Much to tell, nothing I can write about here...

[photo by http://lesta.deviantart.com]

Okay. Here we go. Just a bit, to keep both me and you happy. Or perhaps hungry.

Thought that has been pestering me for the past two days and need to get it out: to make a specific someone close his eyes and start breathing lightly on the soft skin over his eyelids. Then touch him with my lips. Not kiss him. Caress him with my mouth, let him feel the breath, the source of heat inside the mouth, a bit of the wetness inside. Open my mouth and use the lower lip to leave just a hint of that wetness on the light curve of the eyelid. You know how when we close our eyes all our senses are augmented; so just imagine lying on bed with your eyes shut and feeling this. Another human being on top of you, breathing lightly over your eyes. You can hear their breath, the light rustle of their body as they move on bed, limbs and cloth on the covers, the shifting of weight. Their smell close to you- clean clothes and clean body. The heat of another body close to yours. The way your entire body craves more touch, but all you can feel is the ghost of touch over your eyes. No fingers. No body. Nothing testifying that there is another someone close to you save for a breath. It could have been a hallucination. Right?

When the clothes are off, so many people lose most of their charm.

I think you'd shine from the inside.

There is a core in you that shines like the rarest diamond, dulled only by the fire of egotism.

But angels have always been egotistical creatures, presuming their way is the only way, presuming they know everything. Why should you be any different?

You belong to the order of death and messages.

I am a wildcard as you yourself discovered recently. One of the first. Crazy lot, those ones.

I don't think we can get along. Or rather we can. The ocean will swallow you whole just like you fear and let you on the coast once more, half drowned and weak like a newborn kitten.

You've done this once already. The second time might just kill you.

Perhaps you should step back this time.

I feel like doing something stupid tonight.

But I have no idea what this could be.

Sometimes I wish I had superpowers just so that I could jump from one rooftop to the next when I am THAT much bored. Or land next to some irritating fuckhead in the middle of the night to make them pee in their pants. Yet if we keep in mind that I am about as fit as your average sloth, I would end up beaten up as well as used to wipe the floor clean. What a super-heroine...

If it was early I would probably dress up and walk the streets. Or go buy some ice-cream. It does not matter that I am alone. I can always take a book with me and eat my ice-cream dressed like a medieval lady... But it is not that early to begin with and I am too bored.

The sense I miss more than anything else when I wake up is flying. And what pisses me off more than anything else is my inability to bring specific items from over there to over here. No matter how hard I try to concentrate and how firmly I grab them in the dream world, I fail to bring them over here. I often open my eyes and start looking furiously on my pillow, under my bed, under the covers. No success as of yet. But I am stubborn. Or motivated, if you prefer.

I feel a bit inclined to blow the universe tonight. However I did blow it in the afternoon and I think once is enough. The energy blast must have rearranged reality on a global scale. Hey, don't you give me that look. When we change ourselves, that minute portion of reality that we have power over, we change the entire universe. So no sympathy looks for my mental condition, thank you very much. The only side effect of my type of reiki/magic/sex on reality is the number of times I visit the restroom afterwards. Small price to pay. No alien invasion, no going insane (at least more than what I already am), no R'lye rising from the watery abyss. Hell, not even the electricity bill paid by magic. This is some shitty magic that I practice. Literally.

At least I re-read something that made me smile. Neil Gaiman has written some very small short stories to describe fifteen cards from a vampire tarot. Those texts are published as introduction to 'The art of Vampire the Masquerade' by White Wolf. My favourite is the one he wrote for the Tower.

The Tower

The tower's built of spit and spite,

Without a sound, without a sight.

The biter bit, the bitter bite.

(It's better to be out at night.)

I know it does not necessarily ring any bells for you, but it does for me. Who knows why certain things affect us the way they do? Yet the more I look at it the more it makes me smile. A perfect short story. Ideas waiting to be used. The word and sound play of the third line. Ah... Just perfect.

I have not role played for five years now. Time is there to remind us to be on our toes.

