I am running faster than I ever have before (June 10, 2023)

I'm running faster than I ever have ran before. Nothing can catch up with me, not even the thoughts I am creating. I am running, lost, in a frenzy from border to border, in the world that I created for myself.  The world I had created where I thought everything would be greener and greater than I encountered before. The only way to know that we have met greatness is to leave our everyday and to realise what actually takes us away.

I am flying from place to place in grandeur, to make use of the fuel that brought our society from the barbaric to the splendorous. I am spending in place and place in extravagance, to make use of the fortunes that that brought us from the poverty to the comfort. I am doing what they want. I am perpetuating the system. I am living how they all wish they could live. I am prodigal at the expense of the frugal world, I am shameless at the jealousy of the mortal world,I am forever-moving and never content. The only way to escape yourself is to move faster and faster until you cannot keep up with your consciousness. 

I thought that loneliness could be avoided by distraction, by busyness. I did not know that the eternal toil of convincing myself that no one is caring for me is what drives me to the true insanity, and which drives me to try and seek the attention that I believe could lift myself to self-liberation. My stories are so infinitesimally small that no one else could ever care. The idea of being cared for is greater than the attention brought upon myself by the people who actually care. The only way to avoid caring too much for other’s care is by actually caring for myself.

Did you know, that in some other life, where we would not have the same ceilings, we would have had the chance to create– and to be different  from the generations before us –to create something for which other people would actually remember us. But the ingenuity that we could have is constrained by our eternal schedule that binds us to our everyday. 

The only way to know one could be different is to make waves in the pond in which he was never welcomed. The only way to make waves in my world is to be great, and then it shall be only to make peaks and troughs to keep you afloat in the increasingly hostile sea. 

I am running faster than I have ever ran before. No one can catch up with me, not even the feelings I am upsetting. I am running, lost, more lost than ever before.

I wish I could find myself with you. But you are still, slightly more at peace with yourself. Your company will take me away from the race and to an escape in which I usually only sometimes, but increasingly more often, indulge myself. I hope that I could achieve some moderation in my own conscience.  

The nondescript harshness persists in all directions from where I stand, a sea of bland realisation that lingers into the beyond but also threatens to dissolve into the nothingness. I am scared to disappear into the precipice from which so few resolve.

I am compelled to journey hastily to the limits of my dreams, and back, in good time. I want do this over and over to avoid living out any of the false destinies that pull me forwards, or rather somewhere, so I may start new, although not fresh, each time, and time again, until the time I have becomes too finite. 

I am scared to commit to the fate that circumstance prescribes. I am reluctant to plunge into a future for which I cannot draw the paths . I am running because I want the beauty to return to the world I had envisaged.

I'm running faster than I ever have ran before. I am running fast, somewhere, to perhaps someplace beautiful and someplace new, but nowhere in particular. 

It would be easier, but less true to myself, to have never known better (April 21, 2023)

Not one day goes past without thinking of the relentless misery of the British existence. It is not just the weather. It is too the omnipresent, oppressive architecture whose age predates the  grand conflicts that have long gone by, and the depressing lives that occupy these buildings. 
 
One can travel hours in various directions and is still confronted by the haunting persistence of rows and rows of ‘terraced houses’. What a term to refer to the homes of the majority of the population who actually live in a townhouse outside of the town, in part of a house, and with no terrace. 
 
The concentration of prevailing wealth and beauty is osmotically drawn to one of few large dirty cities, with the overwhelming amount of vibrance pulled towards London. London that is otherwise a paper mâché financial diorama for the global super-rich coming from the arid world and the cold world to congregate and flaunt stolen money in front of the poor Cockney’s uneducated eyes. 
 
The marketplace is as monotone as the grim gothic architecture and suppressive of a potentially diverse economy through the systematic forced extinction of small businesses. And the employment system is so out of touch from the value that workers can offer the economy with a health and social care system ran by a single monopoly having absolute control over any opportunities for competition.
 
What appears to pacify the locals for the shortcomings is the nostalgic post-Victorian glory that the Kingdom was once part of a mighty empire that had more than its European counterparts by being able to get new and exciting goods from far away, but this now obsolete with the current trade limitations that it has forced upon itself.
 
