دو روز پشت سر هم یه جفت جوراب پوشیدم، بعد آمدم کفشامو عوض کنم بوی سگ مرده
میداد. بعد یاد ایران و خوابگاه و ... افتادم، کلی خاطره زنده شد. بعد یاد بوی مسجدا هم افتادم که ترکیبیست یگانه از بوی پا و گلاب.
In a world of chaos and economic austerity, the idea of believing in someone that finally comes out of the blue and helps “us” is very compelling. In the presence of this huge gap between classes, an underdog will use his knife to make some money.
In a country that the police run over innocent citizens, the people, of course, would not stop a public fight or robbery, and would just apathetically pass by.
In a city that freedom, cultural events, newspapers, books, cinema, theater, internet, are suppressed by the government, the greatest entertainment remaining would be to watch the hanging of some unfortunate twenty-something-year-old thief..
In a neighborhood that stops functioning because of some religious reason, it makes sense to accuse those who pick-pocket to committing a crime against “God.”
It all makes sense. Don't act like there is something extraordinary happening. The truth is that there is no ultimate rescuer; we are all in this compost heap, decaying together*. What we need are rebels. We need cultural, economical, educational rebels, and we have none. What we are, are a bunch of apathetic tormentors. Oh, and don’t get me confused; I’m one of them.
* [From fight club:] “You are not special. You're not a beautiful and
unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything
else. We're all part of the same compost heap. We're all singing, all
dancing crap of the world.”
Almost one of the first things that stroke me about death was this picture of Frederic Chopin's death mask in his wikipeida page, which is an actual cast of his face I think. There is nothing artistically special about this picture or statue for all that matters, but there is something in it that stayed with me for a long time. Such a music that is so alive today created by one great man who is long deceased. I draw this picture of his mask from memory, listening to Nocturne 20.
Hormones are bunch of assholes!
Have you ever thought about that most of your behaviors, or some, are controlled by bunch of chemicals? I mean, if you are a male and reading this you know exactly what I'm talking about. I'm sure you can recall hundreds of times that you can't concentrate on your work because some asshole hormone decided to kick in your blood from your balls. Or you are generally sad and thinking about the most stupid question of history that what is the purpose of life, simply because some lazy chemicals don't want to be in your body and made you wondered and depressed. It is almost impossible to always stay on the rational side, so sometimes ask yourself that maybe to some degree you are avatars of these chemicals at the moment.