Psychological addiction - another way to say ''habit''.

'' ... the drug causes psychological addiction.'' When you read this, rest assured, that the drug is not more addictive than, say, alcohol or caffeine, or, it might be even less than those.

It is absolutely unfair, in my opinion, that just because some prick decided to make marijuana, LSD and other drugs illegal, I am forced to refrain from their usage. Whose body is this, mine or theirs? The question is for you to answer. When you succumb to law and authorities, it is their body, they own you. However, when you decide to do whatever you want to do, regardless of what anyone else thinks, you own yourself, and your body.
The only reason why they have laws that forbid usage of marijuana, LSD, psilocybins and other drugs, is because the authorities feel like they own you. They can make ridiculous rules, spread misinformation, and get away with it.

The so-called magic mushrooms, as far as I know, are less harmful than Aspirine, yet, they are illegal. They could form a habit, if you enjoy the sensations they bring, but in that sense, it's quite the same with any activity that you enjoy and it becomes a habit, however, they do not cause a physical addiction (unlike caffeine).
Same applies to other drugs, but, hell, even if the substance does cause addiction, it should be my fucking problem, not anyone elses.
People should be able to choose what they do with their body. But it won't happen, for as long as you don't let the authorities know that they don't own you. However, in most cases, the word ''don't'' doesn't apply, since authorities do own most of the people, and those people breed, creating more people that are owned by the system.

You think you are free? Think again!

Shoplifting.

One day, when I was reading an anti-shoplifting brochure that just pissed me off. I will present several quotes from the brochure and explain, why exactly they pissed me off. (This one has some of the arguments I cover: http://www.troopers.state.ny.us/crime_prevention/Juvenile_Crime/Shoplifting/)

"When you see someone shoplifting, stop them! They are really stealing from you."

Bull-fucking-shit! Stealing from you would mean illegally taking property that belongs to you. If the products in the store would belong to you, there would be no need to pay for them and people would be enabled to just take them. This part of the argument is absolutely illogical, no matter how you look at it. Property of the retailer is not your property.
Not to mention, as far as I'm informed, more shrinkage (shrinkage: profit that is lost due to theft, product being damaged or running out of date) is caused by the employees than the actual shoppers, and, in most cases with the stores, it makes sense to me. Security knows all of the camera locations and, thus, can find blind spots better than anyone else and steal things themselves. Employees can carry items out of the store through the back door, conceal them on theirselves or use other tactics. Shoplifters, well, they, usually, don't have as much information about the store as the employees.
How much do you think an average retail corporation with a wide network of shops earn, even despites the shrinkage? How do you think, the big corporations can afford various advertisements (TV, mail adverts, road-side adverts and so on), when advertisements are, in general, quite expensive? How do you think that, when a shop has a sale, they still get some profit from the item sold? Why do you think they are able to have ''sales'' on holiday seasons (when, in reality, it happens so that the price of the item is bloated above usual just before the holidays, and that ''discount'' is actually the original price they had when there was no holiday season)? The retailers are fucking you, psychologically, and you are absolutely okay with that, because it is convenient, when you can go to a shop and get various stuff at the same spot without having to visit different shops as you would have to do, say, in a market.

"Shoplifting raises prices for customes."

Invalid, shoplifting does not raise prices, at least, not directly. When retailers find out they have too much shrinkage (which, as I explained, is not caused by shoplifting exclusively), they decide to bloat the prices even more than before. Most shoplifters, in fact, are never caught, and stores (the big ones, at the least) do not have an exact statistic of how much items they have lost to theft. Retailers are the one that raise prices, not the shoplifters (not to mention that certain people shoplift due to the reason that prices are already way too high).
I have read both that certain retailers have insurance against theft, some have included the potential shrinkage that normally occurs into the prices of the products they sell already, but I do not have verified information on this (and I would, propably, not believe a retailer, unless proof presented).

"Shoplifting is getting something for nothing."

False. Shoplifting is getting something without paying for it with money. It is not, however, getting something for nothing, else, we could as well as claim that casino's are selling nothing for money and lottery tickets are expensive bits of paper and nothing more. I will get deeper into this matter later.
Shoplifting requires effort, skill, willingness to risk, and sometimes chance. If you haven't shoplifted, you will propably not understand that there is effort required and the stress that you obtain when you shoplift, and that, in my opinion, is the price the shoplifter pays. A shoplifter uses his or her skills to get the item desired, an analogy of pretty much every other job. I do not claim that shoplifting is necessary a job, however, it does require effort.
As for casino's (and the lottery tickets), what they are offering is a chance, or, to be more precise, a chance of winning. When you shoplift, you have a chance of getting caught (greatly depending on your technique, environment, skill, preparation and other factors, but it is, still, a chance). Therefore, if shoplifting is getting something for nothing, lottery is selling nothing. Seems illogical, now, doesn't it?

