Recently in hallucinations Category

i hope you don't exist.

just in case you do, i hope you didn't create everything, say human beings. in case you're there and you did actually create human race, i sincerely hope the common belief that you know everything is but only a popular rumor.

because if you exist and you created mankind knowing very well what they'll go through during their miserable little trailers of a lifetime you are most definitely the sickest, meanest, loneliest, most fucked up being in the entire universe.

please tell me you don't exist.

they come over last night after the longest time. he and he and he, my partners in crime. we sit down in quiet around the decanter and four glasses, one and two and three until someone talks: let's drink a last one to the one who just died. let the festivities begin.

he then produces a rather peculiar package out of the side pocket of his jacket, wrapped in newspaper, smothered in blood. he proceeds to unwrapping a slab of raw steaming meat out in the middle of the sushi table in front of him. fresh hot blood oozes out of its corners as he carefully slices it with sashimi precision and hands us each a few juicy crimson pieces, upon which we start chewing absentmindedly. once rinsed down with another pour the other presents some chopped liver lightly braised in bile and kidney broth followed by two racks of fresh raw ribs still withholding live breathing lungs in between. once garnished with sea salt and fresh red pepper flakes we take turns in poking our fangs into the lungs, tearing a couple of ribs apart and passing the rest to the next one around. more wine, and more wine. he says something without expecting a response, and he gets none.

though still pounding, the blackened heart reeks of rotten dried blood. he starts peeling off the dried crust as tears start to blur his eyes, the next peels another layer of somewhat softer tissues and we keep peeling and peeling until all that's left is a pink piece of muscle the size of a small toe with all our four faces soaked in tears flooding our of our swollen eyes. he sets the finger on fire and we stare at it burning slowly into a a black piece of char filling the air with its stinking odor. wine, more wine. noone says anything.

then they leave. the funeral is over and the remainder of the deceased is now part of our bones and flesh, his blood running inside our veins. it's a good thing we got rid of his rotten heart, we're all better without it, without him. i speculate about when they'll come back to me again, and who's next to die. until then, i keep drinking the rest of the wine in the world, one decanter at a time.

i hope i'm next.

opposites attract, and he repels, everyone.

there's nothing you could do to make someone love you; but there's a million things you could do to make them hate your guts. there's almost nothing in life to look forward to, but there's a whole lot to regret. there's very little to appreciate, but there's everything one needs to feel disappointed. lovers who leave, friends who let you down, and families who are just not there anymore.

and of course it's only worse when you're the lover who leaves, the friend who lets down and the one who moved away. how do cowards seek closure? how do assholes get along? is there a jerks' support group somewhere? hi my name is fuck you and i'm a douche bag. i'm worthless, subnormal and intolerable.

he thought about all this as he wondered if all of this is a pathetic cry for attention. he spent some time thinking if he cares what people think of him at all, and he realized he does though he likes to say he doesn't. he spent some more time wondering if life is about living up to the images people hold from him, he found the idea disturbing and conveniently dismissed it as soon as his mozarella and tomato pizza was ready.

he decided gogol bordello's right when he says there's no such thing as good old days, and that there's only today and a little bit of tomorrow and they're both very shitty. he also decided that from now on he'll only lower expectations to raise satisfaction, maybe now he'll stop worrying about the result, if any. he gave up on love, companionship and affection, and immediately labeled all subjects of this phenomenon to "mentally deranged" and "hopelessly optimistic". he was about to decide many other things but then he was tired and he ran out of wine, so he gave up and laid down instead, and he was really happy, or truly depressed, and then only realized that they're both really the same.

he then grabbed his book and lived the rest of his fiction. facts were never his forte.

when i grow up i wanna be a pagan shaman. i will also be a professional afro-american teenager, a french connoisseur and of course a barista with artsy ambitions.

but till then i'm going to remain a slave of corporate america. life will be good though, because i have my evenings to myself and myself only. i'll read and listen and play tennis. what the hell, i'll dip into the jacuzzi every once in a while before getting completely drunk. life is good.

in the perfect world there are no books on religion, faith, god or lack thereof. there are also no schools of thought, no ethical codes, no virtues and no values. there are only stories. story books for math, for physics, for medicines, for music, for cooking and for sex. there will be absolutely no differentiation between fact and fiction. imagination is just another sense, merely the strongest. people truly live what they read, hear and watch, and integrate the experience into their wisdom. there are no lies, just different individual preferences in pursuing facts or fiction. good and bad are devolved into their true meanings: descriptive adjectives for personal tastes, never applicable to people, actions or events for that matter.

in the prefect world we're all in love and we create to impress the divine beloved, tangible or not. in the prefect world we're all high and drunk even when asleep. the perfect world is actually a broadyway musical with original score in the air and subtitles floating around people and animals and all other conscious creatures in various paradigms of life.

in the perfect world survival pays. we're all compensated fairly for the courageous act of waking up to the same routines everyday, for enduring misery, for being born, for anything that goes wrong. in fact infants receive a sign-up bonus which pays for their minimal needs for their duration of stay within the current life form. the youth are always struggling and the elderly have the highest rates for having gone through it all.

in the prefect world brains are useless, plans are decorative and deadlines are just for fun. feelings are everything, we feel like somethings, and don't feel like the rest, and we can always choose, and we only choose what feels the best, and we can always switch, and we often do as soon as we're bored.

in the prefect world it's all about me, and it's all about now.

everything is a hoax, everyone's miserable and it's all going down. i feel good right now, and it's a perfect life.

lyra to harry is as holmes to poirot.

that rowling would pick a male protagonist is well aligned with pullman's concept of daemons' opposite gender of their owners. everything in lyra's world is profoundly masculine, even the tribute to feminist witches' dominance over their male lovers' ignorance and ephemeral nature. events are often narrated short and harsh with drama kept at its minimum. harry on the other hand thrives on feelings, on minute details of wizardry inconspicuous to male's senses.

while both happen to be raised apart from their legitimate parents one can't possibly ignore the stark contrast between their feelings for their natural roots. james potter could easily pass for a metrosexual visionary of some health food corporation the shrewd and powerful lord asriel could merely be conceived of as a veteran dark stakesholder in a mutli-national board regulating oil, weapons and drugs traffic across the continents. the contrast between the mother figures is beyond the scope of this text, or any other one for that matter.

one corny idea is to have harry meet lyra, or lizzie for the rhymes sake. we'll assign them a few tasks too, and leave it to them to figure who does what and how. we'll throw in a few dementors, some specters and other minuscule obstacles like vicious death eaters and gobblers. the winner is one who kills everybody and returns with the holy grail first. use of alethiometers is not allowed, nor is burning a fawkes feather. iorek and hagrid could watch, but not intervene. again it will be pretty cheesy, but fun to watch. and i bet you anything, lyra will hate harry's guts for being so mellow, and harry could never ever come to terms with accepting her bluntness.

someone should write a persian one, a modern persian fiction for young adults, someone from my generation.

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