I found this in a very old diary and thought it could be a perfect opening for this blog… ” What are diaries for? I guess diaries are like friends who are always there to pick up the phone and listen to our sad or happy, serious or funny, hopeless and romantic stories. It’s like keeping forever the childhood sensations, the chocolate melted on the nose, the feeling of your mom’s hair, the smell of your dad’s cologne or the laughter of a long gone friend. A diary is like a picture. A picture in motion, alive, full of senses. Like those scratch, touch, hear and smell kids books. It’s like a picture taken with our own perspective. The words are the camera lenses, each page is a different picture, each diary a new album, a new chapter of a story. And like a keepsake for generations to come, our worded lives are there exposed, waiting to be read, commented, admired (…) A diary is life on a piece of paper. “

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And here we go again. I’m low on coke zero. I guess you are right, I better get my lazy behind out the door and go fetch me some real life. The longer I spend online the more paranoid I get. Do I have a stalker? Am I the one stalking myself??? Nothing goes well. I feel like my life is a big merry-go-round. I’m going round and round in circles, my eyes can’t open anymore, that cold inebriating breeze on my face, I can’t breath yet I laugh. My neck keeps going round and round while I try to hold on tight. My head is dizzy. Stop!!! I’m gonna throw up.

Is it me you’re looking for? I guess there’s no song more depressing than Lionel Richie’s “Hello”. And yet, there I was, just a few minutes ago, drowning myself in tears while listening to that whiney voice of Richie nagging his way through those wrist cutting lyrics. And I thought it was beautiful. A Beethoven Piano Sonata. Allegro! I smirk thinking about the irony of how not alegre I feel.
Have I been drunk all these years? It seems my life has been defragmented in tiny little pieces and thrown out there in cyberspace. The more people I meet the warier I get. The more frustrated. The lonelier. What is that I’m looking for? Happy happy happy. Everyone wants to be happy, right? Wrong. I AM happy. I mean I’m not sad, so I must be happy, sí?

Having bits of your life spread out God-knows-where makes you wonder how much of you is actually real and how much is phony. Online you can be anyone, say anything, feel anything. You can create this persona and shut down your real you. It’s far. It’s safe. And you got the screen and keyboard to shield yourself in. Why would anyone want to know the real me? “When you see something from afar, you develop a fantasy. But when you see it up close, 9 times out of 10, you wish you hadn’t.”

Saw Wicker Park the other day… I don’t even remember how exactly I started wanting to see this movie so desperately. I guess it was in one of my chats, with one of my “virtual” (or shall I stick to imaginary?) friends also known as my external hard drives. To watch it was to feed in even more into my paranoia… its story simply fits like a glove into the suspicion of this great plot that surrounds me. As if my whole life was being played like a massive puzzle. And boy are the people putting it together dumb! It’s as if I was that important so that people would stop their lives to obsess over me. You are right. I am paranoid! Or am I? (…) I wish I wasn’t.

“You should look for help.” Yeah go to hell you fucking moron. You don’t bloody know me to say I need help or not, I think. Pause. I look at my nails: they are long and I’m in dying need of a manicure. Who’d think that would ever happen to me! I used to have them done twice a week. “I have to stop neglecting myself” flashes like a tacky decadent neon sign on a deserted motor way. “That was my last gig.” I promise myself in a thought that sounded more like a threat. I’m finally admitting I am tired. Wasted and wasting. I just wish I could, along with my own memories, be able to delete all the flies of me I got spread around in my external HDs. Guess I’ll live on. So I better go on and floss.

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