gluten free TOFU, rich in melancholia and confusion, R16

(Source: hobolunchbox)

A nonsensical inquiry into love

This is no Charles Dickens novel, more of a modern telltale of involuntary apathy. 

The meteorological narration of London can be summarised as a perennial state of prodigious haziness accompanied by the delusive occasional sunshine. The previous statement was with omissions of course, for sentimental purposes. I was never unhappy to be here, in this anachronistic relic of what was then a great empire. However, as the plane touched down in Heathrow on a beautiful sunny afternoon, what was absent were the euphoria and excitement I was once accustomed to, I felt nothing, but the sordid existence of myself, queuing at border control. At that very moment of solipsistic lucidity, it was clear that localities was hardly the cause of solitude. 
There were all sorts of pseudo-intellectual and pretentious New Yorker type articles elucidating how modern tech-savyy urban dwellers are lonely in a historical perspective. I couldn’t help but to imagine how all sorts of living souls have dealt with loneliness throughout history, the numerous surviving lengthened Victorian love letters and phallic graffitis dotted around Roman ruins all over the Mediterraneans (which might actually outlive human fertility itself) were convincing archaeological evidences of boredom and solitude. It’s rather nihilistic to say that solitude of the self was a perennial state of being. Throughout our lives, we are surrounded by people we love, hate or indifferent to. However, irrespective of how important or travail they are, most of them are just passing through time and space the self is situated in. The inability of our physical essence to exist in absentia of time and space have condemned everyone to people who are just passing through, to nostalgias and blurred memories ,and ultimately destruction. 
And that sudden lamentable lucidity of life which I was involuntarily bestowed with was terrifying. As corny as it sounds, I’ve entered a city of some 8 millions souls and myself, not a city of 7,999,999 souls and the two of us. It’s rather banal and perhaps incorrect to explain this feeling as a genetically coded desire to prolong the survival of my apparently unique gene pool, after all why is it so important to find that one person? This sort of metaphysical inquiry is well beyond my intellectual boundary, but I seem to have conjured a topographical analysis on the absence of love. The solitude of the self have reduced the one of the most beautiful cities in the world to a stuffy locality full of irrelevance, just as how solitude condemned Prague to an existential purgatory for Franz Kafka, perhaps, in my own wilful imagination. 
Well informed of the futility of attempts of perfection in all aspects of life, since ‘there is no perfection only life’, he couldn’t recall when was the last time he woke up to a woman he loves in his arm without an explanation of why he loves her; instead, he woke up in his bodily self thrown into an apathetic void. This deplorable conclusion which I seem to have reached , which reduced me to an mere observer, a temporary visitor of my bodily self and ultimately, in a consequential total absence of burdens, sentenced me to a perennial state of indifference for the self is disinterested in temporary earthly affairs. In solitude, the self is neither assured nor denied the meaning of its existence, for it is not loved nor in love. What am I doing among the dilapidating piles of concrete and bricks under the rain? 

When you return from London and your Auckland bus driver greets and smiles at you



Thanks Bex

(Source: urbnite)

(Source: sonderly)

When another German tourist asks me why there are “so many Asians in the city?”





If there’s one thing that is consistent about London, it’ll be the chaotically inconsistent weather of the British isles. This is indeed, ’ the empire on which the sun never sets ’ for the sun never rises. Nevertheless, even the miserable souls of the British isles, forever condemned with one of the most infamous meteorological disaster under heaven, are not devoid of their redemption. The vast colonies in the exotic tropics might be long gone , but since then we have discovered budget airlines and a place called Spain, woohoo. 
London Town, a place bestowed upon with the best humanity could offer, (few of which are British, London Underground being one of the rare exceptions) even in its gloomiest state, has a place for all. My life is no short of hearing anger and discontent towards London, yet despite its ample transport infrastructures, ideal for a refugee outflow, plenty of rail tracks and bridges for suicidal souls, London has not perished. Quite the contrary, it has offered sanctuaries for all, post-colonials , racists, Marxists, capitalists, the rich, the poor. For someone with a London-centric sense of existence, chaos is certainly the natural states of the universe. Indisputably, London, being heaven’s most generous gift to humanity, accommodates all, existential vacuum, poverty and extravagance  alike. In this enclave of some eight million souls, of both asylum seekers and Russian tycoons, everyone was offered a place. It is indeed chaotic, but nonetheless pluralistic and tolerant, that even those who doesn’t want to be here find it hard to leave.

