Six Bosnian Marks: The Oppressive Price of Pondering & Pontification

By John Friesen

Life is seemingly only a feeling and nothing more. Unfortunately some have to learn that the hard way.

Following the tragic loss of a sister, which some hold him accountable for; the collapse of his family; the sudden calling off of a wedding; a suicide attempt; some combat in Afghanistan; a bank robbery; and a stint in Alcoholics Anonymous, a young and successful architect and aspiring artist clashes with the thoughts that hes always believed kept him safe and protected, and with a feel thats constantly confirming to him that his life has become worse than death itself.

After deciding to leave his home country of Canada; and to withdraw from his career and secure way of life, he heads off to France, which ultimately turns into an unexpected journey that takes him throughout Europe and into Asia where he stumbles across numerous characters, including a South American pet monkey of an ex-soldier transport truck fanatic from Bhutan, who all lead by example and inadvertently teach him how to acquire the feel that could finally make his dreams come true.

Yet before that happens, he gets mixed-up with an unpredictable on-stress-leave madman banker from Doha, Qatar who takes him, and even the monkey hostage, and drags them to Bosnia and beyond. During the course of this journey the architect realizes that getting as close to death as possible without experiencing it, and seeing the world as a mere theatre are the only ways for him to possibly reverse his fortunes and to obtain the feel thats not only capable of painting the portrait of his visions, but also strong enough to see his destructive train of thoughts come to a crashing end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491753750

John Friesen

John Friesen Author of the psychological story “Six Bosnian Marks”

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Copyright © 2014 John Friesen .

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-5373-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-5374-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-5375-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014920380

iUniverse rev. date: 3/09/2015

Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter 7

Chapter VIII

Chapter VV minus 1

Chapter #10

Chapter Eleven

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter IVVV

Chapter XIIII

Chapter XIIII + 1

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter XVII (b)

Chapter XVIII

Chapter 18 & a half

Chapter 9-Teen

Chapter XX

Chapter XX1

Chapter 22

Chapter VVV IIII III

Chapter 2-Four

Chapter 2-5

Chapter 27 minus One

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter XX9

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXX3

Chapter XXXIIII

Chapter XXXV

Chapter 30-six

Chapter 30-7

Chapter XXIIII IIIII IIIIIIII

Chapter XXXIIIIIIIII

Chapter XXXX

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter I

3:11 am. March 21st. 3rd month of this year. I’ll just never forget the feeling that I got that morning months ago, after I woke up in the middle of that night to a snow covered city that was calmly sleeping outside of my window. When I fell asleep a few hours earlier that evening, there was seemingly nothing there. I just remember feeling a feel that I hadn’t felt for some time, a feeling though, that I knew on that very night would be gone by the time morning arrived and I’d be driving off to work once again, just wishing that a truck would smash full-speed right through the driver side door of my car, simply so nature could finally balance and equal everything out for the best. Hence, perhaps that really was why I got that very feeling on that very morning a few months ago, a feeling that told me that something just has to change while it let me know just how bad it was going to get if I were to go on only listening to the voices inside of my own head.

Or should I always listen whenever the voices constantly tell me to doubt and reject my feel for my existence, a feel made up of an infinite and eternal multitude of feelings, sensations, and internal reactions, which is maybe all that I really am? Though if it seems like life, or any existence for that matter, is nothing more than a feel and that’s it, just why would I then ever attempt to combat it, or even look to prematurely kill it off by turning on the ignition in a closed-off garage to the point where my scrambled brain has nothing left to emit?

So as I sit at the airport 4 months later on this July night, am I then, at this moment, just feeling the product and sum of what you sense after you’ve been constantly told and telling yourself that there’s gotta be an issue, just so you can become convinced that there truly is such a thing as a perfect moment when an issue or strain could and would never come into existence again?

