Cassiopeium

1. Read books

2. Read more books

3. Améliorer mon français

4. Learn the guitar

5. Write for love, write for money, write for my vainglory.

6. Take more photos

7. Cook for those I love and those who love me.

8. Work out more

9. Letting things go.

10. Don’t give up what I want the most for what I want at the moment; Do what I have to do, even if just a means to an end

Dichotomize yourself into two extremes of your personality and initiate a conversation between the two, each speaking a different language. Then I couldn’t help but to wonder, maybe it’s the languages that split ourselves initially?

[One]

We drank all night, the liquor you’d brought from home long ago. Then we talked all morning, about all the absolutely loony things. For a moment we thought we’d be friends for life–No. even more, alter egos.
Yet When we looked into the mirror we saw but one lonely soul looking back horrified like a drowning shadow, its eyes void as the monochrome of this winter city.

[Two]

You glimpse at the empty beer bottles lying dispersedly on the ground like dead bodies, used condoms everywhere like shrunken balloons after a b-day orgy. Brownish liquid are spilled all over you can barely place your feet without stepping on it. And you don’t know whether it’s beer or somebody’s urine. The foul air in this room almost smells funny in a nauseous way. Someone’s left the weed pipe burning, the smog wreathing you gradually and completely. You brandish your hand in disgust, and your face reappears, but is soon lost again in the thick, hallucinating mist.

You turn your head left and right petulantly, then, as if having just discovered what a shithole of world you are in, begin sobbing quietly. On our right someone’s being treated a blow job, the moaning grew unbearable loud and you, just sitting there being whimpish and all, realize that that wasn’t enough. So you bury your head between your knees and burst out crying ferociously, like a lost child who’s finally realized he’ll never get home again. You’ve probably scared the pre-ejaculation out of that poor guy.

Stop it. You are not much of a tragic character.

Your crying muffles, you lift up your head, biting your lower lip hard, looking puzzled.

If you think is this about all the shit you’d have to gone through, all the frustrations, failures, indignities you’d have to suffer, all the sins, indulgences, recklessness you’ve committed. It’s about none of them.

Aghast, you stare into their eyes as if to transfix the soul.

Nor is it your indecisiveness, your cowardice, your lust, your sanctimony.

What then? What is it?

you are down on your knees, watching in great disbelief three grotesque humans fucking mechanically.

You’d known it all along but refused to admit. It’s your insecurity.

How ludicrous! You begin to gag violently, much pretense it seems.

[Three]

You confessed, “Today is the last day of the year, the afterglow casting sanguine shadows over the murky sky, as if a great fire is burning afar, and I’ve just witnessed a man die.”

You hear someone say, “So the virtue of life, the essence of existence, lies not in the glory of your victory, but the struggles you make so that you do not fall.”

“Look around, should you realized one day this is our raison d’être , our momento mori!”