Everyone here, a slave to their freedom. Giving it labels of meaning. Me too… I am a writer. I am someone. We all just don’t want to work. We all just want someone to tell us that all this pain is worth it.
Bangkok is like Varanasi for the west. A holy ground. A pilgrimage. Where instead of worshipping Shiva they worship Ronald McDonald.
Sitting at the crematorium, there's something about watching twelve bodies burn that makes you feel good.
On the plane a lady kept resting her arm on mine; Indians must feel lost when their skin is not touching another’s. A super fat man was on the other side of the aisle, I find it farcical I have to pay $45 for an extra few kilos of luggage when such a man can steal space and weight free of charge.
She rubs oil into my skin pathetically, we are both bored. She calls another lady, she walks in, looks very young, offers her services and I say no again, slightly more tempted. It’s nice to see your morals hold up in a town that does not have any. Anyone can be a good man in a strictly governed society, who is he, when he can be anyone?
I'm tired of this cotton candy world making me feel insane because the little voice in my head wants to burn it down. Wants everyone to run around in circles in fear of their impending death. We all sit beside the truth without looking at it. Here’s my ego, the tough one talking of ego deaths of the past and how good they are, until its his turn. You are going to die buddy, that’s why you write, because you're so scared of it.
I have been with girls that make me feel safe, but they don’t make me feel much else. Does love bring unsettlement because you're scared to lose it or is that cheap lust because true love wouldn’t make you feel like this. What cotton candy land bullshit that must be, for it to just be easy, that is boring, right?
Words are so obvious, they are just one thing, wouldn’t it be cool to write something that didn’t make sense? But no one would like it.
I still want to be me, even if no one wants to be with me, not even me.
I see writing as like having a girlfriend; you can only go to her so much to make you feel better before she just leaves you because you're a miserable loser.
I thought she trusted me because she fell asleep when I was in her room but when I found over a hundred pills in the skirting I knew she was keeping secrets. I wanted to yell at her but she looked very peaceful when she was asleep. I wonder if she dreamt when she was asleep or only when she was awake.
I believe every human is a type of dog, a breed and often with their own characteristics. So I started to see Ralph in the eyes of humans. Because I was treating humans with the love of dogs, the line started to blur between what a dog and a human are. So I accidentally spoke to a Dog, forgetting he couldn’t talk back and because I forgot he did too.