And so does that in a nutshell explain why I woke up in the middle of the night on that March morning months ago, or does that not explain a thing as my life continues to feel like a tedious encumbrance that’s going down in a tale-spin just looking to place me in a coffin next to the gravestone of a sister who I possibly killed? However, if awakening in the middle of the night to a beautiful snowy, yet dark morning is a sign that you’re in a place, following a plan, that just may have absolutely nothing to do with you whatsoever while another place calls your name, were such mornings then, in fact, invented in order to inform you that the tasks, plans, toils, thoughts, and duties that are unable to conjure up the spark that terminates your urge to experience your own categorical death just have to go?

And so if painting, sketching, and playing soccer truly does produce that proverbial spark, and feeds my feel for my existence to the point where it sends me into my element of elements, would that then explain why I’m now on the verge of a take-off that I’ve been searching for, yet still can’t totally pinpoint why? Yet, if all of these questions don’t explain why I’m sitting at the airport at this very second, what words or answers in the world could explain anything as my own crawling skin and drowning feel for life continues to scratch and drag me down as I fiercely attempt to envision a life within a different city, inside of an old country, on a new continent within a context of newly conjured up feelings and trials that I’m hoping are going to let me sense what a worthwhile composition is capable of sketching, painting, kicking, sensing, and feeling?

So, as I sit at this airport and stare at a clock on a wall that’s letting me know that it’s approaching midnight on just another hell humid July day in southern Ontario, I can sense that I’m definitely not going to miss this place and the thoughts and feelings that go along with it. And though they say that it’s Lake Ontario that gives this area such a damn damp and muggy feel that’s beyond unbearable at times, I couldn’t care less at this point since I’m finally gonna be outta here. But man, on some summer days I truly could just sweat the hours away, in or out of the office, like there’s no tomorrow, so hopefully tomorrow does bring something fresh. Yet, if sweat alone is the only means that lets me know that I’m still alive and pumping away, maybe it just isn’t quite my time to feel fresh and renewed.

But honestly, how could’ve anyone blamed and belittled me for not being productive under such humid conditions, whenever I was in that office at that bloody desk? So, how far away from the front of that monitor will I need to get before it’ll feel like that desk never even existed?

Though, how much of my existence have I already squandered away wondering why I am, or had been sitting at that desk in the 1st place? Yet, if I were always going into that office in order to divert away from the fact that my parents went through an ugly divorce when I was 16, am I then still refusing to accept the fact that I went through that break-up all alone, or am I merely attempting to hide and bury the fact that I alone was accountable for my older sister’s death, which the people back home are probably still calling a murder? Hence, maybe the divorce didn’t affect me one bit? – A divorce that left my drunk of a dad all alone in Manitoba, in a town where the kids and teachers let me have it for being born to a man who made ugly scenes like breaking pool cues over other patrons’ heads seem as if they were going out of style.

Luckily enough though, I ultimately ended up leaving that town about a decade ago after my mom, siblings, and I exchanged a Manitoba town for a northern Ontario town that’s situated not far from the Quebec border. My older sister however, unfortunately never got to make that move as she passed away roughly 6 months prior to the divorce and our exodus east. And even though I’m still not sure whether my sister’s death led my mom to finally push for that divorce, or if her daughter’s death led her to believe that returning back to the place where she lived and once felt safe is going to help her cope with what happened, either way, that no longer plays any role.

Coz (because) all that I know is that nothing in the world could’ve helped me to cope with sitting in front of that damn computer in that bloody office, except for picking a new place in the world to call home. Now, I guess that I could’ve stayed convinced that heading to work every morning, with the sole intent of impressing a boss and a group of co-workers by showing just how much I know could’ve saved and guarded me from my feel for my existence, and would’ve changed things for the best; however, as far as I’m concerned, I could also not believe one word of it.

Though, as I sit here at this airport today, why do I somehow get the sense that my guarded actions not only didn’t shield me, but that they actually left me even more exposed, especially whenever I wondered if the impression that I were giving to others was the one that I wanted to give off, yet the one that I should’ve never subjected myself to? Coz what’s the value of making an impression if you conceivably are the only one who’s supposed to engrain an imprint within yourself? Thus, if that sums me up in a nutshell, what am I then trying to portray every time that I look to illustrate anything in the 1st place? And just what does a broken mind know about painting a portrait anyway, if it’s already hard enough to figure out what the hell is running through my own mind at any given moment, let alone attempting to frame something for humans, on their behalf, who all run on wavelengths that just gotta be on an even more messed up frequency than my own?

