Millow

Hallways
I see
Always
Icy

I told myself: I can write something like this, can't I? So I started to play with words.

Pillow. Willow. Another one? Mellow? Oh, fuck that. That doesn't even rhyme.

Millow. That doesn't exist, but you know what? It exists for me. I've come to the conclusion that it's either doesn't exist and you are afraid to create it, or it doesn't exist so you create it.
Sheesh, I'm already giving myself away. Reaching the conclusion within ~10 lines.
But let's make my statement also the hypothesis of the post. My professors tend to complain about the lack of analysis in my texts, so this should be a proper moment and place to see whether I truly lack the analytical approach.

Open rooms
Contra-zooms

Orange booms. Crescent moons. Another one? I don't have any, already weakening my hypothesis. It seems that things I create have questionable life expectancy and durability at best. It's a never-ending struggle against entropy, which seems to rule not only the basic laws of all living things but fundamentally everything, starting from my room. These days I'm having almost no rest, I caught flu, so anytime I enter my room I just throw things on the ground. All these scattered belongings started to from a neat little island, which bothered me in the first place, but now I'm growing fond of it day by day. It's as if The Enemy, the vile and treacherous Entropy itself decided to create something.

Pictures may
Faces may
Fade away
Fade away

Words may. Promises may.... Another one? Future may? Can the future fade away? We associate the term fading with past things. The phenomenon of time makes us perceive it as a passing thing. Future does fade away, though. See, the things I create fade away: due to various reasons, most of my personal belongings won't exist in a couple of centuries. Most of the information I create are simply going to be erased by the grandiose and impenetrable mechanism of time. And eventually, I'll fade away as well. One day, I'll stop to exist, some people will definitely bury me, then they will die as well, and their grave diggers will die as well. But I suppose I don't have to introduce my readers to the act of passing.

Brothers then 
Get close to them
Step outside
Gunmetal sky
Peel away

That doesn't even follow the previous pattern, guys. I won't do anything with it, sorry.
Peel away! What a catchy phrase, though. I've written a post not long ago where I drew some semblance between Achilles and myself. As Homer told, he chose eternal greatness and a short life instead of dying at an old age but in complete obscurity. Does greatness stand the test of time? Does fame stand it? Is there anything in our known world that could practically withstand the grinding wheels of entropy?

Nope.

The reality is as follows: it doesn't matter if we create something or not, because it's either our own idleness or entropy destroying it. We possess the ability to motivate people on a local or a global scale; we are able to compete with entropy and some of us seem to cheat the irreversible process of it; but then again, each and every one of us will fail. We already have arguments on things happening just a few thousands of years ago- why would anyone from the next millenia think that Alexander the Great was a real person? Or, that Péter Lévay had a blog, for that matter. Things we create are destinned to effloresce and then eventually meet their demise.

Children play
Fade away
Where's the scars
Fade away
Fade away

One last thing, though. If we keep in our heads that all we do is predestinned to end, and yet we still persist, we continue creating, we keep fighting that pointless battle, we might even discover things that our normally indolent behavior would prevent from seeing.

And that is...

Entropy is the frame of our lives. The place, this marvellous universe we were born into is all within the monolithic framework of entropy. This is where we are expected to act. This is were we are expected to create. We don't have to change anything in the framework, and if we comply that and stop trying to bend the rules to our will, then, but only then we will see that creation, with all its sweat, doubt and tears is the only, only true joy we can ever experience through our lives.

Fallacy

What's the difference?
When you smoke and you don't, when you speak or you don't; when you love and when you don't. Once, you are that smoker, silent introvert, and the other day you prefer air, telling stories and loving the shit out of people.
What's the difference?

I suppose it's all in your head. The fallacy of relying upon people's opinion is the most treacherous deceptions you could face. You stretch your arms and legs, your mind and everything, hoping that you could reach the treasure, the pot of gold or call it as you like. You try; and you fail. Because they will say you can't. You won't. You aren't able to. You ridicule yourself. Your talents are being wasted. Your years are being wasted. You clinch a lot but hold little. You act like you do a lot but you do little.