Making the totality of the experience worse is the native’s unrelenting positivity for the status quo and the unforgetting reminiscence of the progress of the past. An unworldly self-sustaining people that is proud to call the old, shitty poor terraced houses their home; cycle through a weekly binge consumption culture of the local specialties of colourless beer, over-done meat and soulless bread; and promote the arduous prolongation of the inbred and futile monarchy which the place is reliant upon to provide idiosyncratic ‘charm’.  
 
What a blessing it would be to witness bulldozers go astray and do some mercy to flatten out the ancient and outlived structures and give the Britons the chance to build on their Kingdom’s soil some structures that would meet the standards encountered across the Channel, with infrastructure, or insultation, where they need not hear their neighbors washing machine running in the late of the night nor have the rain from above greet them in generous puddles at their feet when awaking to a glorious day on the island. 
 
Nevertheless, I may let it be. It would be easier, but less true to myself, to have never known better. 

When you are suffering is when you are most real (July 20, 2021)

When you are suffering is when you are most real. When you are suffering the emotional turmoil that results from your unbalanced existence. The emotional turmoil that, today, arises at your realisation of the transience of the moment; the transience of being back in your hometown before disappearing back to your place of obligation. The hometown, whose unconditional beauty and whose primitive and earthly inconveniences, continues to captivate you and ensure that you resort to her ground no matter the love you cultivate elsewhere. 

The city is cold and distant, the sweltering heat has migrated away to leave behind grey and windy chills that haunt the concrete forest. The hustle and bustle persists but it is muted behind the persistent drizzle and your floating consciousness. You are hurrying to some place but no place in particular. 

The nondescript cacophony of city immerses you. You, who have little influence on the greater destinies that the metropolis establishes for itself. That over-inflated image of self which thrives in this dense and preoccupied exemplification of modern human values. 

What comes next you do not know of, but you know that your time here is limited. It is so harsh and yet so thriving. Nowhere else would thrust upon you so same pressures for greatness.  Nowhere else would unfold to offer your wildest desires. And nowhere else would be your home in the heart. 

Sino-American unrest that tosses us all. (July 2, 2020)

I would encourage to consider power in the world at a level above politics. The idea of a political system is a way in which social systems try to display governmental decisions, that are decisions of supposedly politicians and their people, managing themselves and their interactions with other countries.  I would also suggest to consider it in terms of the invisible multibillionaires, who are nameless and do not give words to the lay people directly, but who coordinate massive international infrastructures and resources, which are in this modern world more powerful than the perceived ‘unity of function’ that would make a country work. 

Those resources are seen by lay people as the countries that offer them, for example oil (the Middle East), workforces (China and India), and technology development (USA and China), but frameworks or companies serve to extract or exploit these resources, and the leaders of the frameworks that do this, are the real power. Governmental and international laws are in turn, shaped partly to what that society has been educated to believe is morally tolerable to avoid conflict with ‘people who read the news’ , but also shaped to what allows these frameworks and companies to maximise their efficiency and profitability for the handful of people at the very top to have the most as possible (the top being much higher than any president). The entire press of the world is the distraction to indulge populations in dialogue with themselves about ‘ethics’ and ‘end-user business’ and ‘emotive small stories’ as a function to make people believe that their concerns are realised by other people and that they have a freedom and transparency in their thoughts and actions, which the government serves as an illusion to sustain as well. 

This development of technologies is a large part of the capitalism, that every single object in the developed home is a product of commercialisation and increasing efficiency and quality, which are driven by competition and refinement to lower cost, which are encouraged by a “free economy” and increasing wealth, which makes these comforts common and available to more and more people; all true technological development which is applied in the world is a product of capitalistic pursuit and its marketing. It’s marketing that is the alternate form of the press to show us that we need these things to make our life better by consuming them. 

You may therefore be able to consider that everything you do upholds an order that is fundamentally controlled by a few few people at the very top. The balance of the world economy is the biggest and coolest toy that will make the thirsty people rise and fall, and the nonchalant people slowly persist, following their ‘intrinsic satisfactions’ which give a sense of ‘self fulfilment’ in a way that is seemingly unrelated to greater powers, but their naivety is actually a luxury with which they are vested. 

