Wheel of fortune (aka toucher les cimes)

Some people claim there's an inherent contradiction between living and dreaming.
'Don't dream your life, live your dreams'. Weird, huh?
Most of us spend every night dreaming, yet every morning we're fully alive...

Must we choose between dreaming and living?
thinking or doing? meaning and saying?
contemplation (this one for you michaela) and action?
- Of course not.

Dreaming, thinking, contemplation- that's the stuff that life is made of.
Every action is preceded by hundreds of thoughts, feelings, by hope.
Every word carefully crafted by daydreaming, imagining the weight of them before speaking.

Do we really want to live lives of action and speech without substance?
No hindsight? No anticipation- no hope?
Maybe dreaming gets you in trouble sometimes, and
your imagination might get the best of you,
leaving reality on the side of the track while the train leaves in full speed...

But what is life if not a beautiful dream?
Let us fill it with colors, emotions, illusioned hope, imagined love and serendipity.
Life that splashes outside the lines, in all directions.
Spin the wheel and question the result.
But most of all,

There is no perfection, only life

I had a whole superficial post in the making,
something about shoes, chocolate and lollipops.
About flare, aiming high and flying steady on the silver lined clouds.

...but then I turned on the tv and The unbearable lightness of Being was on.

"Anyone whose goal is 'something higher' must expect someday to suffer vertigo.
What is vertigo? Fear of falling? No, Vertigo is something other than fear of falling.
It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall,
against which, terrified, we defend ourselves."


walking in my shoes


One foot in front of the other,
that's how life is made.

We keep on walking, always continuing forward, always .
Passing places, people;
changing plans, intentions, motivation.

Every big step starts with a small shift of balance,
pick it up put it down...
the left foot in front of the right, and then the other
And before  you know it you're looking for something you didn't know you wanted to find.
Other times you find things you did not think you were looking for.

What's the difference anyways?
Life is the journey and walking is how you get there.

Based on a 'true' story.

Some people give expensive presents,
some hand out compliments.
others show their trust by giving out keys to their home

Me, I give second-hand books.
Seemingly cheap and boring, but for me it is the most intimate gesture.
My books are read, worn and their words have been carefully weighted, considered.
- scribbled down in a notebook, perhaps.

Get a book from me, and you can be sure that you are something special.
There are a few books out there with my signature.
Some of them appreciated, loved even. Others hidden in an office drawer.

What did I hope for, identifying myself with a book which so ruthlessly disclosed my inner core..?
Inexorably, inevitably my destiny got tangled up with the love triangle on Capri,
the Turkish tulip, all the nowhere and somewhere.

I said "this is me" and it became me. We became the story.
And we changed the story. Or it changed us.
Maybe, but hardly unexpected.

In life, we are all in the gutter. Some of us just look at the stars.

If words and thought were edible
I'd suffer from enormous obesity.

It is a truth not universally, but personally acknowledged that needs repeating.

Sometimes the mystery of life can be solved with a glass of guiness and laughter.
And the words of the wise ones ring truer than usually.
Strangers' faces on the street seem to invite you to see their insides.
Curious eyes, fascinating secrets hiding behind corporate suits, handwritten words tucked in portfolios.

Lives rubbing against each other as we hurry down the street.
Connected but disconnected.
Longing to share life, but scared of opening up.
Perhaps the city is the face of the human paradox.
Fellowship imprisons, freedom exiles.

It's been said that silence is not a natural habitat for stories.
Stories multiply in the city. They reproduce, collapse and are re-built.
I need the creative chaos, the breaking down and re-making.
The sounds, the smells, the faces and the stories behind them to really feel alive.

And sometimes a snapshot from a busy morning street is enough for happiness.
Pointless but complete happiness.


Lately, German words come to me subconsciously in a weird, irrevocable manner.
Wanderlust, Vorhandensein, Weltschmerz.
Perhaps it is because of the general feeling that Vonnegut described;
"How nice- to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive."

I do not want to get all the credit and none of the realness.
But I see the impossibility of being fully alive everywhere around me.
No time, no space, no thoughts.
No desire to feel, to be confused or lost in contemplation.
I want to stay lost in contemplation as long as possible.
I want to see the skin of light.

Some people have mastered the art of seeing beyond, of transcending between worlds
between dreams, thoughts and different realities.
Jeanette Winterson, Joanne Harrison, Gustav Klimt, Salvador Dalí.
They share the wish for something that is not ordinary, for what cannot be believed- but is there.

And I wish, sometimes, that I could wander in their worlds.
Where everything is slightly flawed but magnificently beautiful.
And most of all, where everything is heavy, raw and true.

a mood of sentimental sadness based on the understanding
that the physical reality will never live up to the demands of the utopian mind.

Words are the part of silence that can be spoken

There are some pictures that you keep hidden.
Underneath the others, tucked in between shelves full of dust.
Occasionally you forget their existence, but ever so often..they resurface.
Forcing you to come to terms with your own past.
To face yourself and feel it.

What is there to face?
Attachment, anticipation and abandonment.
What is the reason nothing is ever left behind?
Words, emotions, glances stick forever.

I recently discovered a notebook of texts written by someone once very important to me.
Upon reading them I felt it again.
The awe, the sense of littleness and how easily I was impressed.
19 years old and trusted with another person's most intimate emotions put to print.
I have this thing about feelings and words. I remember them perfectly.
Actions and occurences, not so much.

If you emphasize the imagined and felt, but ignore the real,
if you live in a bubble instead of the moment..
Chances are, you're living there alone.

And a frozen smile while feeding ducks remains a memory like a hipstamatic photograph.
slightly enhanced, altered, romanticized.
Nothing like the cold reality of the moment.

hipstamatic me.

Every written word is a net to catch the word that escaped

Women are planets that attract the wrong species..

Sometimes I get tired of all the hard thinking, the political ideas and the existential philosophy that is my genetic destiny. When that happens, nothing works better than real girl-talk. Obsessive, dramatic, out-of-our-minds bashing out our inner desire girl-talk.
Now, girl-talk is based on the premise of spinsterhood.
The whole point of it disappears as long as there's a stable relationship in sight (depending on the quality of vision). And I cannot hope to wonder if it is all just defensive /psycho-/babble...

Are we fooling ourselves, thinking we want highflying adventures, fireworks and perfectly crafted careers,
not wanting to be tied down and put in the iron cage (hrm..)?
Are we preventing ourselves from failure, saving face because we don't dare to go for the real thing, the twosomeness that seems to be the norm, the nuclear family.

Are we really that cynical?
And since when are we so afraid of not getting what we want?
Or do we really want to settle for independence, girl-power and reaching our dreams
without anyone permanently by our side?

/On the surface; an intelligible lie- underneath; the unintelligible truth/

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