Minddump.

Slithery, slippery, mutable – the malleable nature of humans adds a perpetual sense of fickle to every word, every smile. How do we readily live our lives in the past, entertaining times that justified our existence for a fragment of reality – reality that we long to carry forward to the future, but alas – present value belongs in the realm of negative exponents. But perhaps that makes all the more sense, for it is naught but negative to dwell in the past, attempting to drag out an experience past its sell by date. What do I do? What do I do?

Denying the virtue of the experience is little short of a cut to the heart. Who did I see, that day? Glimpses into a darkening abyss that I somehow seem to have fallen into. Oh, so distant now, I feel no profound sense of pulling, yet as the tide ebbs and flows, I suddenly feel drawn into the depths. Alone, though, sharks even neglect me as I endure personal storms in search for truth – wondering if I’ll ever get to the pirate’s chest… or walk around with an empty chest. The sickening feelings boil up, a tsunami of emotions that have now become numb. Deaf to the waves, I wish to purge myself of your very state. Leave me be.

Malleable, moulded, you’ve put the mask back on – but oh how I long to glimpse your true eyes, once more. Embrace the mind, the meninges long to reverberate.

Another sad lament, thinking about human duality and the problems phones cause.

Today, I write simply.

I find it hard, in my limited understanding of human working, to comprehend the duality element of people when technology is involved. When we’re sitting across each other, at a table in a small café and they’re playing slow love R&B songs, you’re stirring your tea and I’m slipping a piece of lemon meringue into my mouth … and I’m watching you type messages on your iPhone to other people, it makes me wonder : do you value the present moment? Or am I, as a friend, insubordinate to the cogs that turn in your phone, transmitting the agony of my company across oceans of wires to the hands of some other person back home in Durban?

Duality and fickleness, the prolonged silences that fill our mouths because you’re so far away and I’m simply not as commanding a presence to draw you into the present. It’s a gift you don’t need. Perhaps I’m being too sensitive, but I do believe that filling the spaces of silence with the ticking on your phone to be as injurious as your strange behaviour when we’re in a group. Why is it that the group identity of humans differs from the private one? When faced with all that we’ve been avoiding, in a single person, we’re left lost and confused as to how to react; or is it simply boredom?

I know some people have a predisposition towards a silent perspective on life, others speak their minds freely and wear their heart on their sleeve. Others, like me, simple live in a bubble, that gleams with rainbow colours of happiness and pathetic puns in a synthetic venture to bring happiness into the world when I, sadly, can’t seem to find it myself .

Why cling to the cherry blossom petal that’s floating away in the wind, when you can plant a new seed? Spreading yourself thin in an attempt to please every person you know won’t hold you in good stead when all someone wants is a few minutes of quality time in your gaze.

Why don’t people look at me ? Simply sit, and gaze with that dreamy look. I miss that look, having someone close to me, simply smiling back. My whole life I’ve undervalued the simplicity of holding hands – how glorious is it! The tool that someone uses to manipulate their way through the tasks of everyday life, how valuable they are! Shockingly intimate, to connect two hands – when the hand in itself is what connects us to the world.

If you went out with someone – a friend or whoever – and they spent a considerable portion of their time texting other people, you’d assume they aren’t the best person to be around continuously. Somewhat fickle, yet you know they’re essentially a good person. Somehow, it repels me. It’s so difficult to know a person, to pass judgement on their interactions in relation to who you are.

Who are you?

I look through the window, and I see rain drowning my garden, the fragile lilies weeping.

The cliché half baked thoughts that characterise periodic silences

On the outside, looking in – a melting oil painting transposing into the tears of an imaginary scream reverberating amongst the meninges of your deepest mind. I question, is there a seer glancing at my painting, or am I but a running colour? Oftentimes tangible isolation occurs in our minds, but personally – I’ve become to undergo isolation fits, where I spontaneously detach from the world around me and become but a viewer. This leads me to wonder, are we always viewers?... And every word we speak is but a commercial in the poorly produced cable series we know as life.