Maybe I should try to type a short story I wrote last December. I know at least one person who would love to read it. Perhaps she is crazy, but she says she wants to read it. So why not.

I am confused.

I invoked the demon of bad humor to possess me about five minutes ago. But I do not feel that evil tingling in my stomach and spine that tells me the demon is here yet. Perhaps s/he is busy helping lawyers worldwide. Therefore I will busy myself too and burn some more incense and frilly underwear later.

I am stranded at the net cafe right now, and though I want to go home and take a nice hot relaxing shower, lie face down on my bed with my fat cat purring next to me and a book placed on my pillow, I can't. My mother is at home. It is amazing; she can turn me from a disjointed, if harmless human being, to a curse-spitting sonar-screech emitting flailing berserker in milliseconds. So the net cafe it is. I don't go home before one in the morning that she's gone. I suffer from continual sleep deprivation thanks to her and my own stupidity. Because when I finally go home, instead of dropping dead on my bed, I do such things as shower, enjoy long luxurious craps with my nose stuck in multicoloured magazines stashed in the sink for this exact purpose, squeeze pimples, try to understand why there is an empty box of pizza under a manga under some CDs under my underwear under some other books on the bed with my cat sleeping on them, etc. I have developed amazing juggling skills. I can retrieve items from the pile I just described without disturbing the pile or the cat. I can even locate things after the appropriate ass scratching and pondering and sacrifices to the appropriate demigod. Usually this involves me ritualistically upturning heaps of items and throwing them at all directions while using colourful language and special gestures, such as pulling at my hair, banging my head on walls and closets -accidentally or otherwise-, pretending I have three legs in order to walk on the sea of items I have created without the tell-tale crunching sounds informing me I have just stepped on a limited edition CD, balancing on tiptoe of one leg while using both hands to hold onto place a avalanche of CDs intend on surfing on my head AND holding some books with the other leg, etc. So after all the struggling usually it is very late and I sleep at 03:30 am instead of 01:00. Needless to say, the next day I have all the intellectual capacity of something that's been dead for four days and the fluidity and graceful movement of a pregnant elephant. I am sure that one of these days my mother will come home early in the morning and will find me sat on the toilet, dead asleep, with my head resting on the sink, slowly drooling on the pages of the magazine I will still be holding, and with my cat sleeping on my back.

Not in the mood for jokes.

I am in a weird state of mind.

Not exactly happy.

Not exactly sad.

Not very angry either. Once more I have managed to balance between the constant need to inflict violence and the overwhelming desire to be gentle in the way my family and close ones never were to me.

Time is pressing me. There is no such thing as time, time is an illusion of the mammalian brain, and yet I am pressed for time. Isn't this ironic? One of the nicest things I read on a tea tag recently was "we are spiritual beings having a human experience." When my time comes, I will miss having a body, though I am not too certain what to do with it presently.

Watching the above video with gorgeous Gackt I can't help but wish I lived somewhere else. Somewhere or perhaps sometime I could pull a sword and hear the gut-warming sound a perfectly balanced, razor-sharp blade makes while unsheathed swiftly. The slashing and hissing of a good sword through air is a song I have missed, and something my soul still murmurs at nights between red dreams and vague memories.

I don't think I will ever forgive myself for choosing a female body this lifetime. I can understand the reasons, they are more than justifiable, but this doesn't make me hate it any less. I don't have a problem with my body per se, but I certainly have a very serious problem with the fact my sex needs to be penetrated in order to mate. I hate the man who sees me naked no matter who he is, I resent the hands that touch me for they defile me. I don't want to be entered. I do not want to have a vagina. I do not enjoy being the receiving part. It fills me with terror and rage to belong to the sex that has been systematically abused, forced, victimized and tortured for the fact we are designed to receive. I feel irate for the way this world treats my sex. Yet there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I can stay away from relationships for the rest of my life; I have already been almost five years without one, but from a point onward this is cowardice. And I am anything but a coward. I would rather be accused of being a serial killer than a coward.