So then, is my imminent flight and move to France merely an attempt to experience something real and touchable, since constantly collapsing to a spoken truth that’s framed by someone else’s eyes and pathetic thoughts always left me unfulfilled and feeling humiliated and objectionable? Or do my constant thoughts of death and re-joining my sister simply reiterate the fact that I now have nothing left to lose?

So as I sit at this airport and attempt to appraise my own worth by measuring it with a feel for my existence that’s constantly indicating to me just how much I value my life, I just couldn’t help wondering if I were either merely trying to apply something from a chapter out of an Economics textbook written by Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill on Units of Satisfaction, or Utils, which I read during my 1st Year of university, or if I were merely destined to view life as the absolute and comparative burden that it is. Coz wouldn’t that explain why I’ve always been looking to find someone there holding a measuring stick that I could contour to? Or does that only explain why I always just had to defend every single one of my own Util-based intentions, motives, and interests to paint, stroll, and play soccer in Paris, which seemingly always fell outside of everybody else’s imagination?

Yet, if I truly did subliminally desire to constantly kill off feelings that are worth touching, simply so I could savour the feel for life that I deserve after what I did to my sister, would that explain why I always looked to unbearably toe the line and stay safely under the radar by riding the tide of the bell curve of society, as I now blame almost everything on my catholic mom and semi-non-practicing Muslim dad while I never see my part in any of my messes and mishaps?

Though, if my parents truly are an even bigger mess than me, aren’t I then the only one to blame for ever following such role models in the 1st place? And if I’ve constantly been seeking out the aid of other mere humans, even apart from my parents, to the point where I’ve been endlessly replacing one person with another, while I stayed convinced that Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) was off their rocker when they taught me, right after my sister’s death, that believing in a God is a complete waste of time when you’re a child, but perhaps could prove to be a valuable practice when you’re looking to team up with a friendly and powerful ally – Aren’t I then the only one to blame?

Yet, if I do spend each and every day with myself, how can I ever escape this mess? And so is my imminent move to a new continent a hunt for the beautiful distraction that’ll finally not only let me become blind to the voices, but also inadvertently allow myself to inherit my world back simply so I can acquire the feeling required to paint, draw, sketch, and play soccer in Paris as if no one is watching (my personal masterpiece)? So, how deaf to the scrutinizing, fault-finding, and condemning must I become in order to never freeze up again? And just how freely would I paint on the Seine in Paris, if I could max-out on my not-give-a-damnness right in the face of all the spewing and chuckling that materializes whenever someone wants to give something away for free that’s not worth having?

Though, why would I ever look to a 2nd opinion, if only my absolute perpetual feel, that’s in no way relative, is capable of comprehending the 1st instinct, which maybe is the truth? So, would that then explain why the 2nd opinion always brings on a state of paralysis that becomes ignited whenever the unsolicited 2nd view leads me to ignore the 1st instinct, as their synthesized broadcasted truth simultaneously gets someone as gullible as me onto their intangible leash? – An intangible leash that straps you to a 3rd State of limbo where the fictitious and fallacious thoughts repetitively skip right in-between my ears as I can’t fight or take flight? – Fear that perhaps = fight or flight?

So if I could buy my freedom by attaining a worthwhile composition or feel for life, without spending or hearing anybody else’s 2 cents, would I ultimately acquire the type of filter that would be capable of sieving out the residue from a 3rd State as I fearlessly paint my own masterpiece in France? Still, why am I convinced that if I were ever to acquire the keys to such freedom, I’d just drive the car right off a cliff as usual? Is it because I can’t quite feel it just yet, or am I just so bent on intervening and merely adhering to a man-made path, along man-made roads, that constantly lead me to wish for my own death and peace?

