Schröedinger's cat

Mustard goes on the left

Y. Nishi — Fri, 21 Jul 2006 01:28:00 +0000

I've figured you out, Now I have to breed, yes, I have to breed underwater.
It's kinda of a magical way you've got, selling me my dreams and having me paying with my soul. Time and time again. Selling me my life at higher prices everytime.
And everytime I pay.
You've broken my will, you've poisoned me with your two-hundred-yard smile, and never gave me a clue as to how to reach your heart. No, it was really a psychological experiment you were conducting all along.
Me, the guinea-pig. Me, the celacanthus. Me, the oh-so-easy-going fella that made his life to make you happy. And happy you were. Until you were bored.
That's why I want to be evil. That's why I became a pirate, that's why I took off my right eyball and burned in the pyre I've made with your hair and my dreams. Now you've got to find another business. Oh, but you had already, dontcha?
And then, I disappeared into thin air, not to be found by your ilk ever again. I dwell with murder and I've got a Hell to raise.
A heart to mend.
An eye-patch.
And about forty-years of sea-scrounging.
I've got all the crackers I'll ever need.
You? You've got yourself to blame.

D-d-down the d-d-drain

Y. Nishi — Sun, 18 Jun 2006 21:04:00 +0000

For some inscrutable reason you keep letting yourself in these situations. It's no different if it's a new one or it's a mistake of old. It all ends in the same hole.
Fact is: once in a while you go down, having all your strenght drained by what you wished be a succubus, but is not. It's in everybody's sight. It's really all over your friggin' face, in neon:

I'm done. Again.

You won't learn. That's what you've learned so far. It'll happen again and there's not much you moron can do about.
Let's try and think once more, so you can go cry to ya mamma I abused you.

Pain. Somehow you seem to have a romantic view of pain. Pain must purge your sins; or make you look good; or have you worthy a place in heaven; or some other dumb shit. Don't give me the sex bullshit, it's not that pain I'm talking here. It's that heartache you revel on, that self-comiseration that awakes you in the middle of the night "inspired" to scribble those pitiful texts of yours. Yes, you appear to love pain, misleading it for passion, cultivating it with extra care, so you have fancy-coffee shops conversation up your sleeves. Hear me now, half-wit, it doesn't make you seem more intelligent. Not even more sensitive. Any shred of pain you woo for yourself is gonna make you piteous; in the worst way possible.

Low self-esteem. Now we're talking. Remember when you used to daydream about being some pounds skinner or some inches taller? Remember being bullied around for not being white? Do you recall why you grew that intellectual persona, the cool bookworm, the witted movie buff? Because you have a dreadful self-image that you try so hard to hide. So, it's only natural that you'd hide your-fucking-self. Now, it may only work for the people you sustain a light relationship like the guys from work, the eventual sleep over, the friends you see once a week. But whenever somebody comes closer: bam! There goes the neighbourhood. And guess what, no one's to blame, sicko-boy. It's you and you only to blemish.

Stupidity. Glad you came up with the subject. You are a cretin, but it's not it. And this is the only moment in the whole History I'll condescend, so grab a camera: you're not stupid, although you are a retard. But somehow it's kinda difficult to really aprehend love-lessons. No one is a genius when it comes down to understand love. No one can be that rational when love is in the way. Cuz if you do, you end up with the stated above. Pain. And low self-esteem. That or you end up alone, which, maybe, you shoulda.

Freak! The swing

Y. Nishi — Fri, 17 Mar 2006 21:21:00 +0000

-Part XVI-

So you came. So you waited. So you have wandered where could we be going. And now you realize that the road leads nowhere, the music stopped when you least expected and now you can only stare at the end of all worlds.

My carrying you all the way was not without method or without meaning. But I'm not the one who'll clarify. I ain't telling you what the fuck was meant to be learned or acquired or what should've dawned on ya by this time of the day.

Run. Stay. Pray if you must. There's no more to see, there's never been.

Blame me. You'd before. It's not gonna change zilch.

It's no use cleaning up this mess. I told you in the beggining. And, if you're expecting any word of wisdom, any closure, go read one of those top-selling books of yours. And leave me alone.

See ya.