Why people shoplift?

It is highly dependent on the individual, but it could be summed up into saying that the persons needs (or desires) are not being met. Those could be finansial (poverty), emotional (applies to mentally guided shoplifters that shoplift for the psychological effect, rather than the item itself) and others.
I shoplift, because I consider myself impoverished (after spending a summer on mostly rice, eggs and untasty sausages, I decided I do not want to repear that experience). I do not see why I should not meet my desires while others are. Another thing worth mentioning is that I disagree with the law and the authorities. I have myself to take care of, and that alone is enough justification for me to do just about anything.

Nobody gets out alive.

I really need to learn to enjoy my solitude more than I am at this moment, need to learn to enjoy my own presence before others'.
Nobody. Nobody gets out alive, life leaves no survivors.
At least I came to realise few things today.

I hate what people turned this world into. A huge fucking shopping mall.

Land of the powerful, suffering of the weak and the death of everyone.

I wish I had the guts to slit my throat open.

At least.

I had no idea how much time I have been in the freezer, but my limbs were starting to get numb. I was shaking, clutched like a ball, so's to keep as much of body heat as I could.
"They're gonna find me, they will let me out. They will save me and I will have a warm cup of tea," I kept telling myself. I lied to myself, because that was the only way I could endure the cold. There were no ''they''. I tried imagining what's it going to be like when I get out, to feel all that warmth. The cold was stinging my lungs. I needed to breathe slower. Calmer. I needed to remain calm. "Everything is going to be alright,'' I lied.
The freezer was full of, well, frozen meat. Meat hanging on hooks, just like you would normally imagine a meat freezer. And I was just another piece of meat, placed in the freezer, waiting, to be hung on one of those hooks. I had no idea how I got in here, but I so wanted to get out.
''It's been less than an hour I've spent here, that is certain,'' I thought, ''after all, I am not shivering all that much. But what if the door never opens? What if I am to freeze here, on the spot? I don't want to die like this. Not like this. What was it called? Hype . . . no. Hyp-, hypo-, ah, hypothermia. Hypo-low, thermia-themperature, of course.'' For some reason, the fact that I remembered the word for that condition amused me, but just for a second, until I really started to think about it.
Hypothermia wasn't the idea I had in my mind, when I used to think of death. Hypothermia, death from freezing, a condition in which the core temperature drops below the normal requirement for metabolism and body functions.
As moments passed, with each shiver my eyes were racing across this small icy chamber. I knew, that if that door is not opened, it is only a matter of time before life dissipates from my body, leaving but an empty vessel of what others were used to perceiving as me. Of course, as time went on, it was becoming increasingly difficult to conjure up words in my head, and I retracted, more and more, into non verbal thinking. Not because it was beneficial, but rather for the reason of me being unable to keep my rationalization skills at their sharpest.
By the moment I had a thought of getting up once more, to bang on the door, to scream for help, to move, just to move, cause I foolishly thought it would somehow help me in this predicament, I found myself unable to do that. I was unable to get up, and, by this moment, I started to panic. As much as I tried to shout for help, all I could get from the top of my lungs were sounds that sounded more like an agressive wounded animal that was shouting just for the sake of being heard. The animalistic shrieks that I threw at the door in front of me just bounced against it, the walls, the meat carcasses, and went back to me.
I didn't realize it was pointless. When you're at the verge of death, you panic. Your survival instinct kicks in, telling you to do anything you are able to do, just to survive. The problem with hypothermia is that, once it reaches certain level, you are unable of thinking clear, hell, you start forgetting the simplest things. I couldn't even recall what a dog looked like. Not that I tried to, or that it mattered, but, I couldn't remember such a simple thing.
I tried to look up at the carcasses, but all I was able to see were blots of color. A dab of crimson there. A mixture of yellow ochre and a tiny bit of red here. Some bluish gray on the door. I couldn't tell apart the shapes, everything was a single shape, an entity. Every color touched the other color in a rather intimate fashion. Of course, I did not understand, what was going on. Shivering was pausing, at moments. I couldn't tell apart what it was like to shiver and not to shiver.
Curled up in a foetal position, I was just laying there, shivering had stopped. I kept watching the intimate dance of the color bits. They were my last entertainment, before my vision got too blurred, and, ultimately, I stopped seeing altogether.
Pale skin, pupils dilated, reduced breathing and heart rate. This stage is called hybernation. You appear to be dead, frozen to death, though, in fact, you are not. As far as I am concerned, after this point is reached, there is no salvation. Albeit I did not realize it, the little bit of my rationality knew that I am going to die. First, the heart stops, but it actually takes quite a while for the brain to join it. Maybe not a while in the living sense of time, the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, but, when you reach this state, perception of time is almost nonexistent.
Heart gives in first. If I was able to, I'd laugh at all the romantics, that say that they live by their heart and that ''love is all you need, as long as you have a heart'' to survive. I'd laugh not because I found it funny, but, rather because I found it so unbelievably and ironically stupid. And then, those few, propably very tiny moments later after my heart stopped, I ceased to exist.
My body was all that was left of me. This vessel that so many thought was me. This body, that had curled up into a foetal position, this pale blue skinned thing that, in a way, used to be me. It would be found the next day by some worker in this slaughterhouse.
Investigation would prove that some nutcase had decided to extend the list of its victims, by adding me to it. That person gained pleasure of knowing that others died in such a manner. They never found the person that had drugged me and left me there to die, but all that did not matter anymore, not to me, at least.
There would be people at my funeral, crying. There would be people praying, and there would be children, that were unable to understand what's the big deal all about, until their parents explained that their relative has gone away and is never going to return. At least, by the time they buried me, I had thawed.

