12/10/2006
But we're not robots inside a grid

I think my perceptions have changed again. Maybe it's all the pressure, but right here and then I'm seeing the world differently again. Or is it the sightings I've learn to associate with anything and everything? Sure, something is wrong, or that's what I used to think before.

The surprising thing about this time is, somehow, I'm there but I'm not minding it at all. Sure, I'm not that good at keeping secrets - well, I'm actually good at keeping every secret but mine.

It's quite close to torture, although selective. I guess my paranoia has manifested itself again - you're lucky it hasn't come on as publicly as some cases have - or maybe I've learned to have fun. There's always a little adventure with each day, and even if I think it's going to be very boring, it turns out otherwise almost every time. Or it's my perceptions again. Excitement is subjective; what's handsome for you could be homosexual to me. In those rare times, though, when I find myself without anyone to pull my trigger and start another adventure, I wait, and nothing goes by.

And all I probably do is stay up at night aimlessly.

I'm very sentimental. I think I couldn't have existed, or survived, without recording anything I impulsively think as noteworthy. Go through my head if you're lucky - maybe I'd donate my body to the profession when I die, so that people can rip my chest apart and play with my brain, for nobody cares about me anyway - and you'd see that I keep a lot of trash in my head. You know, song lyrics, station taglines, random squiggles and cherished memories. Even the memories aren't exactly what you'd consider photo album fodder - they're just the routines, like me waiting for class to start and something happening. It's quite weird, to be honest.

And thus, with the insignifance of my memories, nobody remembers, and maybe that's why I can't help but cry (figuratively) sometimes thinking that nobody cares. And maybe when I prefer to subscribe again to the idea that all I wanted is someone to be with and actually care - that's when I start clinging to those memories and make fabricated sense out of it. I'm not really sleepy, and I refuse to be like this - despite me keeping a lot of records I know being sentimental is never me - but somehow I end up being so. And then I'd realize - or think - everything is forgotten.

I'd try a conversation and I realize I'm lonely again.

By the instrumental I'm already making the most out of the scenes in my head. Being sentimental means rescuing the most mundane (and technically the more routinary) of concepts: the first handshake, the first conversation, the first running joke, the first photograph. I'd tear it in two and think that's all there is to it. I've subscribed to the idea again - maybe being sentimental is the closest I've got to an imaginary friend, and I start talking to myself again, making a fool out of myself because they wouldn't notice despite all the effort. They've grown used to it and disregarded it.

And I'm losing control. I'm torn between two worlds; somehow I want to make it work, even if it's all going to end up as a compromise - isn't it already a compromise? - but what I thought was a process changed again, and now it's all but predictable. The next thing I know I'm surprised that it's like that again, and I start to refuse, and I find out that it doesn't work because the process of refusal has changed along it as well. Whatever went together isn't going together now. It's seriously unpredictable.

In the end, though, we all live in a black and white world. You can't sit in the chair that's maybe-marked and say that you're standing by your principles.

Only I can bring suspense to admitting what I really feel.

And your responses...

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