Yeah, people feed on your uncertainty. You long forgot that they judge because they are unsure about themselves. Why would you remember this most simple yet very hideous fallacy? Why, if, it questions the sole purpose of your existence?

It's a war on your existence, remember that. It's an everlasting battle. A clash which assumes from the very beginning that you'd endure for long but eventually meet your expected and pitiful demise. The kind of battle that is destinned from its origo to fail.

It's a massacre. It's a massacre because you dive into it, telling yourself that there is a challenge lurking below the amassing sea of opinions. The waves of fallacy, again. The battle can't be won, but you can't recognize your direction; you keep on fighting as the waves hit you. You actually hit back, you hit strong and some waves fall; but it's an infinite ocean you are facing, the type Solaris depicted. A thinking, wise and almighty ocean.

Ridiculously enough, nobody asked you to fight. Nobody demanded you to initiate what is a predestinned but procstrinated death of your very character. Nope. There is option B. The option that you could actually stay on the land. That, even if the ocean has the real power, the land keeps you high. And dry. Sure, it's always nice to swim a little in this ocean. But to fight it? Who the fuck told you to do that? Who suggested you this idiocy?

Yeah, the ocean lured you in. You sorry, little person.

I'm now in shallow water, guys. Laying in the sand, on my face. It's like fighting a war against the ocean of opinions, but ridiculing myself for not even trying hard enough to accept a challenge. But it's fine. From my perspective, I'm fighting the same battle I've just explained.

But now both the ocean and the land laugh at me.

Black and White

People are bored of black and white things. They want shit to be colorful. They want shit to be complicated. Well, here is the thing: people, you are all wrong.
Look, I understand your need for complicated things.  You always want something chiselled, that is your very nature; and that is cool for me. But don't you dare to make me follow you, don't you dare to make me adopt your wicked creed.
I could go to lengthy explanations and make you see what I mean, but instead of bathing in the shallow waters of the black and white philosophy, I present you an example that is simple yet amusing.

Skin. White skin used to represent the aristocracy a couple of decades before. Fair skin is not cool these days anymore: women (and even men) roast themselves until they resemble a gigantic, walking orange. Fair skin is the sign of malnourishment, lack of iron in our blood or just simply lack of sunshine. It stopped being cool.
Clothing. Black clothes are widely considered to be depressing if combined. Folks will think you are either in your teenages and follow some obscure death metal group/ sect or just simply lack the basic need for wearing feasible clothes. It was -let's admit- never cool.

And yet here you stand.
Ivory skin and ebony clothes. The perfect combination. Not a malnourished death metal fanatic, nor a tasteless night receptionist.
Nope.
The dazzling beauty of two of the simplest colors.

Take the colorful shit, people! Complicate your things. Raise your standards to skies. Make it impossible for anyone to reach. Create an ideal image of your preference that is unavailable here on Earth and even god himself would laugh at the mere idea of it.
Go on, people. Raise demands and expectations. Dream of the colors. Dream that you find the bottom of the rainbow. That you find the pot of gold.

I am completely cool with black and white.

Yeah. I am completely complete with black and white.

Anthem

Afterlife. The promise of paradise. Fuck it, who needs paradise. Just afterlife. The word tells you everything. When you die, you do not actually die. You continue existing. You had so much fun that it has to become everlasting. Right?
Your carcass will be left on Earth; your soul, conveniently shaped just the way you looked liked during your life, will float to the eternal lands of Afterlife.

I am not describing any religious, whimsical archetype of heaven or paradise. I am proud enough to create my own little afterlife scenario. To demonstrate how admittance works, I present you a generic conversation. The protagonist walks up to a shiny, golden gate with a woman on guard; this woman should be the protagonist's mundane love.

