Land of the free

Short synthesis of my vacations so far:
Burned my ring finger lighting some rockets.
Fell in love in an office supply store.
Fell in love at a mall.
Fell in love at another mall.
Got a beard trimming set for christmas.
Got an ugly sweater for christmas and exchanged it for money at the store.
Walked on a very cold beach.
Swam on a very cold beach; nearly froze to death.
Ate a bunch of stuff.
So far so good.


Short Notice of Leaving

Hello Reader

I’m writing this to let you know that I’m leaving on a short vacation. So…yeah. Not much writing will be done in a while. I guess I should…apologize or something? Anyway I may write a couple of small posts because that’s what the publishing thingy on my phone lets me write.

I hope you all have a pleasant winter break and I thank you for reading my blog even though most of the stuff I write is actually not that good. You know what? Scratch that. Thank you for reading my blog. PERIOD.

I hope we can continue this interrupted/one-sided communication next year.

Sincerely yours,

Nikolas Murdock.

Read It If You Want To, I Couldn't Care Less

At some time in my life I stopped being afraid of real things and started having fears of a more psychological origin. Maybe I just learned to phrase my fears better. Maybe no one is actually afraid or spiders or heights. Maybe what they’re really afraid of is what those things represent. Spiders mean getting bitten. Getting bitten leads to being sick or dying. Which boils down to fear of weakness and fear of death. Heights also mean death. Speaking in public leads to judgement, which in turn leads to possible rejection. Therefore, fear of rejection. This way we can reduce most phobias to simple concepts using better wording and a deeper understanding.

We can also love that which we fear. I can think of nothing more terrifying than people knowing me. There’s this rush of adrenaline when someone actually figures me out that definitely chill me to the bone. If we boil it down…I don’t even know if I want to boil it down. Think about it, I spend my days writing on the internet. You’re reading this, and this communication only feels like a conversation because you’re reading it in the future present. Right now, I’m writing like somebody in the future is going to read this, and I don’t even know if that’s actually true. You…you don’t know me. I don’t know me. I don’t know you. It’s a circle of ignorance. We’re all children, playing hide-and-seek on a day with very thick fog. We can hear our voices, and in a way, we’re all just trying to find out where we are. But we can’t see a goddamn thing, and for some that is best. And oh god, I’m definitely turning an un-turned stone right now. Even if you read the stuff I write, it most probably washes off your brain in a few seconds.

I think what I’m most afraid of is of what I’m living right now. Holding on to some imaginary friend who reads my stuff, who somehow wants to know what I’m feeling. Whining all the time about being rejected, unloved, ignored, devoid of any ambition. Standing in a forest of black trees on a moonless night with no path to follow and a bunch of question marks at my feet. Reading and re reading what I’ve written in the hopes that, the next time I read it, it will appear much less pathetic.

Think about it, how weird is this. I’m staring at a monitor. Pressing some keys in my keyboard, that send an electrical pulse down some cables and then get translated by the computer into symbols our brain has been programmed to read in packs called words. I skipped a whole lot of stuff because, simply put, I don’t want to write it. Everything we experience in our lives is unbearably weird and foreign. I mean, rain? Is anyone else freaked out by the fact that water is falling from the sky?

You won’t talk to me. You only read. I’m not even sure if you read at all. No one will talk to me. No one. Then again, isn’t it strange that there actually exists other people? Do I need people to talk to me? You don’t know me. You probably don’t exist. Maybe you exist, but not in this exact second. You cannot read this while I write this. You don’t know me, and that pains me sometimes. But no one knows me. I’m a very hard puzzle to crack. I guess I understand. I don’t know you. I don’t know whether you’re amazing or average or if you know how to cook or not.

You know what sucks? Realizing that everything you thought was real, let me rephrase that, everything you HOPED was real, not having ever existed. Realizing that your whole life you were trying to live by ignoring reality, and you can’t even do that right. Realizing that acting like something is something else is not going to get you through your day. Realizing that words like purpose, meaning, love, destiny, happiness, completeness, belonging and peace are just that; words. Realizing that you have to live life the way everyone else lives it: Routinely getting by day by day with what they have, settling, unambitiously, taking pills.

Even if I do understand, you all seem incredibly weird.

I'm In Platonic Love With Yasmin Paige

I don’t know what to write anymore. I keep repeating myself stuff I already know, and none of it makes a difference. I’m in a very lonely place.

No one knows me enough to notice when I’m feeling down. Concordantly, no one asks me what is wrong, ever. I have tried restlessly to help myself; I watch movies, I read books, I get distracted doing sports or playing video games, I took up the hobby of baking, I make myself tea, I go out with my friends, I listen to the same song 100 times. Nothing seems to work. I figure I need other people to get better, but I don’t know anybody. I have friends, but they’ve got their own problems.

My mind is too powerful. It definitely feels like it’s not even mine. Like it’s a separate entity who has enslaved me, and all I can do is follow orders. Like i’m tied, sitting on a chair while my mind plays exactly the same images from my past. Like it deliberately wants me to be sad and depressed.

