25Paris, France
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My self-summary
On est le 13, j'ai 100 euros pour finir le mois.
Je suis riche.

This ain't gravity, this is life. It's weighting down on me all on its own from the inside of my head. But it's not pushing down, it's simply pushing against where my soul might be if there's such thing, inward and outward at the same time. Or maybe it's the hangover, or the fact I feel like I shat my liver whole earlier in one sitting, but it's not.

Something is there. I picture it as a gnawing darkness. Probably an inevitable cultural association, or maybe it is a gnawing darkness. Over the years, it has been a normal state to live with it. It was there but I forgot it even existed. And then I had brief moments when I got out of it, could look at it from the outside, see it was there. I was astonished to see life under such a different light. To have positive perceptions instead of bittersweet or outright bad ones.

Now it's back in me, or I'm back in it.

No matter, there's happiness to be found in the gnawing darkness.
What I’m doing with my life
There's this statue of a woman, the ancient kind, unmoving but as if imbued of the dynamic nobility of something more than life. She's wearing a bedsheet and making it look like fashion. But it's her face, slightly grinded down by the elements that strike me on this grey afternoon. The nose eroded, the eyes set deep as if drying like old raisins or outright disappearing. Those eyes that may or may not be there are looking at me from above, and I see a skull in this woman's face. The skull is staring at me, I see my death. I stare back while walking past, and shiver a bit.

Then I go to work.
I’m really good at
There's a reason we say mindset, and not mindcast. The mind isn't forever cast, stuck in a single shape, it is forever made and remade. It is set, again and again. To a degree, you can force yourself into setting your mind differently, which may be what all those self-help books are about.

It's hard, it feels artificials, and it doesn't work perfectly.
But it's a start.

Unhappiness often exists in the perceived gap between what we are and what we think we should be. I'd like to tell you there's nothing you should be, but then you'd stay shit all your life. So maybe unhappiness is the number one drive for self improvement. If unhappiness doesn't vanish after having self-improved to the fullest extent of your possibilities, see your local shaman to get your chakras in order. Alternatively, a noose.
Six things I could never do without
There's this expression: having your shit together. Well my shit is scattered. In the history of mankind, never has been a shit so far from being structurally united. There's fragments of my shit in each of the 38 corners of the universe. I love it.

Half convincing pseudo intellectual bullshit.
I spend a lot of time thinking about
Okcupid's algorithm is hot garbage. I'm incredibly friendly and polite. I'm like a teddy bear that smells bad and swears a lot.

So I figure the way things are going the world isn't going to be either an utopia or a dystopia. The traceability on people is going to be mad, and a list of mankind will exist in server farms somewhere. People are going to become first and foremost existences in the cloud. Dating profiles, job profiles, government profiles. Identity is becoming and will become more still something external, or at least seen as existing externally. Identity is a patchwork of feelings, a cluster of ideas going around in your brain. But more and more, it is a cluster of ideas going around in the mental space of machines. It isn't tragic overly exagerated stuff à la black mirror, but it needs to be mentionned that there's like a dispossession there, or rather a surrender. I am not so much talking about the façade aspect of social niceties, the fakeness of those new relationships. Rather that the human mind, in this constant man-machine interaction, will lose a sense of self gained with introspection to gain something that is fabricated to be seen. Identity projected outward instead of being something in itself for oneself. Something to market, something to mold and shape. Not something defining you, but something being defined by your imagination and your dreams, by pictures, postures, music, words, most of which aren't even your own. Something you pick and choose, clothes of mind.

Technology is making and will increasingly make of us narcissuses, with the very vital distinction that the water reflecting us will be of our own making. Taking in the view of our own soul depicted in the skynet by ourselves, for ourselves and others to fathom. But beyond the similarity that can be found with that myth, there is the notion that life will become first and foremost something to be shown and paraded around and that the self is primarily something to be strung out for all to see. What we would see would be existences lived outside of themselves, projected rather than experienced, images having more importance than the flesh of being, recording for later, and the recording, the thing recorded and the act of recording itself etc etc

hurr durr am smart
On a typical Friday night I am
I go to the train station and I watch people. I walk downtown and I watch people. I don't learn anything new. If someone looks interesting, I follow them a while, never women though. The last person I followed was a very old guy, he looked interesting but then he spent ten minutes staring at foldable knives in foldable knives magazine. I felt cheated.

I try to understand how we can all exist simultaneously, it seems to me there's altogether too much life happening at once in all those heads, and all of those happening outside my view. I try to understand why we are appart, to distinguish if there's something more between us than what the senses allow.

Then I go home and get drunk.
The two of us