Only rarely do we love someone for who she really is. Sometimes it seems that we do not at all look for a real person to love. As if it were against our nature. Instead we pick the pieces, little mirror fragments, showing us the parts of ourselves we'd like reflected, ignoring the unsuitable bits. It is not even a conscious choice but more like a transfering instinct.
The truth is, as in so many other ways, we are scared to look closely, lest we might see something we don't fancy. There is a certain level of anonymity between even intimate lovers that is never crossed. Maybe this is what keeps us socially capable, as cynical as it may sound. Uh. But I'm such a bad cynic, really. Despite everything that happened in the past, the idealist in me never took off.
Maybe this is where love transcends structure, becomes global. When someone does not function as a reflection of yourself but as... well, something entirely different. Maybe there is a feeling you get when you're closer to someone else than to yourself. And if that isn't love, then hell what is?
Such a surreal place.
You have to lose your belief in a world where a person can do all the things he did and end up anywhere but in prison. It goes beyond frustration. It's a fucking borderline case.
report has basically nothing new to say, nothing that hasn't been said by related projects a dozen time over: there are no WMDs in Iraq
. Everything that Bush has ever said and keeps saying is nonsense. The most insane part is that this information is not a secret. Everyone can see it. Yet this man, definitely the most powerful man in the world, can serve you utter bullshit and not only remain a free man but also a free president. No one seems to even consider getting rid of him, which would be my first thought.
It is creepy, genuinely creepy, and it reminds me of a bad cabaret or very daring piece of satire.
Then his defenders argue that it was good and necessary to attack Saddam, that brutal and inhuman dictator...
... Saddam was not attacked. Iraq was.
But still Bush repeats his old story of terrorism, Al Quaida ties and WMDs like a syphilitic preacher with severe Alzheimer's, not noticing that he is living in a world that does not exist around him, only in his demented head. And it is working. And it gives me the creeps.
This man should not be out there with the rest of us but locked up somewhere safe. Before he decides to do something really interesting.
Maybe it is like charts music. If people keep hearing the same trash over and over again, at some point it begins to stick to their minds. And if that goes on long enough it might even start to sound... right.
Just look at what they did with pop music. And despair.
Off Limits Future.
The time I reserve for writing has mysteriously shrunk to the size of a withered moth ball. Well, not mysteriously at all actually. There is simply too little of it. At this point I wanted to prepare, no, be
prepared for this screenplay workshop. No way. This is not going to work. Not this way. Nay.
Need to recharge. The further I drift from the act of writing, the stranger, the more distant my own mind begins to feel. Ineed I never felt closer to myself than when I was writing a story a day. I felt so at home. It is addictive.
It is sad if you can't the time to do what you're rather good at. A waste of time. And mind.