The world shift from royal power to money, which enabled people who were not born in great to achieve partial greatness, in time, is what enabled the opportunity for social hierarchy to be climbed, very slowly, and therefore have an incentive to want to develop because there was the chance. At the fundamental level, all true development seeks to make the lives of people more comfortable and to reduce physical “work done”. 

Political freedoms and a democracy construct is a luxury that emerged when people were not as poor anymore and could speak out about being caught lower on the hierarchy; “Germany could not afford to pretend to be socialist, if it had not previously underwent a capitalist revolution to ensure its people a fundamental wealth in the first place.” At the end of the day, the only real problem in the world is the extreme poverty and hunger of poor countries, and some humanitarian goal will be to either ensure these societies the same fundamental comforts of the developed world, which is almost impossible due to corruption, or simply see these people perish. 

I wished we could have travelled here together. (June 14, 2020)

I am standing at the edge of a mighty precipice overlooking the tundra. The dry wind is blowing through my hair, rising with the heat of the valley below. I stare into the clear distance for as far as my eyes can see. The canyon is vast and barren, with some bushes interspersed amidst the great expanse. The sun beats overhead with a merciless heat that shines through the thin, crisp air of this world. The rocks bask underneath the scorching day, while radiating their heat into the bitter night. 

I am lying on the grass of a solitary hill in the middle of the savannah. The dry wind carries with it the passing time which quickly races through me to some place far away. I gaze at the fragile clouds that float above me with uncertainty. The plains are endless to my comprehension but they must end somewhere in the distance I cannot see.

I am lying on the grass of the solitary hill, alone in the nothingness of the uncharted landscape that only knows desolation. I can feel your presence in this very spot. You were lying in this field when you stopped during your journey. The dried out blades of grass are crusheed and the soil underneath is compressed by your weight. I can feel your aura lingering over this patch of land otherwise lost in the endlessness of the bleak landscape.

I am staring at the ground where I can see you were, alone in the nothingness and unprotected from the wilderness. I can see you sitting where I wish I had been to embrace you, and catch each and every single tear as it slowly rolled down your soft face. I wanted to be there at the same time, but I could not. I wished we could have travelled here together, or never at all, but it was too late and we were in different worlds at the same time. 

I am feeling your existence next to me. A momentary remnant of your essence, liberated in the upset particles that rise through the air. Your form slowly precipitates in front of me and for a moment I reach out to touch you. For an instant, I feel your skin with my fingertips. I am caressing your precious being for that one second that you materialise in front of me. In that second, I stare once more into your brown eyes and into their depths. In the shiny lustre that glazes your eyes, I see reflected back at me the consciousness vested in my self in that moment and my eternal longing to feel you close to me. I reach further to wrap my arm around you but your being quickly dissolves into the non-existence of the air from which it first appeared. 

I am sitting on the dry land in the middle of this wasteland. I feel your incarnation next to me as you were writhing in despair. I was in this spot a long time ago before you were even here the first time. Now I can see the marks in the ground where you were flinching in pain. I wanted to be here when you were here. I never would have let you alone here in the mercilessness. But I did not know you were in this world and I could not have tried to save you. 

I am seeing a stream of clouds churning in the edge of the sky, a whirlwind of darkness dragged along on the meteorological conveyor belt. The wind that passes across me becomes cold as the light of the sky above me is pulled to the side. The world plunges into a relentless darkness. Each breath becomes more and more laboured in the weight of the thick gloom. The clouds begin to unleash a downpour that floods the wasteland. My shoulders are stiff from within. The raindrops beat on me. An unsettlement expands from my core and propagates through my body. I become drenched in a cold wetness.  My throat begins to tighten as I can feel myself struggling to breathe. My eyes water from being ravished by nature's forces and at the realisation that you drowned here. My whole body is tense with a paralysing unease. I am simultaneously drowning and starving in this world, rigid from being devoid of your touch. The land is flooded with torrential waters and I am struggling to stay afloat. 

I am awaking on the flat sand of a pristine white-sand beach. I feel the tiny waves gently lapping against my feet as I walk along the endless coastline. The air is still and the wind is absent. The ripples of the great expanse of crystalline water are glistening under the blinding sun. Time itself stands still in the calm after the storm. I spot footsteps in the soft sand. Your footsteps. Engraved into the sand and persisting immortally in the vacuum of this world. They are walking along the beach into the fading distance. 
I am following them to you.

