Wick, Is That You? I didn't even know Opuss still existed! And I surely didn't think people were still on it. This will be my last post ever and I post this entirely for nostalgic reasons. Love to you all! There was a knock on the door. I groaned: it had been a long night at the pub and my head was still pounding from that last.... whatever it was. I scrambled to my feet and focused on the nightstand. 5:17 AM. - Christ, this better be important.... I made my way through my less than hospitable living room, passing Wick who was sprawled out on the couch. His snoring could easily have been mistaken for a jackhammer. Or maybe that was just the effects of that last... whatever it was. I considered waking him; I wanted a smoke-buddy. Then I rememberer Wick's a dog and doesn't smoke. He would have been a rum-dum had he been a human. Probably fat... There was another knock. Whoever it was losing their temper. As the knocks did nothing to ease the spinning and wobbling the floor had suddenly decided to do (I suspected the walls were intent on blocking my path), I stumbled through the kitchen. Old take out boxes, empty Starbucks cups with mustaches and profanities drawn on them were lining the kitchen table. And I asked myself: how is that important to my story? Wick had woken up and was already at the door. - Alright Wick, but only if you have a smoke. Okay?" I don't know if it was that last glass of... whatever it was, but I could have sworn he gave me a judgmental look. - For fucks sake, will you open the goddamn door?! I know you're in there. Mediocrity had a pungent smell and it's all over this place." I sighed, but realized he was right. Wick knew it too. But he didn't know that. Wait, what? Now I'm confused. Nevermind. Oh yeah... door. Behind the door was an unknown character. "Did I meet you at the pub, you handsome fellow you?" I said, tickling his belly. He didn't giggle, and I found that rude. So I asked him for a second: I needed to focus. Something wasn't right. I don't have a dog. I peeled my face off the bar and opened my eyes and pointed in a general direction behind the man who had just poured a bucket of ice over my head. "Give me one last glass of... whatever that is, Wick."

Filter Filler Let’s think about the title for a second.
 Filter filler
 What do I mean by that?

First, I need to explain what I mean by filter. I’m not talking about an actual filter, which I think comes to no surprise. What I mean by filter is the mental filter we either have or lack.
 Again, I’m stressing the issue of balance. We appear to have either too much or no filter at all. A mental filter is just what it sounds like: a mental thing that sorts out and catches crap we don’t want to have to think about.
 This is commonly referred to as white noise.
 We have become desensitized to certain things because we have learnt how to filter it out.

 And this comes in handy, as we are exposed to so much nowadays, both good and bad. If we don’t filter some of it out, it will all be overwhelming. Now, let’s go back to “filter filler”
 Because I have noticed that once in a while, we appear to have no filter what so ever. You know when you’re having “one of those nights”, when everything just becomes too much. There are so many thoughts in your head you don’t know what’s real anymore. Our brains go hay-wire, uncontrollable and unpredictable. We can’t control our emotions or actions. We strive for an answer that is nowhere to be found.
 We don’t have a filter anymore. The mental process of “white-noising” certain things out no longer works as it should.

It’s no one’s fault, and it doesn’t mean you have a weak mind. It just means that you need a filter filler. Something to patch up the flood and catch the unnecessary thoughts that are just there to make things that much harder. Sometimes you need them, sometimes you don’t. 
A filter filler is not a blocker. The person who coined “ignorance in bliss” was probably a lazy soul. 

But if we can at least filter, and make sure that the dark, sot-like thoughts gets caught up so we can handle them, we can securely rely on our filter filler to do the crazy for us.

How I Met Cora We had met at a sports bar last Thursday. She wasn't into sports, but she came for the company. And the beer. I wasn't that big on sports either. Truth be told, I didn't even go for the company, only the booze. It had been a brief run in sometime between my third martini and her seventh beer. I had gone out for a smoke. I never enjoyed smoking, but it had proven to be a great conversation starter. Let's not forget the perfect excuse to leave uninteresting company. No, the only cigarette I enjoyed was the post-sex one. That was it. She had reached over, tapped me on the shoulder and with a raspy voice slurred "can I bum a fag?", only to burst into laughter, explaining that fag means gay in England and that she already had a gay friend who also happened to be her old fling, class mate and occasionally her "not so interested" sex partner. She now understood why. And she was happy for him. We had been standing side by side (me still, her swaying), for a minute or so, when suddenly she turned her head and said her name was Cora. Just out of the blue. Her name was Cora. "Jasper" She snickered. Obviously drunk. "Jasper is a fun name. I used to know this guy at work whose name was Jasper. He ended up killing himself after getting fired at work. He was alright though" She took another drag from the cigarette. "Am I the first Cora you meet?" She had a certain ring to her voice, but most of it I figured was drunken courage. "No", I said, "you're the first" She purred. She had a sip of her beer. The street lights reflected in her deep brown eyes. She has olive skin, dark, curly hair which looked somewhat untamed. I must have been a few inches taller than her, even though she was in blood red stilettos. The sound of a motorcycle caravan had only just passed when she threw the cigarette to the ground, downed the last of her beer and started heading back into the bar. Her eyes were focused on a spot between my nose and upper lip as she turned around to give me a parting look. As she turned around, a necklace became visible from inside her blouse. It was made up of small corals. "That's a beautiful necklace you have there" She stopped, looked deeply into my eyes, and smiled. "Corals for Cora"

Friends Real friendships don't just die. They die when you kill them.

Black Flag I can't stand for much. My #life isn't something worth talking about, because if I do, there is no #life left to live. I think I can only believe in the unbelievable. It makes more sense. It seems easier to acquire. Easier to digest. I can't think of it without caving. I'm left with a fleeting moment of vulnerability, replaced with cold, dead numbness. I've clenched my jaw for so long, it has left that feeling you get after you've burnt your tongue on scolding hot tea. I listen to a dark electronic song. I picture myself in a music video - dark, dramatic. When the drop comes, my visual becomes so extreme my bodily sensation scares me. I waved a white flag long ago. But no matter how hard I waved it, I never found peace. It was a fight destined to be won - giving up was just not an option. In rain, in snow, in cold, I waved my flag until it turned black. I can't stand for much. I can barely stand up anymore. But I can wave. The black flag will always wave. So I stand. Idle. No wind. no movement. just the black flag and I Side by side As friends and and foes. Never to be separated.