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    Author Karma


    After a brief preface of coercion, I file a complaint in the hall of mirrors of my self, opening a new, neurodiverse Carpaccio Fadesse, between the floods and as a self-confessed bottom-up of the indomitable Brach.

    Today the aftertaste of the Urban Monk is canceled, the painful memory of untold months, as if my being were a female period.

    But it was still disgustingly complex to untangle myself from the rude Shibari dreams of this polyamorous Covid-Slut 19, to stand up to a social idiocy that obviously has fewer and bigger problems at the same time. I can calculate my new danger with a cynical smile but with personal responsibility.

    A little wiser. A little more wounded. More than ever before, the author. The describer of the cloacal coma in which human beings hope for a miracle.

    The last few kilometres proved to be difficult, mentally and physically, and emotionally. but the feeling Here, and in all artistic terms, autism is still denied. The psychological is attributed to the mind, the nervous system is no longer anatomically transfigured.

    Biochemistry condoled. Inner quantum roaring perceived as speculation until scientific discovery but without building castles out of it.

    Never trust a naked bus driver

    He/she usually takes you to strange places, maybe he drives you in a square circle. That may have happened to me, but I still have a few cat lives left in store, a dog life was never planned. And so I pull myself out of the tough one.

    One ghosting slut later, and a few interesting dates with the villainous something that turns out to be the leading potato republic, embedded in a European soon-to-be-able-you-too, even more in love with existence than ever before.

    I sympathize with the weird, but the lateral thinkers take away the joy of this metaphor, so I'd rather carry on talking snobbishly, a dandy of syllables in a world of purposeful banal fantasy.

    My Persian stung me a second time, now she can go back to her distant middle-class doctor's hypocrisy. If the receptionist tells you on your first visit that she would never do any preventive examinations or use the scales to check for excess weight, then you should think of the naked bus driver.

    And now I have to add an orthopedist and a dermatologist. I can only ponder in endless amazement that this is still a good health system and how threatening a bad one must be.

    Cancelled emigration and shifted focus to financial stability. Framing my language into silver coins, tagging my creativity under the skirt of an embarrassed sleeping car tortoise, if anyone recognizes me, I am excited to be looking for work for the first time in my life, you should try everything once before making a final judgement.

    Me and the potato entrepreneurs won't be easy, but where something slowly feels like the world again, like a purring, ejaculating planetary blasphemy, like a glimmer of hopeful kisses, those are business aspects, I think I can get along with them very well at a certain level. Wordiness and imagery frivolity are as rare as my significant others.

    Open mouth

    instead of smearing honey. Still a long way from momentum. But I'm back on track. I just don't want any options that go wrong and so I'm allowing myself to take off and do the best I can.

    This may sound like coaching, but you are constantly told “You can’t do that” or “That would be very difficult” “That’s great, BUT…”

    All this endless flight from the ordinary and its followers. Of course, one is quickly tempted to bring America back into the game, since Biden is bearable again, one is tempted to smash the Internet in the face of everyone over 40 who thinks like that. The fall of the Iron Curtain, the rise and future fall of a China in which more and more young people are implementing applied minimalism as resistance.

    Of course, it is nevertheless clear that this illusion of possible success should not be the goal of someone who, on other levels, is committed to the new, fresh and more important walkabout of a different, less bizarre future construction.

    Retiring from being a monk at the age of fifty ultimately means becoming a tribe, or am I being a bit self-cynical and stupid? But it was already set in motion before the pandemic and it was not for nothing that I learned to love my own concept again in the last moments of turmoil.

    So I sit there in the cool, humid air, growling over and over like acid that I'm a dreamer and prudery, but I find in the potato thinking and lives of my fellow citizens quite appealing hoaxes and bugs that could perhaps be turned into something good.

    Cultural funding, also at European level, social and regional redistribution of energy. And a lot of private, less shallow commitment.

    The Unreported, Beyond the Spotlight on One in 1000 Lielead!!!

    My own drunken existence, longing for the spotlight and fearing it at the same time. I preach water that I'm sick of, I'm almost a bit too stubborn, even though I present myself as so flexible.

    I'm starting the big design again, I'm throwing words and actions at the fairground stall jackpot. Sometimes my poorly cultivated self-love bleeds on me and it would all be just whistling in the wind.

    But she doesn't get away with that with me, because the nice, tasty appearance, the shiny startup is usually only a 5 percent chance of success, an office on the third floor with iMacs leased with other people's money, and by no means more sustainable than my REM phases. In that sense, I have been a start-up my entire life.

    We can also destroy the stone thrower with targeted stone throwing. However, it is questionable whether this can still reach the masses at this time. Greta gives us hope, as do the conclusive events regarding the climate or capitalist/despotic madness. But so far the countermovement has been too timid and not angry enough.

    And it has failed to act strategically like the system-maintaining reactionary elites. And far too little against them personally. The pandemic

    Burning glass

    man in black and red suit in water

    worked for me in every way. A bit lazy and distracted, I just couldn't muster enough motivation to do something in the virtual world where I'm at home anyway. For me, it's more exciting offline than adding a little bit of Zoom to my everyday life.

    I'm comfortable with it, I can feel, touch, touch and pamper bodies. I'm a spa of grounding for myself. The quirkiness that I like to indulge in and do in hat making is a Sufi trick. I'm serious all my life.

    However, there were always some vague reasons that prevented the actual realization. And I must say that even beyond Graz by the sea, narrow-mindedness beats me up from late until early in the morning. He was/is the master of never achieving anything big. I mean something different than before in terms of spotlights and success.

    After the Chiara fiasco, I had to brood for a while, to get things under control; I hadn't expected the pandemic to happen until the next decade. Now I am and feel worn out, defiant and lonely.

    Which brings us to the title of the post, because writing as the central function of my entropic ballet may be insatiably relentless, but mostly a begging for dopamine likes, whether in bookstores or on Instagram, is secondary.

    They are necessary add-ons for me and my damaged neurons. I find it all the more impressive how I have managed to sneak through this incarnation over the years, hardly more neurotic than Ally McBeal. Hardly sadder than Robin Williams. I have the situation better under control than Jim.

    And the more psychiatrists and psychologists from my own generation I get to know, the more scary I not only find their profession, but the more tenderly I embrace my past failures. And I question what all the peer groups, supervisions and all the leveling up do for you.

    So caution aside, curtain raises for a bit more horror show, I think with the Multipurpose Blog Network explained in another post and my resulting simple here and there and with this and that ambitions, everything is on a suspension bridge.

    The limitation to recognized art forms continues to weigh on my stomach, although it has recovered somewhat.

    How I, as a whole, defy the lovelessness of the stranded nomad and turn back to the fire of pleasure. Whether in a carefully guided Blog that I stand by with name and intoxication or in the desirable wonderlands of mystical Jungian flow.

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