I hate myself for desiring that which makes me sick. I hate myself for choosing to be incarnated and live the life I did. I'd rather be somewhere else. Give me a horse and a sword and a woman to love me and I would be nice to her in ways beyond imagination. Or give me just a sword and nothing else. Just let me be. I don't want to be female anymore. Or if I am to be female please take me somewhere else. I can't stand those creatures who call themselves men anymore. They turn my guts.

[Funny to consider the fact my best friend is male and he's one of the four most respectful people I know. It is not men I have a problem with. It is not men that are twisted out of shape and suffer for it, but society as a whole.]

eYE cANdy

Today I feel artistic.

Truly artistic!

Chaos...

There is nothing wrong with chaos. Chaos is a natural state of things. Much more natural than the fake, strict order we strive to enforce. If we just left chaos alone to do its job, perhaps we would comprehend how open it is to new realities/actualities and how perfect in its apparent lack of order. But people fear that which they cannot control or understand.

I am pretty much a chaotic disciplinarian, if that makes sense. I fight tooth and claw to let go of control, often with comic results. Control what? Myself, my environment, others? What for? To feel safe? The only certainty is change. The only certainty is death, the transmutation of energy in its purest form, the thing you can bet your ass will happen. All the rest are possibilities, actualities waiting to be shaped. Why not ride the wave of reality and let it take you? If you let it, you might discover it unerringly takes you where your soul needed to be all along.

So many people bother with the occult because they want to satisfy their silly little mind games and power games. They gather knowledge for the sake of knowledge and learn by heart the three million names of god and the correspondences of all the planets with all the whatever, the secret names of stringless beans of another dimension. They throw in physics, math, ritualistic sacrifices, their bed sheets as garments, their period and various chemicals of dubious nature. They fuck, or they don't fuck, or yell their guts out to make their chakra vibrate. They invoke spirits, dissect frogs, bleed their eyes out over birth charts, eat nothing or their own shit or someone else's shit, imported directly from the Himalayas. OK, if that does it for you, I suppose my opinion is irrelevant, but can I ask you one persistent question? Just one? Why? Why do you go through all this trouble since you haven't done any actual work on your relationship with yourself? How can you possibly be sailing to discover the miracles of faraway lands and kill their monsters when you have your own house dirty, undiscovered and in ruins? When monsters lurk under your bed at night and you have no fucking dignity to admit to yourself you are going through all this trouble to feel powerful- and therefore safe? You can be master of the fucking universe for all I care, but PLEASE, for the love of whatever you hold sacred, admit to yourself you are as afraid now as you were when you started out on your journey. Don't admit it to me. Don't even say it out loud. Grow a fucking will and leave the spirit manipulation for later on. Learn not to take everything personally, learn to trust in yourself, stay out of other people's way and then bother with love spells. Try to grow some personality and break your idiotic patterns and then learn to grow homunculi, or inflict curses. First be human and we'll see about superhuman...

I am not saying I have accomplished these things myself. I have not. But at least I am not feigning ignorance; I know what my problem is and don't attribute it to outside forces, curses and opponents. The only target I have and the only thing I'm working on is myself. The outside will inevitably follow.

My beast is beautiful, my beast is gorgeous. And it loves me to its last breath...

Rest

[To see the light failing inside someone's eyes, to feel their breath faltering on your fingers, to hear their very last heartbeat. Then silence. Then stillness.]

There's a monster on the loose inside me and it cannot be comforted, no matter what. No blood can sate its hunger. No entrails can fill its gut. No fingers can caress its claws and no kiss can put it to sleep. It wanders all alone inside my head, crying out its anger and loneliness, its hurt, its frustration, its disgust. And it only wishes for the pain to go away though it is made from that very substance. It is on the loose again, dining with empty words, feeding on lies, living off anger and fear. Pregnant with possibilities.

Come and embrace me. Your claws will hurt me. Your fangs will draw blood from my shoulder. Your breath will make me sick. It is okay. Come and embrace me, rest in my arms. There is one place you can call home now and forever more. I love you. I love me. Now sleep.

[The entire winter sky is dying inside your eyes as your soul departs.]