I. Entrance

- Heaven seems prettier with you.
- Oh, shut up Abel.
- So what's the catch? I'm confessing my sins and you let me enter heaven?
- Right on the spot, as always. Well, if you want to enter, you gotta bend me over and take me from behind as you never did before.
- Ha! That doesn't sound appropriate, though I'm getting a sluggish boner here...
- So what are you waiting for? Take me and enter!
- No, wait a sec' hon'. This is a test. I knew it! Shit, you are the devil himself...
- Abel, your sexual need is encrypted in your DNA. Devil isn't. Heaven isn't.
- And yet I'm here at the gates of heaven.
- Well, I wouldn't say it's heaven...
-  But I died. This is some kind of afterlife, and...
- Abel! These clouds floating around would never fuck me. Please, don't let me hanging here.
- I'm a bit disappointed with this afterlife thing. It's not like I don't appreciate the idea of having sex with you in order to enter, but still...
- So what the hell you expected? Saint Peter evaluating your life? Fanfares and angels accompanying on your way to heaven? Meeting your beloved ones? Chatting with Einstein about relativity? Bullshit! You just make that up down there. That life is nothing more than reproducing your species.
- Why on earth I would like entering heaven then? What's in for me?
- Actually, there is no option. You don't even have to fuck me... I'm just a little bored here. I have to let you in anyhow.
- Let me in, then.
- There you go.
- Oh! And what will I find?
- The transfer.
- The what?
- The transfer. Your performance will be evaluated, then you will receive a grade, and according to your total production, they send you back.
- What the hell? Did the Wachowski brothers write this shit? And what performance?
- Your performance regarding reproduction. I'm not familiar with your score, but I heard you weren't doing great...
- What the fuck is that suppose to mean?
- Well, you had no children, you slept with several women but failed to impregnate any. Probably you will be dropped somewhere in Europe. You know, ageing society and all...
- Okay just let me pass.

II. Transfer

Abel arrives at the transfer. His father welcomes him with a jolly smile.

- Father?
- Abel! You son of a bitch, you die and our lineage dries up as a puddle of semen on the carpet!
- I guess I wasn't expecting that, father...
- The hell cares, you whiny bastard! Now, you heard how it goes.
- What?
- The transfer.
- Oh, she told me something but...
- She knows it well enough. I'll pick you a country and a family. I hope you won't disappoint them!
- To hell with all this, father! I just died and you are sending me back to Earth just to reproduce?
- Right as you say.
- This is insane.
- Not being able to impregnate anyone is insane! When I got here I was transferred to fuckin' China! You know why? Birth control! They found out that I reproduced myself too frequently. So they barred me the next time by sending me to China! Ha, idiots! The next time I was here, they registered me as a unique predicament!
- That is downright wicked. Father, if life's sole meaning is to reproduce your genome, I would very much prefer to stay here and listen to your mighty saga on inseminating every country around the globe.
- Son, stop being a pussy. Life's sole meaning is indeed to reproduce your genom. But luckily our brains have evolved a lot, making us capable for doing a little tinkering between two intercourses. Science, arts, religion, politics, sports, some prefer fighting in wars; you are spoilt for choice when it comes to filling up your free time. Just keep in mind what your initial goal is.
- So where is the end of the cycle?
- Until our free time activities exterminate our species.
- And how will I remember my goal?
- You won't. Your memory is erased. You'll start over. Format C, if you know what I mean.
- Father... I'm disappointed.
- Oh quit griping, you miserable ass! You've always taken shit too serious. Okay, let's see where they send you...
- They? Who are they? Are they any similar to some deities?
- No time to explain that son. Your ticket has arrived.
- What does it say?
- I can't tell you that. Now, close your eyes and start spinning around...
- Really?
- Nope, I was joking. Stay put. I'll touch your forehead, and then everything will reset.

III. Arrival

Hospital corridor, young man is sitting on a fridge-like object. Nurse rushes out.
- Young man! You are a father now! He was born just a few minutes before!
- And my wife?
- She struggled a lot, but feels fine. Want to see them?
He wants, surely. He never knew how it will feel like. He rushes in the hospital room, his wife sleeping, and a tiny little package, neatly covered with blanket next to her.
- There you are!
- Sir? Sorry to bother... but what would be his name?
- The same as his father. The same as his father...

Purple haze

I don't know if it happened during daylight.
I don't even know which day it was.
It was just the moment that mattered. It was the haze of now that wove its loose yet impenetrable web around the two of us, even though dozens were in the very same room. It did not matter. It was the intagible entanglement of two; the undisputed beauty of a couple that would meet the first time.
That was me and you, with the web around, and the promise of intangible turning into tangible.