Blending into the barren Wasteland that surrounds Heathrow. (June 12, 2020)

A final afternoon in our world of temporal disregard, this time in the land of meteorological non-delight. The day’s mood was consumed by a subtle yet haunting dread which anticipated our divergence the following afternoon. A prolonged car ride away from my home that was not a home. The car was otherwise comfortable and his quiet snoring was amusing. It was a fresh, half-sunny, half-overcast, afternoon. The rays of colourless light were shining pity between the clouds, on our disappointment at the close of our three-week episode of isolation. 

Arriving at the driveway of the uninspiring hotel was a partial relief that ended the awkward tension between the driver and us. The reception appeared as a temporary desk transformed into an open office that occupied the space of something which called itself a lobby. The hotel presented itself as inhospitable as the plains of overgrown vegetation that surrounded the airport, so much so that apart from its superstructure and accompanying expressway, it seemed to blend into the barren wasteland that surrounded Heathrow. A single floor’s elevator ride and a moderate walk through a damp hallway away was our room. Its interior was continuous with the unremarkable corridor. A woodiness lent some comfort to the room, of which the bathroom stole almost half the space. A minuscule desk with a humble chair sat on the carpeted floor, which was damp from the leaking bathroom which also wet my socks. Once our belongings and our selves were in the room, there was little space for anything else, but I guess there did not need be. 

Some sunlight which persisted outside shone into the room, but despite a lack of clouds, the light and the room felt enveloped in a grey blanket. The air on the other side of the window seemed thin, as though it could not support life. Some loose shrubbery congregated in a small corner by the wall of the building opposite, somehow proving there was enough vitality in the air to sustain the last remaining traces of the natural world in the no man’s land. I could not decide whether the room was cozy or whether it was slowly threatening to suffocate us. 

After putting our lugagge down, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at me with his adorable brown eyes, while momentarily biting his soft red lips. His playful seductiveness illuminated my sensory perception and made me decide that the room was indeed cozy with him in it. I had to liberate his irresistible lips with my own and so I perched right next to him and wrapped my arms around his shoulders as our mouths felt each other’s. We snacked on some fruit and shrimp which we had brought with us on our journey. He had a tea, I had a coffee, and we shared a smoothie. Sitting on the edge of the tiny chair, one of the shrimp slipped from the grip of my fork, and it with its water fell onto the side of my backpack within an absurd, humorous second. A small idiosyncratic moment engraved into the fabric of the bag, which was already fraying with the wear that had accumulated over the years and miles. 

We laid on the bed for some hours, dazed and energised at the same time. Our carnal desire for each other was steadily increasing and at some point we curbed our hunger by arranging dinner downstairs, where we were told to order from the phone in the room from an extensive menu of 4 choices. We soon picked up and ate an unhealthy yet savourable meal. 

We laid on the bed immersed in each other, covered by a haze of melancholia that made the back of my throat feel tight. My eyes were covered by a thin lustre that formed at the perturbance of our inevitable separation, but which also glowed with my appreciation of the beauty of his physical and mental form. A hidden unsettlement which I could not let rise to the surface. We entertained ourselves into the night with our own words and some amusing videos. 

Existing so close to one another on the bed for so long, we intermittently teased each other with our touch and our tongues. Our craving for each other eventually escalated as we began to undress. He consumed me passionately while satisfying my appetite at the same time. We basked in a post-coital euphoria where his upper body laid in the cradle of my left arm. His being rested so perfectly next to mine. 

I caress his smooth skin, longing to connect with his graceful soul. We lie on our sides, staring into the depths of each other’s eyes, my arms hold him tight and close as though I am clinging onto the last glimmer of hope in the perseverance of compassion amidst the desolate wasteland of my world. His body radiates an unregulated warmth next to my own, underneath the soft blankets, our heat dissolving off into the crispy air of the cold room, as we slowly drift into the dreamworld. 

We awoke in the morning and he hurried downstairs to pick up a small breakfast for us to share later in the day. He returned to the bed and we continued to enjoy the warmth of each other for some more hours. His sensual existence pressed against mine, quickly reactivating my carnal desires and this time I consumed him while also quenching this thirst. An hour later we left the hotel room. 