Yet, when we hear in the news that peace between 2 countries locked in conflict can only be reached when the fighting ceases to exist, do these same factions obtain peace after a treaty has been signed and ratified, or do they merely acquire a level of monotonous boredom that makes them wish that there’s a war still going on, or perhaps even for their own death? Hence, can the word peace only exist when someone is still required to fight, die, and have something worth living for, or would we actually say, after the lions and the zebras reach an accord that brings an end to their fight, that they too would finally live in peace? Or would they both just toss in the towel, after such an accord is signed, and then fall by the waste side before we’d ever have a chance to say such a thing as one or both of them slowly starve to death? - Unless of course, they’d just start eating each other until there’s nothing left, just like humans do.

So if I were starving, would I still look for peace, or would I too elect to fight for my existence as opposed to merely playing possum and letting the rats pick at my bones like always? So, would that explain why I recently just sold the home and car; quit the job; and said good-bye to the friends, pet birds, family, income, and a good portion of my savings? Yet, why am I so certain that starving will hand me a feel for my existence that would finally let me become an artist in Paris and a soccer player in Saint-Germain, at PSG, at the Parc des Princes? Am I just so convinced that giving nature’s touch a chance to show me that I can always bounce back is the way to go, or do I merely sense that stripping myself bare will allow me to go back to Day 1? – A time when I entered the day with the intent of doing what I felt that I should do, and not what the thoughts thought that I should do?

So as I sit at this airport awaiting a flight that’s supposed to help me escape an old country of arrogant, envious, and degrading individuals from an office, neighbourhood, and family who have all helped push my own abyss to a whole new bottom, it makes me wonder just how much we all miss the plot as the fear, anger, nervousness, jealousy, greed, impatience, blame, hatred, and search to become special slowly shapes us in a game of superiority and inferiority? Yet, if such concepts were created by the ones who felt inferior and superior at the moment that they crossed my path and looked to acquire control by guiding and accusing me, didn’t I merely collect and steal someone else’s bad notions and look to apply them against myself?

So as I stare through the window of a Louis Vuitton Airport boutique and attempt to comprehend just how a belt, a purse, a pair of pants, or even a set of lips can be deemed, by the guiding people who just must find listeners, to be in this year and also 20 years ago, yet somehow couldn’t be fashionable and in, in one year from now in this country or on one continent over, and yet somehow still must’ve been so vogue 20 years ago just like how it is today, yet could never be tomorrow, it just makes me wonder if it’s my mere lack of understanding on this matter that explains why I’m unable to comprehend what I’m attempting to decipher at this very moment. Or does all this simply prove that experts in search of ears are more than capable of inventing so many incomprehensible rules with their drums, that they’re actually also capable of driving people like me to feel so F***’d-up beyond belief whenever I attempt to wrap my finger around what just must be spewed, beaten, and chucked out?

So then, how could I ever see the beauty in the light of day if I’m supposed to constantly wait for the next important voice that’s just waiting to instruct me on what just must be regarded as out, unacceptable, and ugly? – Ugly, love-less voices that seemingly must deem something to be ugly, inferior, guilty, not showcase worthy, and out-of-fashion, just so their expert opinions can add value as these same voices inadvertently and concurrently condemn me inside of my own head, as none of my artwork gets displayed throughout the world? Hence, is that why AA taught me, after I killed my own sister, that you must fall for the lines and take the bait from the gods above, who apparently are the only known existences capable of handing you a million feelings, and therefore, the only existences capable of curing you of all of your and their self-created poison that prevents you and me from savouring a life in Paris?

So, as I stand here in this line-up at this airport, just contemplating why I’m not contemplating something else as I reflect back on thoughts that probably belong to someone else, it makes me wonder if I were now making this move to France simply so I could finally start replacing the thoughts of others with some experiences and new feelings of my own that I’m hoping will become embedded within my feel for life. And so would that then explain why it feels like this decision is being pushed upon me by a force that could push me right off a cliff, break my neck, and/or push me to France if it wanted to; yet, not necessarily a force that derives from mere humans and their enormous yaps and lofty advice? Coz quite honestly, where did following the realistic force that comes from parents who only want to brag about you or condemn you in order to unleash their own pain ever get me!?

