'One who goes to bed with a blind person will wake up cross-eyed.'

--Turkish proverb of the day.
This is not politically incorrect, it's supposed to be about the friends/company you keep. ...Ok, it is a bit politically incorrect, but only in a harmless Turkish way.

I am safely in the office...After a close call to bash out my own brains, induced by an increadibly lethargic Sunday, the highlight of which was trying to take a sneaky picture in the underground, of a little Chinese woman donning the most amount of Burberry I have ever seen on the person of a single person. I do declare, she must be the spearhead of a new breed of East-Asian Chavs. Did I succeed? Alas, no. Her little husband was in the way, and they got paranoid when I suddenly whipped out my phone. Who in so much Burberry wouldn't be?
Why was said Sunday lethargic?
Caught daily in the eye of the most heinous draft in the office (between doors is our station) + not wearing enough to bed + no coat or warm clothes = Something coming on + Night nurse and Grandma's paracetemol = drowsy, drugged out Elest.
Ryo, however, would simply call it the following: The insensibility of the Elest "Eleeeest! You need to take care of yourself!" ...Because he's such a dad.
Unfortunately, Elest is the type who learns the hard way, or otherwise never...as with everything in her life. Who needs advice when pain can drive it home to you. And if the pain hurts good, then you're just hopeless. Hopeless, mind you, doesn't necessarily make u an artist though if gross generalisations can be taken as truth, it comes pretty damn close.

17:20
Damn Japanese IQ test, been sitting here for a quarter of my luch break and still I got the fed, the theif and the little boy on the wrong side of the river! How on earth did Huden abla do this?

Highlight of my work day: Saif taking off Michael's tie, while Michael is in the middle of a serious report to the CEO, re-knotting it, making michael take off his jacket, putting it on him and then telling him to make sure he hangs it when he gets home.
Ha ha ha!...ahem.

Nah the real highlight was Saif's speach at the end of the Tsunami Two Years conferance.

I'm off. Off I saaay!

You don't wanna go there,
Let me lead you by the hand.
You don't wanna be there,
Over sea and onto land .

As I look into your eyes,
I pay no mind,
I've found a way to get inside you;
I'll give you peace of mind.

I don't see you falling
I don't see you falling
I don't see you falling beautiful
Sometimes.

Be There : UNKLE ft Ian Brown

'One who tells the truth will get driven out of nine villages.'

--Turkish proverb of the day.
This has no relevance what so ever to the following blog, it simply is, as are many things, and it sounds funny in English.
This notion of 'is' suddenly, and without warning, discovers to mine innner eye, someting to mull over, because I write deeply meaningful verse or prose about my as yet deeply meaningless existence.
Are. That seems to be much of my predicament. To be. Period. Like this --> . The human condition is that man is never pleased with his state in life. The truth is that each and every one of us has a little bit of King Haggard in us. And every so often this realisation of not being in the right place, surfaces in my murky, black pool of the concious and subconcious. Basically, in lay-man's terms, I'm finding my life to be increasingly inadequate. I'm not actively living it, I'm passively living it. I'm a passive liver who has let the chords of priority slip, and that wild beast has gone a rampaging every which way. I've also got a pink rubber band wound arround my thumb.

Conclusion: It is absolutely vital that I start writing again. And when my debts are cleared and I'm somewhat more stable, financially, I must only work part time, so that by the end of this year we will at least have an agent.

Tripped into the office at 11:45 today, snuggly-bugging nose into the-opposite-of-goth scarf my mommy bought me. Now, I Sit at my desk, pissed off at a certain individual sitting across me, and I'm still wearing it- security blanket like. Which is funny because until now, I thought Nyamy was my security blanket but turns out he's not. Turns out he's my little-thing, who I can't mother right now because i'm in pieces.

And from the dark depths of goth-despairing, I wonder if this is a good thing. I wonder if everyone of us needs to be pieced apart every so often, throughout our lives, so that some greater wisdom and realisation which only comes with pain, can penetrate between the gaps while they are still raw, and when the pieces weld together again, we may mend into something better, stronger...and though perhaps less pure, more in search of the purity and truth we have lost through realisation. And in finding it one day, we may become something heartbreakingly akin the once perfect, innocent beings that were complete and did not know it.

I know now what this means: 'When I was a child I used to cry when night fell, I have travelled far since, only to reach the same point.'

--a badly reconstructed rendition of something : by some Sufi sage whose name I can't remember.

And because it is relevant,
Here is the story of my first realisation of tawheed...
or for those of you who are not muslim:
Here is the story of my first realisation of the oneness of a single divine entity, which has to be within yet beyond everything of our world...

When Elest was very little and she was Sevim Ceren in blue fluffy nightgown, pink, bare feet and milk bottle dangling from between her teeth, she didn't speak much. She would silently go about her buisness of being little between the things which happened in the world which still belonged mostly to grown ups. In her solitary little-ness, and bare-footed-ness and silent, wide eyed observation over the pacifier, eventually she began to grow very attached to her milk bottle, from which she was never without. So that, upon the note of security blankets, Sevim Ceren's bottle was that and a thing she had come to depend on for comfort without conciousness, because when you are little very few things are concious.
Until one evening...
Sevim Ceren's mommy was emptying out the dishwasher after dinner, in the kitchen of their home in South Carolina. Sevim Ceren, bare foot and in blue robe as usual, was silently following her arround the kitchen, waiting for her milk bottle which her mommy had taken away to wash and re-fill. This time however, mommy had put the (little did she know, but was about to find out) dish washer un-friendly milk bottle in the dishwasher. When the matter of the bottle's dish washer un-friendliness was revealed to them both in a shapeless, lava-lamp-wax form of melted, milky plastic, mommy was surprised, but little Sevim Ceren was devastated. And the wide dark eyes which oridnarily observed above her pacifier were stricken with something between grief, betrayl, and absolute, frightening loneliness.

...

Yesterday for the first time I did something I could never have imagined doing. I regretted this, and for a split second I wished I'd settled for something else some time and place before. And now, I still regret but not everything. And I do not wish, because of the pieces I am in. Because if I had settled then, i would be living in comfortable ignorance, while now i am hurting, but the pain is the same as being awake...like washing with water so cold it hurts, and it's good.
And if I had settled then, I would not know now that the only consolation is in non, the only comfort and company is in solitude, and the One is between the lines of the clear cut, the shadows of what is blaringly obvious, and the gaps which are still raw and which will weld together and mend soon, so that I will forget this realisation i saw through the shatterred window of my inner mirror which distorted the world before everything else could make sense.

'look ma! No strings!!'

Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be thinking of you
It's the wrong time
For somebody new
It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse
Is that alright? Yeah...

Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be cheating on you
It's the wrong time
She's pulling me through
It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse
Is that alright? Yeah...

Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright? Yeah...
If you don't shoot it how am I supposed to hold it
Is that alright? Yeah...
Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright
Is that alright with you?

-9 Crimes : Damien Rice