We killed the overly ample time of the afternoon by commuting between terminals and dropping off baggage. In those moments we were able to sneak some unobserved kisses. We dreaded as the time for him to progress to the airside approached. We shared extended hug. Part of me feared to feel him filter through my arms and dissolve into the wide yonder of the impatient world, while the other part of me pulled him as tight as possible to sense his calming and ever-present aura closer to my own soul. After that moment, I knew that I would crave to feel him in my arms and that my heart would not rest until exactly that would happen again. 

I want to know why the clouds are moving faster when I stare at them (February 2, 2020)

I want you to know that I want you to be in my world.

I want you to know I am scared of you walking slowly as the world rushes past you.

My world that is passing through you and I quickly, whose worries and wealth will run through our fingers faster than you will be able to feel them. 

I want you to know that I fear my world is filtering fast through your fingers, leaving you nothing. 

I want to know why the things in your world pass us slower.

I want to know why in your world the things come back for you so that you can take them with you when you have time. 

Your world where things wait for us when we cannot chase them fast enough. 

I want you to know that your world seems more patient. 

I want you to know that I want to be in your world. 

I want you to know that I know my world is in the clouds and floating over the reality. 

My world that is floating above the issues with which most have had to deal, isolated in the golden cage whose bars slowly begin to erode at the weight of conscience. 

I want you to know that my world seems more hospitable. 

I want to know how it is like to face the everyday, descended from the cloud-world.

I want to know how it is like to be raised in a society where security lies in the state and not in the family.

Your world where independence is more valuable than security and where free will is greater than wealth. 

I want you to know how it is like to have the comforts but the pressure of security.

I want to know why, no matter whether I know how it is like, I will not care too much for it.

I want to know why I will cling to the security with which I have been raised.

My world were securities have the price of freedom and free time. 

I want you to know that I will never change to become like you. 

I want you to know that I think our differences are dividing but simultaneously connecting.

I want you to know that I believe our differences draw out our interest in each other. 

The mindset where judgements are set aside and replaced with reciprocal acceptance.

I want you to know that I trust staring into your mind brings me closer to it. 

I want to know why it is so rare for someone to have passion for both science and art. 

I want to know why it is so rare for someone to encompass both intellectual and physical beauty. 

The beautiful psyche that guides minds rich in both curiosity and audacity. 

I want you to know that your thoughts will fill my mind indefinitely. 

I want you to know that my soul has once been gardened by a great mind before.

I want you to know that I do not forget or overwrite my experiences with the wonder of new ones. 

The experiences that cultivated my mind and helped me prosper into the individual I am today.

I want you to know that your impressions and perceptions will help be grow into the future. 

I want to know why I am engrossed by your beauty and your being.

I want to know why I cannot control my self and my desires.

The compulsions and cravings that drive me to insanity and away from my worlds.   

I want you to know I am deluded by the euphoria, consumed by the idea of you. 

I want you to know that in your world I am disconnected from my self and my self awareness. 

I want to know why in your world my troubles and turmoil dissolve into nothingness and night.  

I want you to know that the post-midnight dreamworld we created is my eternal escape from my everyday. 

I want to know why you are able to whisk me away from my world into the oblivion that only knows passion. 

I want you to know that there is nothing else I would rather be than consumed by you.

I want to know why time stands still and why the night is immortal with you. 

I want you to know that your music enchants me in my dreams. 

I want to know why the clouds are moving faster when I stare at them.

I want you to know that all becomes a flash and a blur, swirling in an intense yet undecipherable soup of time, whose contents never precipitates because it is ever-moving and because time itself it held still in the enchanting universe where the stars are always being beautiful, against a backdrop of futures waiting to happen, where dreams wait to be realised and where fates encounter themselves; where I am being cultivated by you in a celestial garden, delighting in the cosmos, where we prosper and flourish into the everlasting beauty of existence. 

I want you to know that I want to wrap you in my arms forever, and if ever had an end I would want it to be with you in my arms. 

I want you to know that I want to chase the stars and the clouds with you as they run with us in the universe we create. 

I want you to know that I want to be the gardener of your great and handsome soul. 

I want you to know that I want to exist with you.

I want you to know

I want you.