Philosophy of Boris.

Getting to sleep at 3:00-ish after much wide-eyed cieling-staring in darkness, and then waking up at 6:00, can drive one to mull over many a deep and dark thought.
One such deepness and darkness, as any deepness and darkness, one my encounter in the deep and dark mental pool (with water slide!) may be the deepness and darkness of thoughts of Boris.
Aided by very heavy summer rain.

As we know, Boris had lost a leg to the Second World War. When he was a dashing young blade furnished with many a medalion, he believed this was a worthwhile sacrifice, for country and honour. In time, however, the remnants of his life receeded into whisky bottles at cheap bars, to collect with the clear beads he could never get to, even if he smashed the empty bottle. And at these times, when he had no power but to broodingly watch them evaporate over long hours, did he not despise country and honour? Was he not filled with bitterness, the taste of many years of festerring and regretting?

So how does one keep the purity of ones intentions intact?
How does one remember, and never forget?
How does one remain strong in ideals, when country and honour kick you when you're down?

This here is what I paid, what I'm paying for my sins.
Make this me...and maybe then I will not hate others.
Maybe.

Did I say that I loath you.
Did I say that I want to... leave it all behind.

-Blower's Daughter : Damian Rice

Listening to: Regina Spektor.
Horrified by: The amount of weight Haido has put on.
Pissed off at: Just innit.
Sadened by: Lemony Snicket's dedications.

Otherwise, life resumes hectically in a suspenseful, cliff hanger kind of slow motion. Embracing reclusive reclusiveness once again, for want of things to tell people...the unsurity is stifling. At times like this, we flinch at things too easily. And thank God for late shifts and crazy work coleagues brandishing light sabers in the overstock room.
Aiden: (swinging it arround) It was so much cooler when we had two of these!
Elest: Aha. it's kinda damaged right.
Aiden: (Puts it away) Yes that's why it's here.
Johnathan: (walks in with books) Hey you, YOU WERE PLAYING WITH THE LIGHT SABER! (drops books and runs over to the light saber hiding place to have a go at it himself)

But all is well in the world with Boris. To him, everyone's the same. and anyone who buys him a drink is better so. In his vodka bottle swims the doubts and fears he will swallow down and urinate out in an hour or so, if he doesn't vomit them first. That is what I think of thinking twice, you twice thought, he tells the worryful wonder.

I wonder if I'm making a big mistake.

...And if there had to be something which could possibly account for this silence that is always louder than noise or words or banter, because it is so full of an absence of all that is greater and more urgent and more desperate and sad because of inexpressibility (which is a word that doesn't even exist in the English vocab because of it's sheer inexpressiblity), it would be thus:

...

And so it is, just like you said it would be.
Life goes easy on me...most of the time.
And so it is, the shorter story. No love no glory, no hero in her skies.
...
And so it is, just like you said it should be.
We'll both forget the breez...most of the time.
And so it is, the colder water, the blower's daughter, the pupil in denial.

The Blower's Daughter -Damian Rice

Hello.
How long has it been since I wrote something here? ...OH MY GOD, THE 5TH OF LAST MONTH!? wow, when Elest makes a resolution she really sticks to it eh? ..bullshit.
(look we've even started swearing here. Tauwba)

So how has Boris been since then?
Boris has been very well, thank you. He's never been better. He's been drinking more, dreaming less and falling on his face less, but drinking more...and smoking some...And sitting on the wall of The Bottle at the crossroads, holding his pint up at the cars that drive by. Every day. toasting life away.
So he's been well.

Working at Borders doesn't put one off books. Though it's very capable of putting one off bookshops. But one may grow imune to it...who knows. Time will tell. Because time knows. Time knows all, the blasted miserly thief. Actually it doesn't...it just pretends to. It's just a useless, fat, miserly thief who knows nothing, but pretends...and gets away with it.
In any case, there are few things about bookshops that may piss one off. Such a thing may be rude customers, but they may do so less so than shelving men's magazinese with gawking perverts standing about, and also coming across certain books like 'The Almond' by a certain Arab bitch (don't 'tauwba' me! She had it coming) who's written a piece trash about the sexual awakening of a repressed Muslim girl. All very erotic...and you just know the West is gonna love that. Oh yeah, we can see them wringing their hands with glee now, coz they'd already bought into the ideaology since Jacobean England started organising the world it had discoverred (I would quote out of Fletcher's Island Princess if I had an excellent memory, but I don't. You know that purrrrr-fectly well, so don't be stupid (she quotes from The Last Unicorn instead.))

In any case, if there had to be a reading list...just innit...of current reads...a reading list of no particular relevance or connection to any thing, time or person...just innit...a just-innit reading list of GOOD books, it would start thus:

Rememberring God -Charles le Gai Eaton
Wild Sheep Chanse -Haruki Murakami

...and end how, I know not yet.