After my Cosmos, after my microcosm.

So, here I go again. Foolish Gilles. After reluctantly posting some not-really-descriptive few points that I was supposed to stick to, or rather my pseudo cool plan to revolutionize myself,  I went to bed. Shamelessly and precipitately, I woke up the next day, with my mouse firmly gripped between my five long fingers, i hovered over the post and hit “delete”. This happened a few weeks ago.

Yesterday marked another nth step in this never-ending aimless journey towards nowhere/somewhere inside myself. Sinusoidal humor with occasional blah-blah-blah. The thing is, I deleted my other two blogs. Yes, the one on blogspot filled with my follies (and much more) that I will never dare penning down. Again. I printed a copy of it though. It is well placed under my numerous papers on my quasi 2 meter sofa. Adios to Plato’s cosmos, Hello to Heraclitus’s chaos.  Yes, and the other blog on wordpress, deleted. Misnomered to fool the gullibles and above all, myself. It was full of nonsense written by myself.  Its shallowness became unbearable. Put in another way, this is my only blog now, my only mirror, another outlet of the inner turmoil. Going nowhere.

And the inner pendulum continues its path, constantly swinging between euphoria and dysphoria while meandering through la fata morgana.

Rendez-vous au crépuscule. À coté du boulevard de la pseudo-vie, sur le chemin de la route d’une (autre) génération perdue. Ce chemin, long et tortueux, qui nous mène au centre de la boîte du néant où nos espérances chimériques et satisfactions insatisfaites convergent. Et les multiples questions existentielles du temps jadis se posent toujours. 

Full of existential questions, i’m now comfortably stuck in a closed loop created by the fool inside me. Avoiding any unnecessary waste of saliva, pulmonary gymnastics, the blah-blah-blah-omg-omg and most importantly any waste of time, i gladly keep my mouth shut. Talking less, making sure any possible interpersonal relationship is exclusively between me and the other-me i.e me. Now i just watch & pretend to listen. Silence answers everything. Hermetically sealed inside the exoskeleton that has matured through the dark ages of time. 

Enough quoting, enough namedropping. Assez, je dis assez ! This/my blog need one brand new post from the stupid me. These historians, poets, writers, artists;and above all, these admirable existentialists (whose names i won’t mention for my own not-really-defined reasons) seem to be equipped with mirrors through which i now constantly contemplate my own moronic and quasi-psychopathic reflection that is now replete with pseudo-realistic dreams that keep me standing here - I admit, right now i’m sitting on my chair (and not standing !) listening to Georges Moustaki (and not you !).  

Well, well; the melancholic and melomaniac dreamer, the lonesome vagabond - now gone schizoid - avoids all sorts of self-delusional hedonistic/epicurean kind of socializing… nay, pseudo-socializing. And though i may look like one unsocial misanthropic fool (which both you and i are convinced of, or rather that i try not to accept), i have an unbelievable amount of philanthropic genes, well encapsulated inside my ectomorphic body (which i often admire with all the humulity of the immaculate side of the other-me whose manifestation you rarely see but might witness someday), and numerous enough to gradually undermine your culturally biased philosophy of life deeply glued on the ocean of historical ignorance. 

Or ? Or maybe i should cross out all the above senseless, jejune and pathetic lines and start indulging myself into some of these bacchanal orgies. Yes, can i join ? Or ? Or another huge cup of FML ! Now, allow me stranger, time to go to bed.