One Emotion

Sometimes, a picture is worth a thousand words. Another space: One Emotion, check it out.

December 23, 2004

Fake

All is fake. All is relatively fake. All is, very probably, relatively fake. Fake, bogus, bull, phony. All you perceive is subtle illusion misleading you to some dire finale where you realize what something is, what you thought it would be and ultimately, what this particular thing will never be. A simple concluding event, just to cut all the fakery crap.

The keyword is clearly “fake”. What is not clear is the fake factor, it is fake?, its degree, How fake could things be?, its perception, Does everything I see is fake?, its development, How fake could things become?, and its impact, Shall I act upon this or is it fake?.

The keyword is still “fake”. fake as not true. True as genuine. Genuine as glowing with the true essence of things. Fake as wrapping any tiny part of any essence with soi-disant shiny foil. Some people do it compulsively and ultimately find themselves trapped in shiny fake land. Shiny fake land is nice. Shiny fake land is somehow reassuring. Until, all that shiny foil you wrapped so well can’t hold you and your fake ideas, feelings and perceptions: you awake from shiny fake land, cast away in cruel reality where shiny things aren’t so numerous. In some cases, the gap is huge.

The keyword is “gap”: A disparity or difference as between two figures. Figure this. This gap is a part of you. No man lives in reality. Simple harsh reality has no place in your mind. The fake crap is only here so that you remain sane, happy. Only the fall from fake, from shiny fake land (or maybe just the fall from grace) is real. It sure hurts, but it’s true. Deal with that.


Rien n'est vrai, rien n'est faux; tout est songe et mensonge,
Illusion du cœur qu'un vain espoir prolonge.
Nos seules vérités, hommes, sont nos douleurs.
Lamartine (Alphonse de), Harmonies poétiques et religieuses, le Tombeau d'une mère.

December 04, 2004

The mood and you

There’s a martini at your table. The dim lights create devilish shapes in this drink of yours. The overly saturating brown-red-ish color smoothes in slowly in the perfectly cut lime that’s perfectly diffusing some sourness in that overly too sweet drink. The ice offers your drink sweet tickling sounds when you gently move it towards and taste it. The smoke you exhale from the best cigarette you smoked all day easily sweeps on the surface of your cold drink teasing it with its hot nimbleness. The music you hear is soft, sweet and fills all of you. Yes, the mood is good. Yes, you are good.

You watch your cigarette slowly burning and you recall how you slowly burnt. You’re watching some segment of your life burning its way to your hand. She is no more. She is not more or less than she should be. You watch this simple story that burnt you slowly fading away into ashes and smoke. The smoke still teases your drink and the sweet absolution it brings. The smoke is without significant effect, just like she is. You inhale one last breath of this devilish cigarette just to have one last taste of this sweet obsession. It tastes good, but not as good as it did, not as good as it could be. You look at the cigarette, just to feel the sweet burn one last time. You put the cigarette out. The drink awaits your now-lonely lips. Yes, the mood is good. You are good.