Jasmine buds are beautiful. When dried, they look like identical small green ball like rolls, with the leaf edges slightly frayed but nonetheless intact. As when it is infused with water, they give off a faint green hued colour that carries it's distinct taste of something you usually pair with green tea. Real jasmine buds are troublesome to find, if not just luxuriously flamboyant when it has the exact taste of the canned descent if not less.

I now stare at my clear cup of lukewarm tea. Peeking from where I see it, algae-ish hues give a discreet smell that wafts only into the willing or nearby noses. Or I think could say it to be the colour of the green fairy, liquor compared to a cloudy liquid which tastes like lemon, honey and nothing at all, a drink when taken in the wrong ratios of items, tastes worse than absinthe itself.

If only these fingers could stroke those forms of reality without paint and paper, and nothing else but the soft mumbling of the lips, they would most probably trace a cup. A cup of which the colour says nothing about what is in it, and of which the sight tell nothing of it's colour. It would be too deep to be fully comprehendable even to the artist, who in that exact moment becomes devoid of all human emotion from the strokes and furls stamped and prodded into the mediumless art.

One knows that he is an artist when he cannot specialise in something to fully save his life, yet as he accepts and understands it in it's rough view, or something of the sort, he sees the vivid image as what he wants to be in his mind. Right there, in the official jury of the heart, the little revelations that mean nothing to nothing.

But what happens if that mind gets overwhelmed by things that attack it by no notice at all. Beauty, such infinite logical beauty that comes from nothing at all. A piece of skin, the bright moon's loan of light from the sun taking creeps onto the hairline and brows. What if desire steals the substance and becomes the dominator and ruler of the one man show road. The topic of all canvases of minds.

Can desire be substance? As the desired ownership is to have substance, granules of digestable thought by other walks of mankind. But what if those granules become desire, desire being the train of thought, the quasimodo of the ringing heart, taking stirs by the hour.

Then substance dies entirely. It has good things in it of course, the prose, the train of thought is so beautiful now, but it is far too much, and desire dominates, it sleeps and it hates, it lies and it wants. It wants too much. Far too much. Far too many lines and fireworks than the artist can afford and muster.

Sometimes my substance dies entirely. I write with burning desire, that corrodes the ideas and the neutrons of the minds that know the answer, but are only mumbling it under a gray sheet of muffled sound. I've been like that these past few days. It's been a year. A year.

And desire is still burning high, burning through the shirt pockets, beneath the tag, the cotton, the embroidered undergarments. Under the cholesterol in the artery. Where art doesn't seem to make sense, anymore. As it reaches the mind.

The flu leaves you with that flat and sour smell of phlegm in your system, with that sticky coat of shiny wax over the layer of hair and skin, a concentrate at it's best on the nose and the forehead, if not the back.

Sick I have been, of the hectic yet at times unstimulating commune called school. Yet in this curse over me, I find it as a blessing in disguise. Feeling useless and weak as you sloth around the house has it's blessings, as it finally makes your mind wander towards things.

Nostalgia is a perfect subject. Making the domino walking mind trail into each other's connections to tip tap tip top, strengthening the nerves to bring us a distant memory of a place, the smell, the bright vividness that puts us in picture perfect mood. A child who carries the face of yours, supple and slightly dimpled, looking the other way round, with her arms around a disneyland mascot. It seems that her brown hair was on fire, but it was only a sunny afternoon. In winter. In the city of Paris in the Nirvana year of 1995.

It makes you think about your current sorry state of mind. Am I really burning out or is that paracetamol getting to my head? It's both sweetie, now take another one and go to bed.

I can say that the wage my father got from Glaxo had been repaid in minor installed subconsious amounts from all the Panadol bottles bought since birth. Herr, Herr doctor.

It really amazes me what you can learn in a day, or realize, or regain strength in. Wait make that three days, three whole sets of 24 multiples of 60 minutes having 60 seconds in one. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the peanut crunching crowd as Sylvia the poet anak perempuan Plath has said, I now add, behold the days of absentia I have put myself into. Only to be demerited by a shirted man in blue, caught in flagrante delicto.

Mais oui, bien sur. I shall post when I am not so utterly, intoxicantly, mad.
Staring at this page, writing unsuccessful drafts of psychology then another unsuccessfull one of evolution does that to you. You realize you're walking around a stick in a circled triangle. Only to stop for toilet breaks or sips of Ribena that tastes like Blood since anything mixed with phlegm tastes bad. Yucks, the aftertaste of chicken rice. Man it was good.

You go maaaaa-ad. Just to tell you all I'm fine. Just maaaa-aad.