15 minutes on your couch

„15 minutes on your couch” reda aproape in totalitate varianta sa originala cea care a reprezentat prima „hranire” a blogului.


15 minutes on your couch

It has all begun somewhere new that definitely could not be mistaken for “a (mere) blip on an otherwise downward trajectory”.
I`d reckon that the slow adjustment to whatever conditions might have ever occurred, it represented ground enough to repel any thoughts of escaping from a restrictive and pathological state of mind.

The book finally closed on the mind governed by the ill fated whistle Dixie of the first football game played alone in the living room by a player yelling in pain caused by imaginary foul play. Even back then the eyes would stare at a corner where somebody supposedly sat in silence.

Growing up with those “Un-named” it was like living with active, faceless and silent figments that disappeared only when Saint Pillow muffled the cries sounded without a cause, or when the body temporarily expanded to allow for the enjoyment of moist and newly found sensations.
Faithful companions, they effortlessly replaced any friends, kindly supervised any bleedings and were always ready to put the mind to sleep when young lips emptied a bottle. Ever present, they witnessed self-mutilation and never turned the eyes in disgust, but cradled the forehead to let the brain slip into unconsciousness.

They joined people they envied and got high.
They murmured in unison the names of former lovers while being welcomed inside by those recently found.
They parted the waters only to sleep on the bottom.
They craved for recognition of talent and ideas that had been never whispered, let alone uttered, therefore never acknowledged by those able to satisfy the undeclared egos.

Similar “Un-named" had been watching over all morning when schizoid, drugged, drunk, shivering and covered with sand I woke up alone and ignored. In the end I lost and they remained motionless in their overwhelming hypocrisy and blistering unawareness.
It became apparent only too late that the perfect murder of “Dragã R.,” had underlined once more the need for an underground campsite, which was to entomb layers of vitrified debris.
It is both safe and true to say that now the time is right to convince a certain woman to become my friend if not to cover me in wonder. To my disappointment I cannot offer her flowers. She’s allergic to pollen.

A.