ink.

this must be some sort of summer.

Distance is not growing, for the missing pieces between 2 souls cannot be retrieved.

but sometimes

it’s as though the same distance wraps its arms around us. Calm and tender, difficult to acknowledge.

Violent and raging, sucking you into its void.

sometimes

is the word that’s slowly becoming some sort of raison d’etre.

And i sometimes forget.

And start thinking that whatever keeps us miles apart should be immaterial. Distance should be a mere thought. A consequence of our actions. A couple of delayed seconds between 2 stopwatches. Distance should be measured in seconds. Minutes. Light years.

in some ways, some people’s distance is, for one does get old in the meantime.

For others, it can’t be.

My distance is watery, growing bigger and bigger everytime it rains. sometimes tsunamis bring things back, leaving nasty scars

i was here

Being in such distress lately has been pushing me into some hardcore doodling. Many times I felt the need to transcribe my occasional fits of rage, and I dare say we should all be thankful I didn’t. Whilst serving the www community by being AWOL for so long, I’ve caused great harm to myself, and it was high time it all came to an end. I’m in no way engaging into reinventing the wheel at this precise moment (though I might do it at some point in my life), and unless you’re here to read my useless rants, go away.

This blog won’t save your life.

It won’t save mine either, but it’s a good and comfy way to pass the time. Being a slacker has never felt this good.

After losing my card on my way to the pub, being the burger queen and getting sick, realizing I’ve got 2 weeks left to write a paper on some American film of my choice (might just give Lynch some praise here) and buying almond butter, I’ve come to realize what I truly madly deeply need is a haircut. Mind you, this may not be the righteous way to productivity, but I’m starting to think in more creative ways, thus I believe it’s a good start.

If I haven’t felt any culture shock (teh horror!) whatsoever upon moving to the UK, there are a couple of things that baffle me. No, I’m not talking about the hilarious amount of hair salons in Luton (although walking down the street and coming across one every 3 metres is a bit frustrating), I’m talking about the hilarious amount of services they offer (at quite a hilarious price, I might as well add, but I’m in no way going there). I can’t remember jack, but they did strike me as uncanny. I don’t know much about hairstyling and all that girlie hooey, but why on earth would I need a cut and BLOW, if my hair was dry in the first place? It sure does more sense when you add the word (and a couple more quid for that matter) WASH, but otherwise it all turns into womanish crap. I don’t know where I’m going with this, what I do want to know is why can’t I have a plain and simple cut, why do they have to wash and dry blow and restyle and whatnot my hair. Why, Mr. Toni&Guy, can’t I pay that ridiculous sum of money just to get rid of this curly nuisance that my hair has become?

I’m thinking of adopting a DYI attitude and get it over with. Too much stress. What a hassle. If only I knew what being a girl involved…

Not that I could’ve done anything.

And one more thing before I get back to Samuel Beckett. I occasionally wake up in the middle of the night and write things on tiny yellow post-it notes. Woke up this morning and one was lying around on the floor, stating I would enjoy living in a world where people could feel the pain of others for a second just by touching them. I know exactly what this thought cues to, and I won’t go there; let’s just say sometimes I feel bad because I feel bad and there’s no way I can prove it.

Later on however, it dawned upon me some of us might become serial killers. Funny how our pain, be it physical or not, might be unbearable for others. Hard to classify, harder to explain, impossible to imagine.

Just don’t call me little miss mass murderer.

bigger= better

check it out here

is me being a stalker