Oftentimes, amidst the lights and the buzz and the perpetual continuum of life, I can’t quite place myself. Suddenly, but increasingly frequently, a glaze is placed over my view of the world and I can’t begin to see my place in it : there’s a thickly blurred mist that surrounds me, in which I’m content to stew. I question whether I’m shutting the window of existence on myself, or if the world is genuinely eschewing me with a firm hand. Is such questionability of existence necessary in life, or am I a victim of superficial overthinking driven by a surplus hormonal intake to correct problems my foetus could never conceptualise.

My mind separates from my body, leading me to ponder the necessity of social interaction, in the face of the fickle side of man and the proverbial evil that resides in every core. I’m possessive by nature, and since I can’t seem to hold onto anyone in my life, why should I see there being any anchor in mine own? Unless I’m anchored to myself, in which case – as stated previously, I’ve shut the window in my own face. Now, bear in mind I’m not possessive in the tangible sense, where I feel an entity should be committed to a single scope of my persona – I’m possessive in my delegation of identity. Person A will eventually be allocated a role of x y or z in my life, if I get to know them well enough, and should the roles become questionable where I see the commitment to the designated role in my life becoming an issue of intrinsic conflict, I’m forced to step back and re-evaluate myself in relation to this person.

People hurt me, but I don’t know how or why. I grow instantly disgusted by the presence of identities I’ve been exposed to all day. I withdraw into a tainted shell from which I see the light as intrusive, begging the question of: are we living lives in our shells? Or should we move towards the assaultive forces that drive our mental states to achieve equilibrium?

Why don’t we actually talk about the things that matter to us? Music, movies, books and video games seem to somehow pale in comparison to the underlying matters of conflict that plague every individual. All we ever want is to be missed, to be acknowledged as here or not here and to be thought of, every now and then – as the fragile white kite blows away from the dandelion at the slightest breath, the according reactions to our absence in this life should come as swiftly as the seed leaving it’s home : the feeling of emptiness. We’re vicious creatures. We want to leave an empty space in the world when we die. We want our presence to be mourned because we’ve carved out a place for ourselves in the world and leaving that space hollow would create a deficiency.

You want to leave a deficiency in humanity, you sick son of a bitch.

All I want is my mind to find my body, to stop drifting so far away so suddenly – or to not have to drift alone, but encounter someone who flies kites.

Keep in Touch : My present mind

Who is the person in the world that you’re closest to? Mother? Father? Lover? Friend? Perhaps it could be considered a profound flaw that we hardly ever think to say that “I’m closest to myself”. The relationship with oneself in contrast to the extrinsic world should be the most important aspect of your life. Naturally, we all struggle to keep the intrinsic gates of communication open, but perhaps even more so when your personal self is in a state of perpetual fluctuation. Who am I ? I don’t even know anymore.

Recently I’ve been pummelled with hormones to correct a problem I’ve been having for about a month now, and over this time I’ve become more prone to self-analysis and states of silent meditation on the aspects of my life that are – or should be – important. But that’s not important. Do you know what it feels like to hate yourself throughout the day, and have a small voice play out in the back of your thoughts, judging every plastic sentence and laugh at every attempt at social acceptance? A third party entering into your mind, voicing over your mouth with things you don’t intend to do, things you don’t intend to a say – to a degree where I can’t begin to separate who I am from who the medicine is making me into.

Today I snapped out, lashing at someone I previously found to be an annoyance in my life. Normally I’d ignore him, but I viciously yelled at him for roughly 20 seconds. I feel terribly guilty, and I honestly can’t begin to explain who I am to him, and what’s happening to me right now – so all he did was receive the flaming end of a sword that I can’t begin to control.

Who are these inner demons that dwell in our minds? Is it our life’s goal to become knights and slay the forces in our mind that betray the true nature of our beings? Or is it just me? Some days I feel so detached from the world, looking through a stained glass window at the jaded smiles and frowns of society, wondering if perhaps I should break the glass or simply look away. I lay in bed, fascinated by the shades on the ceiling and wonder if I could ever become a shadow like that – or if I’m already a shadow in itself, a fly on the wall of life, never fully using all my skills and personal assets.