What a fucking failure.
Oh, I got no fancy words for that. You can't say it was solely a failure. You got to make it more vulgar. People don't care about failures; they only care about fucked up failures. And hell, we excelled in that!
Eventually there was something we excelled in.
Oh yeah, baby. We did. I'd love to blame only you, though. Yet, we did it. Oh, your name? You are saying I can't remember your name? That might be true, actually. I gave you names all the time, that was fun. But I can't recall your name. Were you one person? When did it happen? My first year in Eger? Second? Third? Has it happened every single damned year? It might be the case.
How pitiful.

Dear Reader! Don't blame me. As a sentimental creature, I do enjoy the seductive, elusive phenomena of the purple haze. And I'm surrendering for it over and over. Do you remember the story of Achilles? Upon his birth her mother, Tethis dipped the baby into river Styx which flows through the domain of the dead, granting his child invincibility. Well, she did forget to dip his son twice, thus his ankles were easily exposed to harm and which, eventually caused the hero's fall. Using a clumsy comparison, my mother (aka. Anna) dipped me into the unknown river of self pity, made me bath within the waves of frailty, threw me down the foams of insecurity, and then dried me above the geyser of tenacity. Big difference is, my mom didn't forget to exclude any body part while these moments of early-age child abuse, so practically I've become a life-size, walking and talking Achilles heel.

And then you were there, sensed this product of an unfortunate constellation of the stars, and without learning that his name is Peter, you already knew that your hypnotic gaze would be too much for him to handle. I mean, you could have even farted the purple haze, I'd have still fallen for you.

Oh, yes. So I did.

But the thing is- my mother must have concealed it-, I was also thrown into the ocean of obstinacy. Hell, I enjoyed it! And now, with all the woe and self-pity you induced,
I'm finding peace through stubbornness.
I'm finding Her through this mess.
Has it happened before? Is it happening again? The pattern repeats itself, so the labels don't matter; only the trajectory counts. And the direction is upward.

Leading out of the haze.

Vacuum cleaner

Two guys sit on the balcony. Tenth floor, cold wind whistles through barely opened windowlids. Their appearance resembles a lot; one is smoking and heavily gesticulating with the cigarette, while the other quietly gazes at the sky.
'See, that's what I'm talking about! Hear that tune? That jaw-dropping guitar solo? I mean, it's like a lovechild of Mike Oldfield, Robert Fripp and Frusciante. Pure magic. I wish I could just suck in all the world out there. If you know what I mean. As if I was a giant vacuum cleaner that sorts out the good stuff. I aim, and then I just inhale all this fairy dust around me! The cigarette, the wind, the solo, and even you, apparently not giving a fuck about all this.'
He indeed appears to be not giving a fuck about all that, as he continues staring into the distance.
'You and your quiet wisdom! All you like is sitting and staring, as if silent thinking has ever made anyone smarter. Well, maybe it has, but you know what: I prefer doing it. My moments of silence are like this. Fine, I'm speaking, but meanwhile I'm turning on this giant vacuum cleaner. I eat up the useful stuff, suck up the knowledge that is out there for the taking.'
The other guy faintly smiles.
'Now that smirk confirms what I've just said. You really think you are smarter. Fuck off, dude.'
'I don't think I'm smart.'
He slowly raises his shoulders, stretches his back before continuing.
'I only think that you think you are smart. And that is mildly disturbing if you consider what we've reached in our lives so far.'
'Are we having that discussion again? The I've-done-more-than-you-have-ever-dreamt-of argument?'
'I'm simply pointing out that you prefer talking instead of acting.'
'Fuck off. I've traveled the globe. I've slept with so many women that not getting any STD is probably even more miraculous than the achievement itself. I've worked in dozens of countries, and I've written uncountable pages which will do perfect for my future memoir about these years. While you have gotten your diplomas and a comfortable life with a well-paid job an a caring wife. Come on, dude. Tell me you aren't bored and I shut my mouth.'
'I'm perfectly elated with my life, thank you. Though I'm slightly concerned about my friend's perspective about his own things.'
'You, sitting atop the throne of judgement. Tell me why I should do the same as you do. Tell me why it's so comfortable there.'
'First, I'm not up there, and you aren't lesser either. Second, you are a child. Dreaming is cool as long as you keep on making them real. You don't have to get any degree, if that doesn't satisfy you. Keep traveling! But then make good use of it.'
'I'm making good use of it, dude. Here I am, understanding everything with my vacuum cleaner, while you are comforting your ass in that tiny bubble you calle life.'
'All you have is experience. Without making use of it, you have some intangible mumbo-jumbo that definitely gets you the pussy but nothing more.'
'Pussies tell a life's story, bro. Oh wait, you've got to know just one! I'm so sorry for you.'
'You are being childish.'
'And you are just jealous.'
'Surely I am.'
'Fuck off, you arrogant prick! Why the hell would I expect any kind of understanding?'
'If understanding is what you expect, then coming here was in vain.'
'You really start to piss me off, dude. I came here to chill, and to exchange thoughts...'
'We did exactly that, until you...'
'Until I? You know what? I should be leaving now.'
Jumps on his feet and bursts out to the flat. As he storms through the dark room, a child starts crying. He freezes for a moment; another figure emerges from the darkness of the room.
'Are you already leaving?'
'Anna? Yes. It has been a long trip, and I need some rest.'
'Oh. Okay. Glad to have you back. He also missed you a lot.'
'Thanks. I must be on my way, Anna. Be good!'
'Bye!'