If there is one thing I know I like, it’s writing; but I do not think anybody is going to fall in love with my words. Words are a hard thing to accept. They’re honest. They’re harsh most of the time and, if you use them right, people will think you are full of yourself. This is, mainly, because words are used in a very carefree way nowadays. They are hard on untrained ears. They seem strange and out of place in the common world of normal people.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to write a mystery. It’s quite hard. It has much more elements than your average drama or comedy. You have to think of the mystery and the solution, while also pretending to not know the solution. Plot points have to be much deeper as you very slowly unravel the solution to your mystery, giving one clue at a time to your spectator. Also, you have to deviate the audience’s suspicion to a suspicious character, while mantaining your culprit out of the spotlight. Finally, your last showdown has to portrait both the main character and the antagonist as powerful, intelligent being with an equal footing. Needless to say, it’s a lot of things to take into account, and it keeps me in a kind of depressive mood.

Wannabe Writer Manifesto

I was wondering if I chose to become a writer. For as long as I can remember, I have narrated my life. I wake up in the morning and think “I woke up”. Whereas normal people would just get on with their lives and choose the things they want to be, writers don’t actually choose. We are not made, we are born. We are filled with worlds. We are filled to the brim with smart dialogue, and tri-dimensional characters. When we want others to experience those worlds, we begin writing. Maybe we don’t even want to share our world, we are just searching for someone to listen. We narrate our lives, because we’re used to. We see everything from a third-person perspective. Sometimes we’ll find ourselves with no option left except to return to reality. We hate reality. Why should we accept what the world gives to us? Why should we accept the fact that we cannot fly, or the fact that we’re not 15th century samurai, or the fact that we may never find true love? We shouldn’t. We can’t. We revolt. If you care, you join the revolution. If you can’t write, you read. You read until your eyes are tired and then you go to sleep and then you read some more. We keep writing. We keep writing about dragons and robots. We keep writing about the insides of the mind and about love and sex and the girl we like and the girl we hate and beating up the guys we cannot stand because they somehow think they’re better than us and how it feels to kiss someone for the first time and how kids laughed at us when we were younger just because we were fat, or ugly, or socially awkward. We hold nothing back. We don’t care about you, and your friends and your lovers and your one night stands and your fuck buddies. If we want to we will write about you, and some day your neighbors will talk about that new book and begin narrating your life story. And you will know that we wrote that book about you and never tell anyone and it will be our quietly kept secret.

You can start by being my quietly kept secret.

I Really Don't Know Where I'm Going With This

This next post is going to make me sound creepy and stalkerish. If I have not creeped you out enough already, I thank you for your patience and will try to accelerate the process as much as I can. I’m sorry, but sometimes I come up with very dark, weird stuff and if i don’t write it down then probably no one will, and for all I know this could be top material for a serial killer film. Although, almost everything I’ve written could be adapted into a serial killer drama, you know, since loneliness and mental instability are some of the first signs of a serial killer (or a killer, period). Vengefulness is also a good sign and, although I don’t consider myself to be vengeful or remorseful in any way, I have written things that could guide a stranger into that territory. Anyways, if you’re still reading, thank you and I’m sorry.

You are that kind of girl. The kind of girl who is chased by ugly men who expect you to accept them for what they are, and you don’t want that. Sure, you chase other men who are more comfortable to look at than the losers who are usually falling at your feet. You wonder why they even talk to you if you are making perfectly clear that you could not give less of a damn about who they are, what they do or what they have to say. Why are only them attracted to you? You face the same dilemma almost all semi-attractive people who have not found their soul-mate face.

I, in the most sincere way, ask for your forgiveness, for I am one of them. I fancy you in a way that few people fancy you, and still i am average, unattractive and ultimately dull. Even if I had the chance to bore you by reciting a list of my talents and skills, i would not take it, for i know that you would much rather like to spend your time looking for someone less average and, ideally, much more attractive. Maybe you would fancy someone who was more in sync with your social life; Someone who you could go out with to nightclubs and such.

I utterly regret not being able to keep up to your standards, and it pains me to be nothing more than a bother to you. Nevertheless, things are always as they are, and this is one of those situations i’ll have to mark down as “unilateral-love” in my small, imaginary notebook. I want you to know that I understand what you’re going through, and I apologize for making you feel uncomfortable or disgusted. I know being confessed to by me is not a particularly pleasant experience, mainly because it’s never worked before.

I want you to know that if I could show everybody what I see when I look at you, every guy you’ve ever set your eyes on would probably fall in love with you. It doesn’t take much to shift a perspective, a few words would do.

Once again, I am sincerely sorry if I ever made you feel worthless or in any way affected your self-esteem. You are only one of many girls who I’ve done this to, and if I could apologize to all of them I would. I probably will…someday or something. In the mean time, even if it means nothing, I want you to know that you are truly beautiful and you can get any man you want…no wait, that’s really cliched… hate cliches. Well I got everything out so for all i care you can go and marry the biggest douchebag in the western world if you like. have fun being picky.