Reiterating an irritation.

There are days when everything annoys you. Every little occurrence and thing makes you uncomfortable at best. Angry at worst. Sounds are too loud. Lights are too bright. Every single fiber in the fabric of your clothes chafe against your skin. And all other things rub you the wrong way.

Smiling faces become smirking masks. A handshake become a crushing, yet somehow disgustingly sweaty and clammy, vice-like grip. A hug transforms into a human straitjacket. Any morsel of food tastes like cardboard pulp with a splash of Styrofoam garnish. Your loving and previously beloved pet is now a leech on your life force. The best of friends change into complete twats. That favorite track you've been listening to all week now sounds banal and you can't for the life of you remember what it was about it that you found so lovely. Delete it. Regret it. Download it again.

Buttons won't button. Clicks won't connect. Programs crash at the most inopportune moments. Why is the spacebar sticking in the keyboard? Words won't fit properly into any sentence you utter. Be it through your mouth or via the tips of your fingers. Both of which seem to be detached from any reasoning part of that lump of clay you call your brain. You forget important things. Dwell on the inconsequential. Speak when you shouldn't. Remain silent when you mustn't. You lose the plot. And your favorite pen. You stub your toe and spit on your lapel/collar. Shit. A thousand times; shit!

A feeling utterly inhabits you. Becomes your very essence. A feeling of malaise moving through molasses. But don't worry. As soon as your head hits the pillow those jarring thoughts will begin to deconstruct. They gradually shift from coherent narratives and concepts into incoherent flights of fancy without you ever noticing. Slowly slipping you into the comfortable World of Dreams. I'll meet you there. We'll ride a unicorn together.

Listening to: Broken Social Scene - Meet Me In The Basement

Reading: Last Exit to Brooklyn

Watching: The Walking Dead

Musings on moisture.

The wonderous world of weather phenomenon. It's perplexing, how such things evoke thoughts and feelings in me.

Mist can be romantic and mysterious. As it creeps and lingers around trees and up against moss-covered blocks of granite I sense something otherworldly. Infiltrating and caressing. Implying a spark of life it does not possess. Like a stalker, only less likely to carry a knife.

Fog is sometimes comforting when it envelopes your house on an autumn sunday while you enjoy a cup of tea. Turning your humble abode into a safe island, plunked down in an ocean of upcoming and stressful monday morning musts.

Haze mutes the world, bluring the harsh colours and blunting the sharp edges. Making the world seem distant and soothingly at bay. Perhaps a moderate bout of cataract would be beneficial? Not only for the weed-privileges.

Few things can compare to the pleasures of imagining a simple cloud into a rambunctious little turtle driving a tractor (fueled by nothing but chocolate) on a marvelously sun-drenched spring day. That so much joy can be drawn from water vapor floating aimlessly through the air. From what is in essence just dampness taken flight. So why don't I feel the same way when it infiltrates my socks?

I even find mushroom clouds quite attractive. In their own way.

Am I Missing Something?

The latest U2 album has me more than a little perplexed. The name of it, that is. No Line On The Horizon...

Has Bono developed a sense of irony in his golden years? Or have I grown dumber? Either way I'm quite confused at the moment.

Interestingly Outdated Idioms.

The connection between the heart icon and the soul gives off strange connotations these days. Ancient peoples believed that the heart was the seat of the human mind. Today it's pretty much been whittled down to symbolising emotions of a romantic nature. We know that romantic feelings (which we hold so dear) do not reside in any bodily organ. Below the neck or above the waist, anyway.

This outdated symbolism lives on as it's rather quaint and charming. My Romantic Heart. If people once thought these things to be true, what other human conditions must they have believed to be housed in our various body parts? - My Hedonistic Liver. - My Platonic Pancreas. - My Curious Appendix. - My Impatient, But Curiously Resilient, Digestive System. - My Ululating Ulceration.

Do any of these make less sense than the idea that romantic notions reside in the organ that pumps oxygen to our cells? It's romantic, yes, but we could surely come up with something more modern and apt? Metaphors practically grow on trees. Come on poets, don't just rest on your predecessor's laurels. Get out there and romanticize post-modernity! Maybe it just doesn't hold up to scrutiny. Like romance, it has nothing to do with reason.