Metaphors and lies

I know I shouldn't waste my time should I have been better designed.

I have this recurring dream where I am locked in a room, but this time it is empty. A light is flickering, or flashing in front of or around me. I can't tell. Wandering around here I can see outlines for an entrance or exit occasionally illuminated by the light, or maybe it is the illusion of wishful thinking.

I'm not lost.

I know I belong here because I can feel a certain comfort in these surroundings, or truthfully I really like being alone. I take a seat on the ground, crossed legs but upright. There's a rare tranquility about this place, it's peaceful. I don't need to be anything for anyone.

I am myself, for myself, with myself ... by myself.

The light stops. It's pitch black.

I wake up in my room.

I realise that I am still insane after all these years.

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Everything here is fiction. It is not real. It is however, loosely based on my feelings and perhaps even events at a stretch.

There are no names, there are no real people. There is a figure, there is me. But it is not the real me.

It is my pseudonym writing but not in the interest of concealing my identity, it is in the interest of freedom of thought.

I just write because I would hate to say good bye to all the metaphors and lies that have taken me years to come up with.

I find a certain satisfaction in publishing for the public to read and/or indulge themselves in. But I find an even greater pleasure, a feeling of peace in not publishing or omitting certain aspects of this. That is why there are no names.

Nobody here is real.

To those who read here, this is not about you. Nothing here is about you. Please do not misunderstand me. It is fiction... that's all. I get that familiarity or coincidence may bring out a particular sense of vanity because a character sounds like you.

If I really wanted you to know something, I would tell you. Straight from my mouth to your ears, I would. I promise.

I do really enjoy that you may feel you are apart of this, I want that unique sense of intimacy between writer and reader. I want you to feel close. That is what good writing is. I am flattered that an unexpected number of you read this and thought you were my subject. But at the same time I am disappointed in the number of you having audacity to bring it up with me.

I will clarify something:

"Milla Jovovich as Leeloo, the perfect being."

The Perfect Being, the perfect being does not exist. It is not a collection of the most desirable traits. It is nothing.

So please just remember when reading, it is FICTION.

I just smiled.

Feel free to ask me questions!

http://www.formspring.me/martianjasian

http://martianjasian.tumblr.com/

See you, space cowboy.

Rubbing out the last "Fuck You" in the world...

Jerome David Salinger

January 1, 1919 - January 27, 2010

Aged 91

J.D. Salinger died today. He was for the kids that didn't fit in, kids like me but became popular despite that and paved the way for so many others for decades to come.

He created a private, unique feeling of intense intimacy that came with good writing, dreaming of that closeness between writer and reading. However, he put as much effort and distance into his privacy as any brilliant author ever could - denying all press inquiries, taking privacy to the Courts and winning, shutting down all attempts at biographies, documentaries and adaptations.

To say my life hasn't changed is an understatement, as he wrote:

"What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though."

He continued to write - but only for himself. There are rumors of unpublished works (novels & short stories), but time will tell if I ever get to read any of it. But rather than mourn, such a passing gives us reminders and that push to read or re-read what made them so memorable and important to us. To share their knowledge and stories - to keep them still alive and a part of the discussion.

I will keep writing, if only for myself and the vanity others seem to indulge themselves within. I like to write. I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure. Although, there is a marvelous peace in not publishing.

This is my appreciation for Jerome David Salinger.

Rest.

You know, like.. whatever

I always had this ideal for perfection - whether it be in me or someone else. But thinking about that I could never settle for perfection, it would be like accepting a painfully ordinary life.

I am so cynical, it is my least favourite quality (if you can call it that) and it really has led me no where. I realise that nobody in life will ever get exactly what they want, especially me. I guess I just need to work really hard and be kind so amazing things will happen. But maybe I have let too much time pass by.

There is someone I like, their aspects are so brilliant and as a bonus the physical side is more than appealing. I have barely even spent time with them, but it doesn't matter because when I am around her I felt normal and content. I just felt like smiling the whole time. And I did. I hardly even know that much about her beyond what has unraveled with small-talk, but I know enough to know that I want to be around you more and more. I guess another one of my problems is that I am too shy and have an obsessing need to know everything about someone before I want to be around them because I'm afraid if I will have nothing to say. But that takes out all the fun of beginning to know them.

I should just be forward, I mean, worst case scenario I end up here talking about it with added over dramatics. I should stop thinking like that though, there is nothing inherently wrong with me. I can change this.

I know she would never read this, but I would be happy if she did one day.

I'll leave a vague clue for you to figure out who she is (or who you are).

Mul-ti-pass!