Cookin' up at purgatory

Y. Nishi — Wed, 26 Apr 2006 23:33:00 +0000

Feeling rather sane this afternoon, wich prompts her to stop and start thinking: what is it that messed her up so that she couldn't have a proper life anymore?
Greetings from self-comiseration land, a dry, far chunk of desolate terrain in wich she's barely able to breath and is thirsty alla time. Local population: 490. Yes, one can say it's a little, tiny local hell operation, almost like a franchise of sorts.
People around here make fun of their ailments as a way not to lose sanity. What they do miss is the fact that they're not in a litte bit sane. Ghosts, for the most part. Ghost town.
Waiting for the bus won't get her anywhere. It won't bring any closure. No insights. Revelations are not sold anywhere near and never at this time of the year. Nobody ever leaves here, they all belong in the landscape by now. Except her, the cuckoo with the star tattooed on the forehead, is granted free access. In and out. Since she can remember. But she doesn't even like it here, mirror city, and wonders everytime she ends up checking in.
Was it the wrong turn (most likely at Albuquerque)? Was it she ran out of gas? Was it the tainted mojito that tall blonde bitch insisted her to taste?
Nah. Volition. It would take her another five hundred years of therapy to start figuring out why she does this to herself. Better to tag along and try and make these tweening hours as easy on herself as possible.
And that's why, actually, she brought that damn clarinet she just can't play. Diversion. She's gotta get her attention somewhere else. Away from herself. Making it so she won't learn a thing, for learning would have her out of here inna blink and that'd possibly make her wake up.
Here, she's queen. She's granted free pass cuz she'll allways come back. And here she can move around with flare. Slumber land is where her whims are law, and effective the moment she's the wish. Oddly enough, happiness is never around, but she's left thinking if hapiness is really what she longs for.
And it's about the wee hours that the bus actually come and she's gotta go. Leave for how long it'll take her to take another dive. Another fall. Another love.
She almost feel sorry for being herself.

Follow me

Y. Nishi — Fri, 17 Mar 2006 21:17:00 +0000

-Part XV-

Pour down all your prejudices. It's really annoying the way you grab them like they're life supporters. And it's a wonder how you came this far carrying those.

I'm entangled here. Deep down in all the things I ever wanted to see. I just gazed at the mesh, I took but a peek into the Indra's net and bam! I can't think of things separately.

I'll try to explain.

No thought anymore comes alone. There's no way I can concentrate in a thing since there's no more such thing as a single, unique, thing. I can see the connections, see? D'ya see what I'm doin' here? Hear me?

You are not what you think you are anymore than I'm not whatever image I had of myself. You can only be defined by what you're not. And that changes a lot. Then you figure out that it can be you that's changing, not the object you're referring to. Either that or you're changing the friggin' subject whilst you're observing it.

Look at me. Look at yourself. See the difference? Neither I do.

Now be a nice boy and pass the salt.

Whoever said that to ya, he's lying

Y. Nishi — Thu, 06 Apr 2006 04:04:00 +0000

Catching up in the struggle, I wonder why we spent so much time doing whatever is cronópio cronópio.

Since when we alligators have to watch those flies die inside the insidious glass globe?

No, never forget to care, never walk those streets again, if you know what's best for the people you'll never meet.

And if you quite can't grab the meaning of all this, you were not paying attention. You were listening the whole fucking way.

Scram.

Delicacies at 33rd and Broadway

Y. Nishi — Thu, 06 Apr 2006 02:57:00 +0000

It all ended so fast one was left wondering the ineffable implications of such events. So much ado, so much expectation and it was a matter of a under-two-minutes argumentation.
God never stood a chance.

Dead as in "what's the use?"

Y. Nishi — Thu, 30 Mar 2006 04:05:00 +0000

That's how it ends.
No signs, no ringing bells, no reward.
Sheer disappointment. Loads of pain.
Anticlimax.

That's what's left: frustration, discomfort, perfidy, shame, degradation, sadness, loneliness, mistake, abandon, disregard, emptiness.

And in her eyes, you see nothing…

Gimme a reason

Y. Nishi — Tue, 28 Mar 2006 16:02:00 +0000

So you killed your first person, human being, son of god. So you feel awkward, to say the least. The feeling, to be honest, is sort of… You feel relieved.
One shithead less upon the planet. Maybe two people are gonna miss this son of a whore for more than a week. In fact, that low-life scum shoulda been put out of his misery a year or so ago.
So you did it, and you're not at all proud of it.
And it downs on you that all the implications are going to get you sooner or later. Prision. Remorse. The disgust in everyone's look. The angst. Fear. Guilt. Oh, they come in band.
Then again, it's all-too-good that no one has to smell that bastard around. That tiny little self-immersed heart. That humongous mediocrity. That puke-inducing self commiseration. That sheer beigeness.
Probably for the best. But, in the end, you feel you can do it again. Kill someone. Killing seems already a cure. Some sort of ointment for the world blisters. Purulent like the one you just excised.
And the consequences? Well, you killed your first ghost of a chance to be happy. Now you face yourself in the mirror, if you can.