What do I have left to give the world, if I can’t find myself in my own capacity? What, exactly, denotes a failure? Amidst the rubble around my inner workings, I’m content to wallow in the sharp shards of existence. There are too many like me. Too many like us, struggling with ourselves for nothing beyond superficial reasons and the sting of nicotine, waiting to be found so we can only hurt the ones who find us. There are too many writers in this world for me to ever be a good writer, and that makes me cry. There are too many accountants in this world for me to ever stand out, and that makes me cry. There are so many people alone in this world, but none would prefer to end their personal exile with me – that doesn’t make me cry, but rather leaves me numb. Logically, if I cannot stabilise myself, how can I be the support structure in someone else’s life?

There’s a profound scratching on the surface of my mind, hardened nails scraping against my skull making me question the validity of my existence. What am I doing here? What can I give to you? What can I give to the world? Is giving all we’re here to do, pool together our private realities for some amazing communist-style pit of give give give? Who would want me to give, anyway? My heart skips a beat at the possible adrenaline rush in the downward vertical dimension of my residence’s balcony. Is it me writing this? Or am I simply the victim of a hormonal hand driving the choices and decisions I make… or am I simply justifying who I’ve always really been, beneath the shallow exterior. I’m all hollowed out. I don’t mind. Embrace me.

Bubble Communication Experiences

Summer sunlight, kissing the cliché student stubble, filtering thorough the stained-by-time window of the residence somehow seemed to make that day all the more bubble-esque. As conversation began to transcend beyond the banal daily chatter, and into more profound territory, the room was set ablaze by the Cape Town fireball in the sky. Fascinating, even more, was the condition of the conversation.

When you interact with people, do you see beyond the words? Do you look beyond the faux body language and expected shrugs, to the subliminal gasps and sighs that compensate for the lack of depth and meaning in our conversations? True conversation is not a meeting of words and an exchange of laughs. In order to truly connect with someone, communication should transcend beyond words. It’s an aura, an experience more than a connection. Conversations don’t always equate to connections. The gormless chatter outside café Frigo is not equivalent to the conversation comprising of a few carefully selected words while a chic Indie band strums along in the background on a lazy Summer evening.

All our lives, we build a reservoir of experience, thoughts, ideas and opinions. These begin to form part of our personal bubble. We carry it with us when we enter into conversation, when we think and when we judge situations or people. The question is, have you ever truly crossed into someone’s bubble beyond touching the slippery surface and consequently popping it (thereby quelling the chances for meaningful chatter) ? That is an experience.

When you experience someone, you don’t simply speak with them. You show your true self, and you in turn receive truth, of word and body language. An experience stays with you, changes the chemical composition of reactions you’ve integrated into your life regarding that person. If we experienced people more, then maybe we’d be a happier humanity. That’s not to say that the ubiquitous “Hey, how’re you” conversations are meaningless – it’s just that they often don’t lead one to grow into another’s bubble.

As I’ve begun to interact more with people, I’ve begun to recognise the need to cast away the cloak that we all frequently adopt. The cloak that we believe will win us friends an influence. I’m happy to slide in-between personalities, as long as the one I manifest is ultimately my highest truth in the present situation. When we cast aside the banal social expectations, and we show our truths, we begin to fully open ourselves to the world and all the experiences that people will, or have, come to offer. Who am I? I say I am a bubble, but you may step inside one day and understand why my colours swirl in the sunlight.

Often, experiences can be draining. If done properly, if truly comprehended and taken in, one can be emotionally and mentally overwhelmed. Soft subjects, tender words and brimming eyes take no prisoners in bubble sharing and can naturally lead to confusion. What do you do if you’ve experienced someone, and you encounter them randomly on the road? Or, more specifically, you’ve been able to transcend into conversation realms with them you thought were previously unattainable. The answer I have often pondered. It’s impossible to launch into something meaningful in public with a cursory “Hey”. But the intuitive vibrations emitted from a person should not be different towards you. If someone shows and shares their bubble with you when you’re alone but somehow blocks you out when you’re together in person, it’s not unreasonable to question the sincerity of their bubble sharing. How do you breathe false, sweetly smelling air when the cherry blossoms are on the breeze an ocean away? Turning the lights off can pour salve, but not heal a bubble.

Have you ever had that bubble communication experience? Where, for a moment, you became enveloped by another's world - and they painted around you their mind's most fragile workings? You haven't lived until you've been drowned in life beyond your finite life processes.