, indeed, a lonely hunter, and an unsuccessful one by nature.

As I’m looking at the pictures of my friends’ happiness, the radiant smiles, the white dresses, the perky tits and buff frowns into the camera, the walks in the park and the blue eyed cute children, I can’t help but feel that life is a transient and silly stage in a play that makes no sense whatsoever. This thought makes me smile, even in a dark time like this one. At an hour when I should be sleeping, I write and drink whiskey and grin like a fool. If anybody could see me they’d think I was feeble minded.

Happiness, as viewed from my external position, depresses me in the softest of ways. I’m like an old man looking at a young girl in a crepe silky summer dress as she progresses through the streets to meet her young lover. She stumbles, wearing her clumsy shoes, but she doesn’t care, she’s expecting. And the old man thinks as he sits and feels his bones and the ruins of his body, “She looks so soft and young and happy I could cry, but I won’t because I’m old and there’d be no point.”

I tend to look at things as if I were over one thousand years old, gray and dull and tired of my long and unsuccessful life. It’s a sad way of looking at thing, but I haven’t heard one single sensible alternative yet. Maybe I should look for a guru, or a sensei. Or maybe I should start by believing all the things I have never believed before.

That there will be redemption for the meek, and also for the strong, albeit not all of them.

That herbal medicine is a good alternative for chemically romancing our bodies with the sophisticated products of large or semi large evil and not so evil corporations.
That looking at the stars can and will tell me a lot about the characters, the minds, the ethics, yes even about the fate of myself, my neighbors, relatives and family members.

Similarly, that you can judge one’s character by looking at his toes and feet. That you can judge one’s character by looking at the lines on his hand. That you can judge one’s character by looking at his eating habits and/or his love or hate for small furry things, such as cats, baby rats and mink coat hats.
That the important things in life are decided by the flip of a coin or the drawing of a card. That if we really look for it we can see hints about the goodness and the essentially benevolent future of everything in our everyday life. That we should always be alert for this, and that we should keep our minds open.
That we all deserve and in fact will find happiness and love and that we should keep our faith and cross our fingers and not complain too much.
Truth is, even if I would be willing to try, I can’t believe those things, not really.

Sometimes I find myself sitting on the inside of a train or on a bus staring at the mesmerizing good looks of a girl, and while she’s unaware of my excited state, just reading a book or smiling as she looks at the snow filled landscape of my sad and green flat country, I am just dying to get inside her. I want to be near her, be naked next to her body and I would like to tell her that I’d always stay with her, even if I really know it’s a lie and all my seemingly profound feelings are just caused by horniness or confusion, or both. There’s no escape from desire once you allow it. There’s no need to not allow it, however. So I guess, I’m doing fine. I wish I could really believe that.