Flocks of books above hypocresy

Original Facebook Date: January 20, 2008

Location: Study - Incense lost - wacky

Feeling: Calm

Listening to: Bob Dylan - Hurricane

I have been feeling the unusual need to scream things out of context, to my friends’ chagrin (Ha! Find out what that is...).

Yet sometimes air is the best listener there is, speaking to yourself is better than you think (don’t worry, oxygen won’t judge you).

So, my birthday’s in this week (Cue plot twist music), and I feel as if was gonna be shot, this will oughtta be the most paranoid day I’ve ever had. I’ll sense everyone stalking me, and when least I expect it. they scare the shit outta me with a ‘‘HApPy biRthDay!’’ from hell. I’ll be discovered, then, like I’m the target, they’ll all start shooting me (I DidN’T KnoW iT wAs yOur bIRthDaY!) and the horrible once in a year sensation will beggin (I’ll be sure to use a kevlar). This sensation I cannot explain easily, my spidey senses identify them as a sickening hypocresy, because (I’ve learned to analyze people to well) many just feel the obligation to wish a Happy Birthday and when that person never had anything to do with you, it just feels wrong. (To me) That’s why I only wish a happy birthday to very few of the people I know. Because I’m sure they’ll feel it as a honest greeting. Another reason I hate my birthday is that I associate it with extreme boredom. I remember my kiddie parties, where the everyone would be bored out their minds. I hate that. And seeing as I’m not a party animal (Too bad my generation is) or fan of celebrating anything that doesn’t include some kind of honor for somebody (Libertadores deaths and battles for freedom for example). You know how my perfect birthday is? A day like another day. Nothing extraordinary happening. It’s just coincidentally that I happen to be a year older. Now, can we speak of something else?

Yes, somehow writer’s block is disappearing, I found myself able to write some 3 pages of story (That I liked) yesterday, and I have a good vision of what to write next. luckily I have some creative help. But I don’t have clue of where I’m getting my inspiration. I’m short of sources and that’s surprising. I’m recycling all my music, and I’m getting tired of it. I need some new albums. But my austerity somehow prevents me (While I forget that I can nearly get everything I want through torrents or lime wire....but then again I AM very picky...). I haven’t seen landscape but Bogotá for months, and human inspiration is always very very rare [but thankfully there is(clichéd sigh)]. Maybe it’s a writing maturing? Who knows… Maybe the only thing I’ve done is read. Yeah, I think that’s it (Eureka!) Now that I remember, I began reading a book my mother bought, “ The New Life” by Orhan Pamuk. The first chapter was awesome. The book hasn’t caught me yet, but it’s in the right road. Now everything is (horribly) clear, as a person who’s smarter than me one told me, to become a good writer, you just have to read. Read....that what makes me “weird”...I freakin’ love it. Then, hopefuly, I’ll be able to have money to buy some good books at this year’s fair. I’l need a shopping cart (yay). Have any books marked my life so far? One Hundred Years of Solitude. Hopefuly the best book I’ll ever have read. Now that I think it, few people deserve to read it....

Books fly in flocks. I see them in the sunset.

Sharkman, signing off.


PS: If any of you sick bastards dare wishing me Happy Birthday, I’ll freaking kill you.