Pirmais ieraksts latviski.

Es ilgu laiku nebiju jutis asmens silto pieskārienu. Tas glāsta, kā neviens cits. Tas nekad neatsaka. Viss, ko tas prasa pretī, ir laisties dziļāk.
Dažreiz, nav neviena, kurš saprastu. Diemžēl, dažreiz tas ir vienmēr. Vārdi, atsevišķos gadījumos, nespēj paust attiecīgo domu, šis varētu būt viens no tiem.
Es šo rakstu ne gluži Tev, drīzāk sev, taču nolemju to uzkraut Tev, kaut arī zinu, ka Tev ir lielā mērā vienalga. Tas nekas, es saprotu. Taču, kaut kas nav kārtībā. Vienkārši nav. Es nepatīku sev, pat ienīstu, varētu teikt. Varbūt tādēļ, ka esmu cilvēks, varbūt tādēļ, ka es neesmu apmierināts, nezinu, taču, vai tam ir kaut mazākā nozīme? Mana nozīme zūd brīdī, kad mans pulss nokrīt līdz nullei, elpošana tiek apstādināta un pēdējās dzīves pazīmes pamet ķermeni. Tajā brīdī, viss, kas no manis ir palicis, ir šī tukšā čaula - ķermenis. Ķermenis, kurš vairs nekad nekustēsies, nejutīs, nemurgos, necietīs. Ķermenis, tik vien, ne vairāk, ne mazāk. Protams, tieši tāpat būs ar Tevi, tas ir neizbēgami. Mēs visi trūdēsim, kļūsim par augsni, pāri kurai soļus spers laimīgie un ne tik laimīgie. Un nekam tā īsti nav nozīmes. Ne tam, ko Tu esi domājis, teicis, rakstījis, zīmējis, attēlojis, darījis, nekam. Pat tam, ka tas ir nozīmīgs citiem Tev līdzīgajiem dzīvniekiem, nav nozīmes. Tie, gluži kā Tu, mirs, trūdēs. Dzīve liekas tik sekla, ka dažbrīd rodas vēlme no tās šķirties, taču, citos brīžos, esmu tik truls, ka spēju izbaudīt to, kā ir klāta krāsa uz ēdnīcas sienas. Dzīve ir kuce, ar kuru mani izprecināja, man neprasot, vai to vēlos. Manai mātei vajadzēja veikt abortu.

Sleepy eyes, intoxicated.

There is something wrong with me. At least, it seems that there is. Might just bemy imagination, though.
Either I'm losing myself, or just starting to realise who I am, I'm not sure, really. What does it matter, anyway? Well, okay, it dies does.

-

I throw your care out through the window.
Watch it fly away!
As it crashes on the pavement,
It's the world that'll chuckle.

Problem of modern art.

Painters of the previous ages had a rather difficult challenge. Since paint was never pre-made, they had to either make it themselves, or order it. The costs of some pigments were rather high. For example, blue pigments were even more expensive than gold, due to the the fact that the pigment used in ultramarine blue could only be obtained from a semi-precious stone. In the modern day, we don't have that problem anymore. We have synthetic pigments that have replaced the natural ones, and thus, modern day painters have access to any desired pigment, and it is a lot cheaper than it was centuries ago, however, modern day painters face a challenge somewhat different.
For a painter to be exceptionally good and recognized, the painter has to have a distinctive style, theme, or ability to transfer into image things that other painters are unable to transfer. Since there are a lot of existing techniques, coming up with a new technique can be rather tricky, as well as the theme. How many paintings of flowers, landscapes, buildings and people (and other animals) have you seen in your life? I can say that I've seen a whole damn lot. Maybe the problem is that there are not that many things in life that pose interest to human beings? The most difficult task, in my opinion to this moment, would be painting an emotion without any depictions of human form or suggestions of the emotion that is to be portrayed, yet, achieving the goal of the painting being able to give the spectator the feeling that is portrayed. Try painting anxiety, without using human shape. I find it as a rather difficult task, especially, if the painting must achieve the same effect on the spectator.