Coz wasn’t it my bloody, arrogant parents who led me to become a lifeless architect within a bureaucratic coffin in the 1st place!? And wasn’t it my burn-out of a father who told me to not waste my time with drawing and soccer, which he referred to as crap that’s going to get you nowhere!? Thus, if outside sources only limit you, whereas inner sources don’t, am I finally understanding The Matrix, and learning that intuitive desires that drive my highest level of cravings, yearnings, and enthusiasm lie directly outside of the rules that perpetually and endlessly seep into my head? And so does this explain why Macaulay said in the The Good Son, that When you’re free, and You can fly, Nobody can touch you, and then you can do anything!? Or was he just a disrespectful, non-law-abiding kid full of insecurities, jealousy, hate, inadequacies, and envy, just like everyone whose fall is heavier than their flight?

After handing a cute little stewardess my boarding card, I’d enter the tunnel leading to the door of the plane, where I’d glance at an advertisement for The History Channel with a picture of Martin Luther King Jr. on it. The sight of Dr. King now makes me wonder if he really were on to something when he once said "one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws (or rules) and to follow just laws as a just law is a man-made code that squares with the moral law or the law of God? So if according to King, unjust laws or codes are the ones that merely roar from the loudest ones filled with the most hate who just gotta be heard, whereas just laws are the ones that run and flow though my fluid veins, aren’t unjust rules and laws by nature, the ones that take you out of harmony since they’re out of harmony with the moral law? Hence, wouldn’t that explain why Martin Luther King Jr. went on to state that unjust rules (laws) give the segregator (rule maker) a false sense of superiority and the segregated (rule taker) a false sense of inferiority? Therefore, aren’t expert, neighbourly, or parently opinions and codes solely designed to convince you that your perpetual feel and natural inclinations are inferior, worthy-of-death, and inadequate in comparison to the declinations of the biggest art-hating experts?"

Yet, if submitting to the man-made rules has allowed me to wake up each and every morning, and bitch to god for refusing to let me consider my life as a gift, why should I waste my time stroking the ego of any god then, and letting him know that he’s the only one in control, if he’s also responsible for creating the humans who have led me to worship the thoughts and notions of guilt, self-doubt, and all of their infinite bullschitt wisdom? Or is my very own pathetic mind the biggest fear-monger from them all? Or does that distinction belong to the evening news that reported that I killed my sibling while I was already swimming in my own morass, just so they could find more followers and viewers! So then, does my tendency to elevate every person that I’ve ever come across stem from listening to convincing news broadcasts that only know how to condemn and convict? Or did it all begin when I was a young boy under the care, guidance, and supervision of parents, doctors, and teachers who preached their undeniable truth through our fiduciary relationships?

So, as it becomes apparent to me as an aware adult, just how much rubbish mere humans posing as gods, who I alone elevated to that status, got me to swallow, just who the hell do I blame now?! - A resentful and bitter father whose expressed opinions had the strongest negative effect on my feel for life, or all of the experts in my present and past who should be ashamed of expressing anything under the name expert in the fields and meadows that consist of their own home-made detrimental rancour and acrimony. - Experts from my past neighbourhood who only became experts just so he and she could apply and unleash stock-piled arrogance and hate that sounded so bloody convincing to us all.

So, as I now sit on this plane and flip through the Duty-Free-On-Board-Shopping-Catalogue and hear some loud mouth on the PA bark out some flight safety instructions, I can sense just how much influence the self-advertisers and their big bloody yaps definitely have when it comes to what gets broadcasted into my head, and suggested to us right in front of our pathetic eyes. And therefore, I guess this explains exactly why ex-neighbours, ex-class-mates, and ex-hometown TV stations always stayed so motivated to transmit and spread negative stories and news about me to neighbours, the competition, and community. - Tasteless and senseless communities and familyships that possess the sort of competitive flavour that dictates that I should be, or have more than everyone else as my level of inferiority increases in chorus to the point where I’m scratching to feel superior, as I unknowingly drill into myself just how inferior I really am? – Inferior within a game where I could cash in the winning lottery ticket today and become the famous artist and soccer player tomorrow, yet just to find out in a week that the thoughts are still there explaining to me why I’m on the short end of a podium where another friend, stranger, painting, player, news broadcast, personality…. is looming above and over me?

