Nosebleeds through the ages

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 Nosebleeds through the Ages 


When I was trying to fall asleep last night, I felt a stream of liquid gush down my throat. When I was about thirteen, I would get bloody noses almost once every month, no matter the weather nor season. The bloody noses didn't matter to me then, but I was very frightened yesterday night. Perhaps it was the thought that blood kept running down my lip, then down my chin, all over my hands while I scramble for chlorox to clean the bathroom tiles. I was barely recognizable in the dark---from the bathroom mirror's reflection--- that is. My mouth tasted metallic, but couldn't bother to revert that then. During that time, I thought about how satisfied I was with my current status. 


I feel like I can't detach from my skins: almost impossible to shelter myself in my anonymity. Have I became more shallow from these mundane influences? Has my memory weakened so much that I can no longer recall what happened yesterday? Journalling everyday when I was younger, I held onto records of my personality close to me. Now I held my head back, turning my face toward the ceiling. I have never felt more withdrawan than at that exact moment. I could have easily been floating above, but I was still dripping blood in the bowl. Tiredness floods me from head to toe, but who isn't tired? 


I still dream all year, but less whimsical and more conventional. Not to be understood--- no, but to be expressed and existent. Common art forms are a visual journey for those who compartmentalize art into their respective perceptions. When an artist produces for his self-determining idealism, then the art form changes altogether--- it is wholeheartedly singular and devoid of all perceptions. 


Fickle and feeble is today's consumerism culture. Swimming in greed is abundance, drowning in plurality is originality. Then comes the topic of authenticity versus originality, which are two very different categories. You can be authentic without being original, but you cannot be original if you are not authentic. The trick in holding a person inside the conversation is not to try to sound authentic, but keep on talking like a madman. Dominate the conversation so much so that the other person notices your irreverent confidence. 


My nose stopped bleeding. I wash my face with cold water. It's closing in 2AM. There is a strong hatred within me for women who abandon principles for temporal, materialistic goods. A friend had commented on my minimalistic room. Since when I connotated cleaniness with minimalism, I have no idea. If I do own an apartment or house in the future, the decorative process will sure be a gruesome one. Rationalization, I reckon, is a part of it. If I can not rationalize the purpose of possessing some item, then I will surely have a reason to discard it. This coldness I can not fix. Perhaps I will adjust more smoothly if I were to fix this. 



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