the first thing i feel is a reverse drip of chills up my arms. then, a rupture from my stomach, a sensation bursting from just above my navel through my diaphragm, filling my lungs with a cool warmth. i would then usually take a deep breath and the intensified pressure on my chest would press even harder, but in a calming way. deep surge of a smile-inducing giddyness would then follow as i exhale.
that is how i feel looking at a photograph of john pawson’s work.

i thought every man and his mother have their own sets of tits, but apparently men could never get used to nipples.



(on the other hand, i would be appalled and feel insulted if a man takes a look at my breasts and is indifferent.)

if when you close one eye and you can’t see the half darkness of the closed lid, it’s because it is too dark compared to the glitz your other eye is seeing.

i am writing a children’s book about magic mushroom tea. it has rhymes, so it takes a while to make everything fit nicely. in the mean time, i had a thought. a while ago, when i was somewhere in a ten-hour car ride during the ied holiday. “ah. morality. it kills me. it kills, you know. it’s a sad excuse for iron cages wrought around us to keep us from touching subjects that are deemed different and unknown, therefor, wrong. moralists have no place in an art gallery. and neither in purity. imagine the world of purity… the mind free of any self-assertion and judgment. the ultimate purity of thoughts, a community, a society, a civilization of nameless beings. but even the things i see pure in my mind would be different from what other people see. how very frustrating.”

i wonder if it’s true when people say, sadness is when everything matters, and depression is when nothing matters anymore. i’ve always thought something was wrong. always thought that there’s a little something that tweaked in my brain and made it different from everyone else’s. but of course, this theory is unlikely to be true. none of us are different anymore. there is nothing that can be done now, that hasn’t been. therefor, i conclude, that it’s not because i am depressed, but it’s based on that fact, that i believe nothing really matters anymore. just to conclude all possible misconclusions and clarify them, i am neither sad nor depressed. i’ve merely stopped giving a shit.

coulrophobia: fear of clowns. it’s not really the being of clowns that i fear. and i don’t fear, really. i just feel a surge of discomfort trough my spine and my arms and a vomit-inducing twist in my stomach when confronted with images of clowns. but i don’t react that way to black-and-white photos of clowns. for me, it is more about the colors. explosively bright, eye-offending, heart race-kicking colors of clowns. coming down to it, everything i found offensive in clowns is in the colors. in any form, combinations of bright and spotlight colors send me to a anxiety attack. for example, the picture below this paragraph sickens me more than the picture above it. hmm. so maybe i googled the wrong term.

I believe that for someone to fully be himself, he has to discover the pattern that defines his true being. It is a belief I feel quite strongly about, especially because I hardly believe in anything else. Of course, in real life, this pattern would never get to reveal itself. Just like the pattern for the ideal society, free of judgments and fallacies, it would be a concept too absurd and out of the ordinary way of seeing one’s self to be accepted by most. Thus I believe that my pattern is in a shape of a downward spiral, flat and uninteresting in 2D, but makes a lot of sense in 3D. You could probably imagine it spiraling down, as well.