All my fault.

“For all that is worth the blood on my hands is the blood of divinities.” [Tiamat]

The path is getting stranger by the day. Stranger and harder.

Divinities.

I have killed many of the so called divinities of modern age. The killing is done inside, not outside. I have killed notions of family, friendship, love. I have killed my so-called parents and faith in blood relatives, I have killed romance, gods and archangels. I have come to comprehend myself as god/dess, and yet the dissatisfaction persists. The need for affection and the yearning persists. And as a result, the sadness is the one constant that never changes or stops. It never wanders afar. It is always at arm's reach. An inexhaustible fountain of ever-overflowing melancholy.

Where is the one for me?

Not those sad imitations of people who walk around hypnotised. Not another candidate for baby sitting, not another candidate for busting my balls. I am sick of it.

When you sleep late at night, do you too feel that something is missing?

Exhausted by yet another day, do you see how futile everything is?

Is it worth fighting for?

Is there any meaning in this endless recycled trouble?

When my soul flies away in the arms of Morpheus, do any of these worries matter?

Where is the one who will remind me that flesh is something more than just a jail, something more refined than future food for worms? Where is the one who will make less sick of my desires, less sick of the whole parody of reproduction?

Why can’t I escape my desire for affection? Why can’t I escape the animal side of flesh?

Where is the one who will make me give up control by not trying to subdue me?

In dreams late at night

you come

whispering

just before wakefulness claims me

and oh how fast reality manages to pull out the knife and stab me in the back.

But it’s my fault.

I am the one who's doing something wrong and I think I know what it is.

I have connected what's natural with the lewd people I experienced it with. I have equated it with them. But the Universe can also provide me with an different experience in order to judge better.

Okay then. Let's concentrate on making this happen...

Shopping spree

Now, I have heard of women who buy shoes as shopping therapy. I've heard of those who buy lingerie, jewellery, cosmetics, you name it, change their hair style, begin yoga lessons or go to beauty salons and let other people smear them with all kinds of gooey, sticky and icky substances.

Never heard of one buying a printer as a shopping therapy. I suppose that makes me a freak of nature? Meh. :-P

Still have not found any salons where sensible, well-developed young men give you a massage and then screw you till your eyeballs pop out. :-)

Yes, I am buying magazines with Japanese singers again. And my friend K. is downloading porn with Asian men for me. Again. God bless her (un)holy fingertips and her gift-bringing, eye-bulging, orgasm-sharing internet connection, I have nekkid Asians in my hard drive, in various stages of getting hard for my eyes only. Bless you girl. That latest Thai one was... mmmgrrr. Mew!

The problems Asian rock stars present me with are endless, and my hormones are presently cascading like a waterfall from the mount Venus. First of all, it's the glitter and the eye-liner they use. Why oh why? Why not let me draw on their skinny bodies with pieces of praline? Where is the sense in getting onstage to sing wearing only bits of fur and suspenders? Why is my rabid grace endlessly tortured with pictures of boys who barely reach my nose, all made up like a present, hairless and skinny, with ding-dongs that look like my finger? (That latest bit I choose to ignore on the grounds that, with another race, I'll never have the chance to fuck with a male someone who wears more make-up than I do and looks prettier in a skirt than I). Even worse, what in the name of Buddha was God/dess thinking when S/he placed them at the other side of the globe? (probably their safety...)

On the happy side of nonsensical news, here is a new video by Dir En Grey. I am sure K. will appreciate watching her precious Die (the charming guitarist who resembles a hardcore Yakuza criminal) with his arms covered in what looks like infected dragon scales. I surely enjoyed it. Kyo is singing in his usual amazing style, like a man who accidentally swallowed first a smurf, than half a dozen frogs and finally a pit demon. The bassist is one of the most exquisite creatures you can hope to come across, with a neck that can make even a zealot vampire hunter develop strange urges. And the drummer... Mmmm. Pistachio.

*Mmmmm*. Busy licking imaginary neck right now. Talk to you later.