Time flies. Another birthday for my blog. This year everything seems out of place, absurd and completely mental. Between the now and then psychotic, persistent thoughts, the futile efforts to discharge through tango, and my e-mail obsession, I can't really decide which one is the heaviest of my symptoms.
Fighting the disease isn't really in my plans. Despite me being inactive for almost 95% of the day, I still believe this period is productive. I load myself with ideas, plans, useless information and lots of anxiety. Still, I somehow manage to stay healthy, if not sane.
In retrospect, I like the sound of the bandoneon at night. After I get into bed, and before I fall asleep. It is that period of dreamy revelations, that extravagant show of ideas, sounds, information and memories of the past and the future that brings me closer to my true nature. That pure image of myself, before it got distorted by rules and expectations.
The truth is... I might be deliberately overstimulating my acceptors. Because, somehow, the aesthetics of artistic violence seems to be my central source of excitement. A sport I would rarely seem to indulge myself in the old days. A sport that can be both intense and ridiculous at the same time. Brutal, alluring, surrealistic. The much debated artistic gore is here to stay.
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