Frustration like those nights of dinner with intolerable relatives. Intolerable because everything is an absolute bore. And that boredom seeps into one's core, not silent like black water but like those jackhammer on roads, vibrating till the very teeth and your bones chatter and jump to its rythmn. That's how I feel right now. Just an inexplicable boredom with Life. LIFE for god's sakes. I never feel frustrated with life. OR at least maybe I have not reached that stage in life when boredom like an inescapable blanket descends out of the sky and every single thing you touch turns to dust, to ashes. I am looking for a way out. Any escape, but all these are so feeble. It is like moving to another room when what you need is another universe. I have thought about suicide, not anything bloody, or vio.lent like swallowing a bullet coupled with a rich cranberry juice, but just a nice peaceful sleep and a flight away into my dreams to cease this mundane existence. Not that kind of suicide, just a murder of this grey grey reality.

This reality where the rest of the family is still at the table discussing a reality television show. Where I can hear the cheers of the audience ready to partake anything of a slice of fantasy a suspension of the real. They sound like canned laughter, those fake laughters on comedy shows to cue audience to :" Laugh. This is funny." The audience, their excitement and their gullibility gets on my nerve. Suddenly my space, my desperately needed isolation is betrayed, destroyed by a wandering Uncle. Flipping through his magazines and things while I am trying to get away from this horrible dimension. He is folding his pillow case for bloody sakes. I feel even more anger and black hatred for no reason other than the fact that the sanctity of my time and need to be alone is intruded upon. It is a sacriledge. I am afraid of the next sentence which is trying to force its way into my consciousness. Try to bubble its way out of there, this swell of poisonous emotion, it is as if hate for the first time is given a shape, a sound, a word. how do you hate for no reason, why is there this rebellious instinct to bite the hand that feeds. Because the dog has an urge to attack and a stinky hand appears? Is it then the dog's fault?

THis dull chain hangs heavy, and my need for inspiration, for the beautiful and the natural and the meaningful all these seem to be too light and high up there. Floating, floating in the bright blue sky with those magical sun beams and the rainbows. While here I am tied and anchor to this tiny space, too small for the inhabitants, for our physical reality, our psychical necessities and our imagination and dream. I want to fly away on a balloon, feel that our existences are unbearbly light and airy. While here I am grounded and feel myself becoming fossil, turning into stone. My immovability scares me. I want to shatter myself that all my dust pieces can disintegrate and flitter off when the next wind blows, scattering me far and wide. Away, anywhere but here. Anytime but now. I want to break myself to free myself. I want to cry to scream to laugh but there is nothing here to cry about. I have no reason to feel sad, no reason to feel mad no reason to feel anything. I am fed, clothed, sleep well, but where are my dreams. Those magical moments when I hear a whispering voice, a mystical song, and an unbelievable beauty. When I see truth. Now all I see is what is.

Superman cannot be real, because if he is he would have flown away long ago. The 'real' world is intolerable especially when you have seen so much more. No one needs him anyway. We don't need people with special powers, just enough slice of reality placed on television for us to bitch about. Another advertisement to convince us we are powerful and more myths about our ladder up evolutionary charts. Our dominion over animals. I would rather be an animal, nothing is boring, beautiful, things are the way they are nothing more nothing less. Now-a-days these thoughts become depressive. A flower calendar in its bright artificial colours make me want to cry. Hearing music makes me feel as if they have all been synthesized. And that longing to return to where I came from is ever so strong.

Nature has become inacessible. "From dust were ye made and dust ye shall return." I long for that existence. If all of this world is of a similar consciousness, I wish a huge star rain would cleanse everything that is conscious. I want to believe that the rock has life, but I see those huge billboards and I think if those have a life too, I would much rather not exist alongside it. Suddenly nature is a category, and I have, even before I was born, been excluded from it, classified as distinct from it. I try to look for the way back but things have already irrepairably shifted. There is a gulf and to jump, to jump would only be a dream. If only god would speak to me. But now he only talks through words, speeches, images on screen and songs written by man. Everything is man-made, even his words. I want to hear that grass swish, those leaves rustle, the sea scream through rocks, but my ears have evolved, to take in too much words people tell you, songs pop singers pour down our ears, products we believe will buy us happiness. I wish I knew what happiness was. I raise my hands and try to touch my God, but all I am touching is just air. I look across that irrepairable gulf and see him there trying to get back to me. I try to feel. A tear.