As thoughts of a podium lead to memories of my university graduation at McGill, I’d look back on our closing ceremony speech from William Thompson and Joseph Hickey, in which they said that "reference groups are groups that people refer to when evaluating their own qualities, circumstances, attitudes, values and behaviors." For some reason, I’m now not only convinced that those guys hit the nail right on the button, but also certain that reference groups, teachers, parents, and airplane flight crews are without a doubt the controlling demons who look to conquer you one breath, evaluation, and insult at a time! Or did I already learn this prior to that speech, during those 5 shrink-sessions that I attended following the death, and possible murder of my very own sister?

Though, why is this revelation appearing to me seemingly for the 1st time, if our High School Football Coach, who was unbelievably somehow also our class’ Valedictorian, said during his speech that reference people merely seek to be regarded as solidified and acceptable brainwashers simply so you, we, and the world can accept and embrace them as the governing extraordinaires, just so these specialists" can be deemed as reputable Knowledge Experts? Yet, if I’m on my possible ill-advised way to France, just who’s to say that I didn’t actually listen to his advice and save it on my hard drive for a later date? Though, what would’ve become of me if I never dared to oppose the Reference Groups", by say going off to Afghanistan against their will; painting fjords in Norway; not marrying that girl; joining the army; not striving endlessly for that promotion; or even robbing a bank?

So, just how deep would’ve that blade gone into my wrist if I would’ve always followed the voices and expressed opinions of mommy, the best friend, an old teacher, and a dad who once sent a woman to a hospital in an ambulance after a piano recital? And just what would’ve happened if I would’ve never obtained those slight and ephemeral glimpses into how good life can occasionally feel whenever I’m either awake, or within a dream inside of a church in Equatorial Guinea or somewhere in Europe?

So, as I look back on my 1st trip to Europe about 10 years ago while I was still in High School in Manitoba, I’ll just never forget that moment when I stepped onto European soil for the 1st time. It just felt so fresh that it seemed exactly as if I had never taken a step or experienced an incident in my life. Not long after my sister’s death, I elected to do a 6-month High School exchange semester in Lausanne and Lucerne, Switzerland, where I not only got to learn a little more French and a lot more German (though Swiss German), but also got to become self-conscious in another 2 languages. But nonetheless, as think back on the moments right before I touched down in Zürich, Switzerland, at a time when I was feeling extremely shattered as a result of my sister’s death, I’ll always remember the feeling that I got when we landed on that pristine Swiss runway that seemingly smelt like chocolate, clocks, and bank countertops. At that moment, I just fell in love with a feel for Europe that was definitely worth the price of my 2-way plane ticket!

Yet, to this day, I still don’t know if that feeling merely came along as a result of the fact that I was outside of Canada, and inside of a place where the surrounding voices of all the meaningful people couldn’t criticize, condemn, chastise, or touch me, or if the feel simply came along due to the fact that I was alone on my own journey. And though the ones back home could easily say that I’m now running away, if running away is always better than twiddling your thumbs and complaining about it while not experiencing a thing, at this point I’d concur with whatever. And since all of the twiddling in the world left me with nothing more than a paralyzed sense of fear and nervousness that’s been gradually mounting inside of my chest, as I’ve convinced myself that becoming flawless through my own contrived personal contemplation is my only solution, I know that it’s finally time to step up to the plate and see what it feels like to have the bat between my hands.

