It really sucks when you hafta qualify that what you write is not a personal attack nor a response to another, neither is it a hint at that one has to allude to. I mean, what the fuck is this. Writing for an audience? Perhaps, remember that this is Postcards to Nobody. Which makes it rather absurd that I'm actually addressing this to people. But here goes, because folksies can get oversensitive, I may be bristling the imaginary feathers of those whom I don't target at, and in that, it sucks as well. Either way, I run the risk of offending people I don't intend to offend. If we've been getting on more-than-fine, then this does not apply to you.

I write partly because I have the gift of the gab, and literary incontinence, which happens to be the title of my other toned-down site. Just write. That's all. Nothing harmful. Sure, we hate people. I dislike some, although 'hate' would be so strong-- most of the time I walk around with no feeling when I realize that I have no feeling it makes me wonder if I'm sociopathic-- unless I'm wrapped up in those moments of intense feelings. Anyone could think up of at least five names of disliked people. Your neighbor next door, your ex-lover who left you for the gardener in a Lady Chatterly fashion, your colleague who steals your ideas and licks your boss' arse, your current beau's ex who keeps latching onto him like a blardy parasite, and your annoying pastor from hell. There, all five hypothetical characters made up-- although I doubt many would qualify the pastor as from hell. Even if from very strong experience, I classify some priests as priests from hell. I have my strong reasons. You'd love them too.

It is obvious that I'm weird and not exactly very mainstream. Mad, to say the least, most of the time I wonder why I haven't been incarcerated. Most likely, a functioning mad person. Like those who argue that they are highly deviant (I laugh) too, all I can say is that we have self-serving biases which lead us to think ourselves as the most extreme of cases, whether in terms of the negative or the positive. Heck, I could be accused of having this inclination to calling myself extremely insane. Yet, some of these people can look the part of mainstream. Because they generally are. Most of them merely pretend to be deviant. Or are perhaps kinda-sorta deviant. That's all. Not something inborn. Deviants have this strange energy about them-- that's what I've concluded after running into many fellow deviants. And for those who think that deviants are simply criminals like rapists and murderers, nah. Deviants are people who deviate from the safety of bunching around the norm. In crowds, they remain invisible and nondescript. Even when not in crowds, they also remain nondescript. Fuck. I can't even pretend to be mainstream.

With regards to being either normal, in terms of subscribing to layperson/mass culture, or to high culture, there are standards to adhere to. One has codes of rules, and the people can somewhat bunch together in a happy coalesce of sorts. Unorthodoxy, though, has no standards. And so we're all wandering souls stuck in Limbo.

I know I'd make it but to know simply isn't enough. I have a fixation with resolutions, with knowing the How. It's inadequate for a curious creature to simply have good faith alone. I remain young, impulsive and impatient. Sometimes you need to be hurt and to be burnt. It's like telling the curious little child not to go into the room that is eternally locked, or to tell Eve not to pluck the forbidden fruit without telling her why. Forbidden fruit always looks somewhat more appealing, even if it's all perception. The power of the will and of the mind is way too strong. It seduces.

Most of the time, I want most people to leave me alone. I am not targeting at anyone unless we really-- and here I emphasize the word 'really'-- have shared meanings and you see your name/moniker hovering about. Even then, one sentence with regards to person A doesn't mean the second sentence applies to person A. Oh God. I like people like B who leave me alone most of the time, so I can have space to breathe. But eventually, that's not I want. Fuck, it sounds awful to be so awfully convoluted, but basically the gist is that the wrong people are alluding to the wrong stuff.

Obviously it's nice to have that someone walk with you and laugh with you. And wake up with you and lazy Sunday mornings. And everything in between. Even more obviously, it is sweetish to watch happy couples-- but I maintain, only the happy ones. Still, I can't settle for just about anyone, especially if I know I will vamoosh-- there are some people whom I know I will disappear from, no matter how nice they are. Which leaves me in a double bind. Then they don't try. Which is kinda bad, because if you don't try how the heck would you ever know. Sounds as convoluted as Jean Calvin at this moment. I suppose, I have a healthy observance of transience, and only someone who understands it will understand what I mean, but then again, it also becomes fucked up for all other arguments the mind can allude to. Whoopeedo. My karma stinks. I can't even bring myself to let anyone touch my hand.

But certainly, when you look at me, how normal can I get. How angelic d'ya suppose me to be. How do you actually suppose people to be nice and kind? My ontological assumption of human nature is essentially un-Marxist-- I do not think people to be intrinsically good and kind. I think we start in the middle, or perhaps tabula rasa. Maybe with some primordial influences, genetics, etcetera-- essentially a complicated deal. It is absurd to expect me to be nice and sweet. I mean, look at most people. Oh come on, you think they're really good? Pigshit. And just because I look the way I look doesn't mean I'm all devilish. Oh Christ, it pains me even to qualify.

The soil of words and thoughts and beyond that we wrongly shovel up with spades.

People are tedious, and then I realize I am a person too.