Riddles are abound

Y. Nishi — Fri, 24 Mar 2006 17:09:00 +0000

This is not a town anymore, this is a ingeniously devised torture implement where every fucking image, sound and smell reminds you: she's gone.
Dead in a second. Worlds collide. And you're burning.
Your mother told you would burn. You didn't believe. You did believe, though, that you'd die first. Nope.
You still hasn't got a clue.
She's gone, she's history, she's the only thing ever to make you afraid of diyng. And look at you now. And from where you're standing, hell seems so sweet.
Blab all day long, mingle, drink, drug yourself to oblivion, get laid, create, gig. It doesn't matter.
Fight for her, long for her, blame her, ignore her, forget her. It doesn't matter.
Better get yourself a new life altogether, a parallel world where she's never be. It doesn't matter.
In the end, nothing really matters anymore.

Sizing me up for the kill

Y. Nishi — Thu, 23 Mar 2006 04:48:00 +0000

Insomniac. Third time this week you won't sleep a wink. Previous lifes demanding the time you've lost trying to cope with the fact you haven't lived and, surprise, surprise, you still haven't.
D'you lack the guts? D'you lack the fangs? Are you without any sense of self-respect?
Nah.
It's just you don't find it worth, you do not compromise within. Within is where lie you nude. The proposition is: take your time, and you scatter around.
Find a blister, scratch, that's all you got after all. And never, ever, you'll be on track again. Never smoothly.
Discreet.
At least, you've found the word.

Grandiloquence

Y. Nishi — Fri, 17 Mar 2006 21:22:00 +0000

-Epilogue-

Sum up all the fuckups you were responsible for and you'll have a pretty good idea why the heck you've been put in this world. If not, we are defined by our errors, the kind of mistakes we are able to commit, the sort of evil we can cause.
Everything else is a bonus.
So, mingle with me in the next life of mine, you're all invited. Reinventing oneself is making all-new mistakes.
So, what d'ya have for me to mess up with?

Alternative grooming

Y. Nishi — Fri, 17 Mar 2006 21:11:00 +0000

-Part XIV-

Julie has this thing about writing in English, which was very odd since she's brazilian and never really have any formal English language learning. It didn't stop her, though. She was allways correcting me and making fun of my English. In fact, she harassed me everyday for every conceivable reason. She had this I'myourintellectualsuperior thing, you know?

Julie wasn't that good between the sheets, but I always had this lust for big, round, butts, dig? Anyway, I tried hard, but Julie never had me as worthy. Intelectually, of course. And she made a point of it. With one or two "english" expressions. Commonplace.

Julie, the bullie. Cliché Julie, I called her. Not to her face, of course.

It took her five years to dump me. And she's left a note.

"And then there was no more sunshine, for the 'bitch who were pestering you' is long gone and she took your will with her. No, really, it's not like you've got something to celebrate.
"Anyway, you keep things going until there's no more turning back or tunring away. Then you blame yourself (indeed reasonably) and do nothing to change or to better the situation. It's almost like if you take pleasure in being miserable. Oh, yeah, for you seem to make everything worse than it is, everytime. And you complain. A lot. Oh, how I'm miserable, oh, how my heart hurts, oh how the world treats me, oh, what have I done to deserve this, oh, nobody loves me. Fuck, you don't love yourself. You panic at the sight of happiness.
"Oh, but there's more. All you do is daydream about changes, magical changes in your life that you know will never happen. Basically, you have the emotional maturity of a 12-year old boy.
"In fact, you're a control freak and a low-life manipulator. And you're an emotional blackmailer, You've got to have people around just to hear how you're good, how you're intelligent, how hot you are. It all boils down to your humongous ego. Maybe you even let people down to get attention. You're a fucking emotional black hole.
"Maybe you really shoulda kill yourself."

Julie, I love you, bitch.

Glad to hear from ya

Y. Nishi — Fri, 17 Mar 2006 21:05:00 +0000

-Part XIII-

A C-sharp. A B-flat. A natural killer G and we called it a day. Went straight to the bridge.

(oh, yeah!)

There's nothing much left to say, except that we cannot find no way out anymore. We're chained, bounded, we're involved so far and so deep that it'd be compared to an organ removal. And yet, sometimes you have to cut a leg before it kills you.

(I'm Jack's colon. I get cancer. I kill Jack.)

But you heard it elsewhere, and it's not like your friends never tried to warn you. I'm fucking evil. I'm a fucking evil genius, whose sole purpose is to take people out of their worlds and put them under my influence. I distort peoples' minds, I make them change.

In no-time, people feel trapped, entangled in my whims and evil deeds. I lock 'em up. They lose their will and become zombies, begging for scraps of my attention. No, love's got nothing to do with it. I know no love, they say. I'm a fucking emotional blackhole. And I'll kill you in the process.

So, what are you doing with me? Haven't you been warned? Your friends haven't alerted you to run while you could? Can't you see they don't like me, that they never did?

I've nothing to offer but the night.

Passée composée

Y. Nishi — Fri, 17 Mar 2006 21:02:00 +0000

-Intermission-

All the commands are set flat.