Chapter II

An hour after take-off, which is coincidently or not so coincidently when the stewardesses started serving some over-arid muffins that this airline is classifying as a Treat, I noticed within my mind, or through my feel for my existence, that something is definitely off! Nonetheless, I’d take a few bites and start chewing on the muffin. Yet, within a matter of seconds, I’d find myself choking on the damn thing as I clench for a breath of air! As I cough violently and wait to gracefully croak, I’d realize that I really must’ve done a number on myself! Coz although this damn muffin is dry and arid, I’m damn certain that the constant pressure inside of my fricking chest, which has severely worsened in the course of the last couple of years as a result of all of my real and self-induced stress, fear, and nervousness, isn’t helping me as I attempt to savour a cheap-ass-airline-3-day-old-muffin that wants to suffocate me to death!

Though, if there are only dry muffins and tight seating, is there then absolutely no pressure in my chest whatsoever, and therefore, there isn’t a muffin in the world that’s seeking to choke me? So, am I then not on a plane at all, or am I simply not helping my cause by flying with one of those airlines where the pilot is also a stewardess and the official airline welder all-in-one? But man do I love flying with Air Jordian Airways! Yet, who knows or even cares about the name of the bloody airline that I’m currently flying with! Though, I must’ve seriously F-ed something up within my chest, digestive-tract, rib-cage, spine, esophagus, breathing system(s)…..or whatever! Yet, if I didn’t do a thing, why are my F-ing systems letting me down right about now! Just why am I about to die at this very second!?

However, if I haven’t been running on all cylinders for a while, perhaps my systems have been letting me down for some time now. So, is that then exactly why I’m finally taking this trip? – Coz I guess that when you’re without your health and a feeling worth touching, you truly are just a piece of tar with nothing left to lose. But, if I did start seeing and feeling this way after my sister died and abandoned me, what could possibly change as she still refuses to come back? And yet even if it did come caving down upon me, even before it all collapsed on top of me on that very night when she left me, what difference does it make as all my chaotic thoughts and feelings become ignited under my very own skin at this very moment!? And so how the hell am I helping myself now by going abroad!?

Yet, if this trip alone were going to get me out of the mess that god alone put me into, even though I don’t believe one fricking word of it, just how will my skewed mind, which only knows how to run on overdrive and make my tight concrete-like chest blockage even tighter, ever adjust my feel for life for the best? So, as the thoughts still convince me that they alone can fix me, and make everything perfect while I simultaneously realize that my mind is my worst enemy as it convinces me to remain dependent upon it, I nevertheless still can’t comprehend why it commands me to bitch so much! Is it because I just tossed my car, house, birds, spatula, and bloody office job right to the curb, and am now regretting it? Or does the type of simplification that could buy me a lot of energy, health, and perhaps some much longed for patience, come with a few growing pains?

And though the work in Canada did pay the bills and bought some pills, what good is such a stable and predictable lifestyle if you’re learning the hard way that security probably is nothing more than a fancy word for monotony as your character and will doesn’t learn a thing? So then, is life now sending me off to a medieval city in France, just so my need to gratefully obsess, stress, and become anxious can gradually disappear along with all of the insecurities, mind-racing, mini-panic attacks, sweat attacks, and chest tightness that just have to come into play whenever there seemingly isn’t a problem in the world, yet a problem to concoct? And since I’m already a mess and becoming an even bigger one with each passing second, just how could feeling and experiencing something uncomfortably new hurt some more?

Hence, if doing a ridiculously expensive PhD in Architecture in Strasbourg, France couldn’t possibly bring me down any lower, how couldn’t living in Strasbourg and doing a PhD be my answer to a long longed for utopia, if Canada, Ontario, Quebec, Beausejour, and Manitoba and its bloody citizens have always been my problem!? Or am I clearly losing it as I attempt to believe in a fairy-tale that can only play out on a different continent? Coz if the fairy-tale feelings can only derive from the likes of Valium, Prozac, Xanax, and all of the fun drugs that come together and earn millions and billions of smiles, blissful demeanours, and content faces - just so we never feel the need to learn from lessons, actions, deeds, loses, betrayal, consequences, and insults as we prevent our true feel for life from touching us, while remaining unmolested behind a chemical imbalance that god grants us, just like he how bestows 45% of the gazelles