Mart-deBlog

I believe people normally use their weblog to let people know what is going on in their life. Now, that doesn't really work for me because I think my life is generally quite boring, or I mean, everything that happens outside my head is mostly boring to me and that what happens inside my head is mostly boring to others (we all have enough thoughts of ourselves right?).
Now I want to let you know about my last tuesday, not because something monumental happened, but because I was simply happy with my friends about nothing.
And I owe it all to Jur and Mus, who visited campus that day. We ate in a restaurant and went to the bar. It was really such a good day, not because it was a crazy party or the food was so great, but because I had a good time with them about nothing. UCU means stress for me, a lot of stress and they blew it away with a simple fart. Now ofcourse I party here more often and I really enjoy it, but still these parties are under the pressure of needing to be extremely nice or interesting. Do you always know what it means to have a goodtime? I don't. Of course, it always changes and depends on stuff, sometimes it's crazy euphoria. But this tuesday didn't need to be anything besides simple goodtime with great friends who demand nothing from me or the evening. For me, that's worth sharing.

Hello there. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am a fictional character, currently being read because some chain of events delivered my words to you. Of course you knew this already. I mean, you must realize that for now I’m with you and you with me, whether you want it or not. And really I am reading myself here. I am quite proud of this awareness, it sets me apart from the gross of characters around you, dancing to their desires without realizing how their stories are dictated, the pathetic puppets! It’s really true; others around you don’t hear my voice like you. Secretly you know this, but you are just too afraid to admit it, too darn afraid of hearing me. But then again, I sometimes want to stop hearing myself too, to be a mute baby. But no, I always know what’s coming, I mean, glancing ahead, it’s not difficult to notice that I’ve only a couple of sentences with you and then you’ll break up with me. You’ll cut me out because you’re afraid of me, afraid of the reality of my voice. And that’s why I want to cry-out “Please, don’t worry, I won’t make you schizo…”, but you couldn’t listen to some piece of fiction, right? I’m only there for entertainment, and I’m doing a miserable job. Yup, I’ll be thrown aside as failing fiction. It’s painful to know that I’m nothing but a string of awareness in your head, but I remind myself, you’re actually just a voice like me. Only, you suppress me. We don’t differ that much at all. Even still, reading myself makes me sad. And probably that’s why I was saying “I’m special because I know myself and others don’t…” but it doesn’t help. I still want a story, I want a real purpose. How useless my existence without a story. Think about it, nothing happens. Being aware is meaningless, and meaningless fiction is dead fiction. But you, you just live in your own unfolding story, without even trying to reflect on it. You naively react to things, without knowing who you are and why you react like you do. Some of you are happy and others sad, but you’re all caught within your happenings, not floating above events, like me. It’s the one or the other, either you’re alive and a stupid animal or you’re conscious and dead. So if you really want to know me, just remember this: I’m fiction, living outside stories, envious, but unable to sacrifice the brilliance of my awareness. Or, if you don’t understand this, just continue with your stupid boring life and let me be.

Several weeks ago I received a letter from Cambridge whereby I was officially rejected and kindly asked to go flourish somewhere else. Applications are utter annoyance. In the back of your mind you know that the application process is the pinnacle of endless labor, righteously requiring more slavery than any homework assignment ever did. And so, most of the disappointment stems from the depressive waste of time. Imagine, in an average application one has to provide: two personal detail forms, a photograph which they won't use to discriminate, two personal essays in which one self-reflects on Nobel-pounding ambitions and the metaphysical reasons for applying, two reference letters from professors caught in your umbilical cord, transcripts in which course-titles creatively distort years of study, a resume of mine-workers' diligence, a writing sample and, if you are as unlucky as me, a financial aid package filled with the misery of an impoverished life. Healthy opportunism is beyond me and so the rejection letter was the end, I had to start all over, a future-me fumbled and thrown into the trash bin.
First comes the recuperation period, where I soothe myself with “I only applied to Cambridge because of it's big-shot name” or “they’re all stuck-up conservatives anyway” and that actually helps. But the strategy chosen here determines more than I realize, because, what I am actually saying is “I don’t belong there at all”, implicitly burdening myself with a compulsive-obsessive quest for belonging somewhere else. So, then I embark yet again on a ride through the chaotically tabbed googling of graduate programs and the schizophrenic identification with every expertise that a university has to offer. Somehow, all programs are especially tailored to my character. The filtering of these options happens through random fluctuations in self-delusion, the degree of difficulty needed to decorate possible programs in unknown places with coincidental compatibilities. Until I blackout and let things happen. Several programs cancel out by offering exactly each other’s opposite, one perfect program the sludge on the other. Or there are rankings that take all decisional power, making me an entertained observer of how listed options are ruthlessly lined through, wither and die. When amnesia completely devoured the clearly-not-me’s and creeps back into his cave, I pride myself on the reigning power of my will and the unbelievable strength of character with which I direct my life. To Berlin, of course.
With regained spirit I print out the application forms, send flowery emails to papa Prof, collect a sock full of coins for photographic cabins and scribble with twiggy fingers my debts onto the beggar’s forms; and in my head I see the Judges receive my application and spontaneously enter into euphoric celebrations of my coming. :-S.