And it's not just about painting, same applies to any art media. Music, sculptures, and so on. Multi-media arts, like film are, of course, a counterattack to those, but, in almost every movie it's about people, emotions, relationships and their problems. People are self-centered assholes, we cannot come up with anything of interest other than our own kind. Lame, if you ask me.

Like I said, artists of the modern day face a rather difficult challenge, since, coming up with something new is extraordinarily difficult. I can only feel sorry for the ones that will live centuries from now on, because they will have us as their concurence.

And how are you today?

The feeling of rusty nails in my skin is calling for me to respond with an accurate answer to a question that is yet to be asked. It is safe to reveal that I do not hold the answer. I might have the idea of the key, but not the key itself. Chances are that the key never existed at all. The lock is there, present, but the key . . .
Breathe! Remember to breathe! It's all repetitive. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale.
With the air that you breathe your lungs fill up with all the wretchedness of the world you're trying to inhale. You become the world. With every single breath, you are one step closer, to being the world. This rotten piece of an existence mimicking. When you exhale, you only lose yourself even more. It's best to die young if you want to die as yourself, because, as you get older, when you die, the world dies.
Sugar caramel is never to be enjoyed without a good dose of acidic liquids to wash it all down your gastrointestinal system. Remember to keep your household chemicals at ready to be consumed any moment, should you desire to have yourself a treat!

''How are you today?''
- ''Nonexistent.''

If only . . .

The feeble attempts of human mind to comprehend what is to never be. To lose last tiny drop of humanity and forget one has ever been such an abominable mammal type. I wish to lose myself. Wish to lose the man in me, the human inside me. I should not be this humanoid, this thing. I am an animal, after all.
My nonexistent presence of a feeble mind that should not be. I should be gone. Forever. Never here, forever away, no matter how long forever really is.
I could be a beetle, I could be the wind that plays in your hair whilst  you are watching the sunset at a beach, I could be the fire that has scorched someone's house and left the person homeless, I could be the ground that feels the first footsteps of a tiny newborn, anything but this. Anything.

Away from the people. Away. It would be nice not being human, for then you do not have to go through both the bliss and damnation of being such a creature. Creature. It describes me better than anything else, I think. Better.
Rotting away in here. Feeling the worm of existence feast on my very being. It feasts, and I keep feeding it, but it is insatiable, it will never stop. Never stop.
Spots in my mind never leave, they only sometimes decide to depart, but they are present. I know. They are there.
Repetition. Again. And again. And again. All over and over again.

Trivialism #1

Today I was waking up a lot. My mouth was dry with every time I opened my eyes and I had that unpleasant taste that I usually have when I have a sore throat. Each time I went to drink some water and went back, and woke up after about an hour or two, sometimes to find that my actions have transferred from my dreams to my real life.
In my dream, I was holding a mobile phone, and, well, when I woke up, I had held up my hand to my ear. However, I decided not to try to get up after all those sleep breaks and sleep until some time, and here I am now. It is 11:41.
The climate in the flat is rather cool, so it's not too pleasant, but I do have some pleasant music playing.
Shoulda propably get some tea . . .

The girl was an angel.

There was once a girl. A beautiful girl. The proportions of her body and face were next to perfect. Her smile could leave anyone dazed and anyone who really looked into her face wanted to examine every line and shadow on it. Every single strand of her hair played with the wind, giving the viewer reflections of the colour. But the girl didn't know she was beautiful.
When the girl was just a small child, she used to play in the sandbox that was in the playground. A teenage boy was often coming to the playground and read a book, while sitting on the swings. The girl never knew what the boy was reading, but she noticed that the boy rarely looked happy, apart from the few seconds when he was laughing at something he had read, but even then it seemed more as if the boys laugh hurt him, rather than making him feel good.
One day, when the boy left the playground, he had dropped a small piece of paper by accident. The girl noticed it long after the boy had already left, and she picked it up, in hopes of giving it back to the boy, so, maybe he wouldn't be so said. On the paper, there was something written by hand, and the girl read it.
- ''Are you an angel?''
- ''Why do you ask?''
- ''Because you are fucking ugly.''

When the girl came home, her mommy said to her: ''How are you, my little angel?'' The girl looked confused and as if she was about to cry. ''Mommy,'' the girl asked almost crying, ''am I an angel?'' Mommy, thinking that her girl is the best girl in the world, said: ''Of course you are, sweetheart.'' Mommy smiled. The girl never looked into a mirror again. She hated them. She never took any pictures of herself. The girl was an angel.