spite and malice

"wrap me in your trauma and I may just give you mine"... i've been meaning to write this blog for a couple of days now, i am sure i had something clever to say in the introduction, but that seems just wiped out of my mind right now... for god knows what reason (i hope he does, for i don't), i'm all introspective gain, all of a sudden. or maybe i never ever stopped. anyway, not the point.

the point is that i've taken a peek in a dark tunnel i usually avoid, called 'future'. i have some decisions to make, and they'd better be clever ones. so i laid back and considered what i truly like, what i enjoy doing, what i would like to do for the rest of my life, who i am, where i am, where i see myself in a couple of years' time. all the usual blah blah you'd expect on occasions like that. there aren't too many things i like. writing and photography are among them. and looking back on how it all started...

i've been writing for ages, but kept things to myself and maybe a couple of other people. however, i once saw a book published by an absolute moron, with absolute moronic epigramms (four liners, mocking poems). and i went steaming angry. i thought if that idiot can do it, so can i. here i am, three years and two poetry volumes later. i still don't share too much and i think them far from brilliant, but i give them to friends. and they are mine.

as for pictures... i never subscribed to the site to actually upload pics, or not to another purpose other than showing my dog to people... however, i saw so much crap on a site that is presumed to be of photography, and so much praise to them that i went point blank rage again, thinking 'hang on, fucks, i can do much better than that'... so here i am, six months and a brand new camera later. i am far from being happy with my stuff, but again, they are mine.

the sad part is, that while i am not really content with any of my 'works of art', i consider them so much better than most of the crap out there. and they both started out of sheer spite. because i knew and i wanted to prove that i can do it so much better than half of the idiots out there boasting it. while i still hold that for true, i must admit it is a sorry motivation to do something, let alone make a passion for it.

moreover, it denotes a worry-worth tendency of me defining myself in relation to others... not only others, but complete morons >:) and people i know keep encouraging me for it and don't seem to display my skepticism towards what i make out of it. well, i've been through the looking glass self over and again at the uni, erving goffman must've been my favourite author of psychosociology, but this is a bit too much for my taste.

also, it raises the tricky question of who the fuck am i anyway?. me, not me compared to x or y. what defines me and what do i like, for myself (apart from dragons). and that at an age when one would think i'm over such dilemmas, or have them at least sorted out. i'm either retarded or some weird sort of genius or suffering real personality problems to just begin to develop such issues...

but somehow it feels strange that i only delight in 'borrowed' things... like i'm living someone else's life and being better at it. or feeling that way, anyway... and suddenly the lyrics make so much more sense. yep, the blood in my veins isn't mine... but the stormy place in the mind is.

"there's a place within her mind
with rains already falling.
she's insane, this friend of mine
and she's always bawling.
...
she's preparing for the flood,
the deluge and the sliding mud
she's preparing for the flood
running on black market blood"

~ placebo - black market blood ~