He leaves the flat. As he gets into the elevator, he stares at himself in the mirror. His mouth widens for a grin, with its corners so shaky that it's unclear how his grimace will look like.
The picture fades to black, and we hear two lengthy sob; as if a giant vacuum cleaner was trying to clean up what we've witnessed.

Creep

It was one of those mornings again. You open your eyes and think something is different.

If I was beautiful...

But I wasn't. I knew I was a creep. I didn't even have to look in the mirror. It wasn't a case of 'she is beautiful and I'm not'. It wasn't actually a case of 'she'.
If you are a creep, there is no 'she'.
So I was a creep, but I got used to it through the years.
My childhood, naturally, was hard, as it's always hard for a frail soul to realize that he is a creep.

As I grew, my features as a creep got more and more apparent and obvious. Odd enough, my environment didn't find it sickening (as I normally did) but rather attractive; and even though I was the creepiest creep around, I was surrounded by 'shes'.

I did, however, see myself as I was, as I am now. I knew the truth and I never tried hiding it, but they didn't seem to care. I whispered words dripping with poison, soaked with verity into their ears, mouth and all over their bodies. I never missed a chance to tell them what I was; but then they just hugged me stronger, clinched on me and bit my neck. They called me a liar and kissed with passion.
They just didn't get it.

But what did I whisper? What was the poison? Anything, really. Me as a creep initially meant being completely indifferent towards them. So I normally complimented the features I disliked about them. If she was short, blonde, curvy or not, ugly or pretty, dumb or smart, didn't matter; I always chose the thing that annoyed me the most, and I kept on mocking it.

I guess it's easy to see how they didn't see that I was a creep. They loved that I love their least likeable features. They loved me no matter what. Oh, how naive they were! They never saw the creep toying with them, but the man taking good care and making them feel like a woman. This was my prize, dipped into perversion and forged by obsolescence. I already had hundreds of these trophies, but my hunger couldn't be satisfied, not even a bit.

I must admit though, that some of them did manage to penetrate my disguise.

They were the ones who knew that I was a creep. There were only three of them, all three differing from the other, all eager to love, but most importantly, to consume me.

I hated them. I lost my game from day one, the veil covering my true self was gone and I was exposed to their irresistible seductive powers.

I didn't kiss, hug, fuck, love or hate them; we did it, together. The creep within climbed to the surface, sunbathing in the beams of togethereness. I felt pathetic for letting it happen, but I was defeated. So when they were gone, and I was I again, I sank in the comfortable, fluffy fortress I had been building through my life, and I happily realized that it just got stronger and harder to overcome.

Those were the moments of pride, the moments of joy; when I got the joystick of my life back in my hands. And the game just went on, it still goes on; and I know that one day the disguise will be completed and I can declare that I'm the most gorgeous creep who ever walked this planet.