Spent the journey into work this morning trying to bluetooth the Miyavi-SPAZ gif to random people in the tube. This is because mornings do not agree with me, and they make me do very strange things. This is because I am a goth, and everyone knows that mornings do not agree with goths and alternative types. Ask Sarah and Zephan.

And as if the early morning, and having my blue tooth invitations being rejected by random strangers was not enough, the first thing Saif saw when Elest walked into the office at a reasonable time to show up, were her NewRocks. I'm worried I'm gonna get called into his office at some point or worse, answer to Faaria later on this week :( That little Chink is scary!

Spent Sunday wanderring arround central by myself, trying to go to places and do things I used to enjoy or feel most comfortable doing, to make myself feel better.
Wasted a good hour in Forbidden planet and the anime DVD section in HMV, then went to numerous lingerie shops before returning home with no anime, or manga and with a mamoth loneliness in the pit which is between my stomach and my heart.

I miss my family. I miss all the things which used to inspire me. I miss all the things I used to enjoy. I miss you. And I can't write any more.

She wished there were another commandment, an eleventh etched into the tablets: Do not change.
(J. S. Foer)

Not being able to start writing tonight has taken us down the path of blog history, waaay back until the last two digits on the post dates began to read 05 to the sound of songs from the last summer of uni. There is no such thing as coincidence. Every occurance is a scene tailored to perfection, a result of the events set in motion, by the hand of the divine artist. If I can suck meaning out of the absurd, so can I from the signs which stare me in the face every moment of my life.

Dominos. They follow suit...one by one...until everything I seem to have built, piecing together scraps subconciously or out of delibarte desperation to survive, till now has collapsed. The dust rises, obscures the view for a moment in mid-air above the rubble, then settles...and you come face to face with how it all started...and even before, with those days

When the object of Ell Est Still an Undergrad's effections was Edward Ellric and Ororon;
When an encounter with Joshua Bradley was the most exciting thing of any day at uni;
When we used to sit outside Gordon's office coz he was great and we were just bored;
When we spoke in Shakespearian, and Beckettian and were always inspired;
When I submitted to the manic and the depression that came and went like the tides which rise and ebb for reasons I could never understand, and made something beautiful out of it;
When the world, reading back now, must have been so much more poetic, and innocent, and full of expectations and dreams and curiosities of so much still to learn, to feel to experience, to lose..
...And I wish that then, while there was still time, someone had laid a hand on my shoulder that last summer, made me stop a minute in my frenzy to dash off, to get carried away with excitment, and said: 'Go back to bouncing to anime theme songs with your little sis, and mulling over your Joshua Bradley crush, Elest. Keep chasing dreams that are always a thrilling one step ahead...keep your innocent head in its clouds.

'Because though you cannot even imagine now, the boy who sat next to you in Japanese class today will change your life. He will touch the bonds that you share with your friends, with your family, with God. He will test your faith...he will shake the foundations...he will change you. And you will never be the same again.'

Say what sense? What sense can you make of your sacrifices now?
With this maddenening despair I've learnt how to survive...and I hate it.

I am so sorry.

'When one man, for whatever reason, has the opportunity to lead an extraordinary life, he has no right to keep it to himself.'

Jaques-Yves Cousteau

'We talk' he (Goethe) wrote in middle life, 'far too much. We should talk less and draw more. I personally should like to renounce speech altogether and, like organic Nature, communicate everything I'd like to say in sketches. This fig tree, that little snake, the cocoon on my window sill quietly awaiting its future - all these are momentous signitures. A person able to decipher their meaning properly would soon be able to dispense with the written or spoken word altogether. The more I think of it, there id domething futile, mediocre, even (I am tempted to say) foppish about speech. By contrast, how the gravity of Nature an her silence startle you, when you stand face to face with her, undistracted , before a barren ridge or in the desolation of the ancient hills.' We can never dispense with language and the other symbol systems; for it is by means of them that we have raised ourselves above the brutes, to the level of human beings. But we can easily become the victims as well as the beneficieries of these systems. We must learn how to handle words effectively; but at the same time we must preserve and if necessary, intensify our ability to look at the world directly and not through that half-opaque medium of concepts, which distorts every given fact into the all too familiar likeness of some generic lable or explanatory abstraction.

The Door s of Perception - Aldous Huxley

'Islamist'
No doubt you have heard the word far too many times. No doubt you've felt like hurling your house slipper at the television set everytime it's been used in the news. No doubt you've engaged in fleeting but violent thoughts about every news reporter who used it so off-hand as if he or she knew a rat's ass about Islam. No doubt you've cursed the Western media and scoffed at their hair brained, ignorance which capacitates the grossly ironic notion of inventing a term that negates terorism yet is derived from the root word Salam- meaning peace.

I too have felt the same way, my friend.

'Neither agreeable nor disagreeable,' I answered. 'It just is.'
Istigkeit - Wasnt that the word Meister Eckhart liked to use? 'Is-ness.' The Being of Platonic philosophy - except that Plato seems to have made the enormous, the grotesque mistake of seperating Being from becoming, and identifying it with the mathematical abstraction of the idea. he could never, poor fellow, have seen a bunch of flowers shining with their own inner light and all but quiverring under the pressure of the significance with which they were charged; could never have percieved that what rose, and iris and carnation so intensely signified was nothing more, and nothing less than what they were - a transience that was yet eternal life, a perpetual perishing that was at the same time pure Being, a bundle of minute, unique particulars in wich by some unspeakable and yet self-evident paradox, was to be seen the divine source of all existence.
I continued to look at the flowers and in their living light I seemed to detect the qualitative equivalent of breathing - but of a breathing without returns to a starting-point, with no recurrent ebbs but only a repeated flow from beauty to heightened beauty, from deeper to ever deeper meaning.

The Doors of Perception - Aldous Huxley