London weather

It is impossible to register how many complaints we have lodged against the London weather lately, yes, it is shit, miserable, gloomy or to put it nicely: melancholic ,disconsolate or doleful. To make sure that I can enjoy the suicidal pissdrop to its fullest  the sadistic bus driver decided to terminate the bus in a soulless territory: the city. Can you recall the time you wasted tirelessly defending London weather, mate , its not that bad. That’s one more reason for time traveling, go back in time and tell yourself shut the f up.  I get it, rainy nights can be beautiful, you can engage in abstruse philosophisation whilst watching the beautiful diffraction of taillights and street lights through the raindrops on your window, light up a cigaret on your balcony and immerse yourself in the sound of raindrops ( shut it you homophobics). OR, there’s you, all soaked and your lack of creativity determines that your only mode of transport home is to walk. It is exhausting enough being alive, on top of that we have to take care of our body and soul, drag them to an empty house and put them to sleep, at the same time. What I do makes little sense, my mood depends solely on the weather, yet Ive spent the past 4 years chasing rains and winter, the person I chose to love, the food I chose to eat, that jumper I putted on this morning, all of which remains inexplicable thus far. However, they were indeed my choices, choices which I have no choice but to accept. It’s so easy to go all Lana de ray, my fridge is full of dead corpses of other lifeforms whilst lust and hunger deprave me of my soul and leave me with an empty shell. yet the solution is astonishingly simple: lying on a sunny beaches. Again, it makes little sense sitting here fabricating a fraudulent existential crisis, but  sorry London you leave me no choice.  

Window Seat by Matt Low 

Is it wonder? Wistfulness? Whatever it is we all know that feeling when gazing out the window of an airplane. Brooklyn-based photographer Matt Low shot this amazing series showing people in the window seat of a plane gazing out. In this series, called Window Seat, Low explores the universal fascination with looking down from a place far above. Explaining Window Seat, Low says, “The Window Seat series… is my attempt to capture on other peoples faces the feeling I have of being compelled to stare out of the window when I fly. I fly a lot… I find looking down endlessly fascinating–it’s one of the few times that I still get a thrill of child-like amazement… I like to think that on the inside, the people I capture have that feeling too.”

(Source: razorshapes)

In a world where everyone’s a bodybuilder


In a crazy dimension where everyone would look like bodybuilding fanatics, this is how it more or less would look like. Belgian photographer Kurt Stallaert succeeded in creating a realistic series of manipulated photographs envisioning a world of super-human children in an ordinary day-to-day setting. This blend somehow creates an intriguing sense of surreal curiosity that makes you look want to look twice before going to the next picture. 

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El Masnou, Spain (by Ibai Acevedo)



Say hi to Jace and his semi Christmas sweater.

Semi-Christmas = favorite Holiday


Crash Course World History #25 - The Spanish Empire, Silver, & Runaway Inflation

via thecrashcourse:

In which John Green explores how Spain went from being a middling European power to one of the most powerful empires on Earth, thanks to their plunder of the New World in the 16th and 17th centuries. Learn how Spain managed to destroy the two biggest pre-Columbian civilizations, mine a mountain made of silver, mishandle their economy, and lose it all by the mid-1700s. Come along for the roller coaster ride with Charles I (he was also Charles V), Philip II, Atahualpa, Moctezuma, Hernán Cortés, and Francisco Pizarro as Spain rises and falls, and takes two empires and China down with them.


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