Blood tidings

[Beautiful art by http://feimo.deviantart.com]

And yet that night she spoke to you.

She had not spoken to you countless times that you craved her presence more than dear life. But that night she spoke to you, and endless days without her by your side vanished in a blink.

In a dream she came to you.

Be careful, my love, she whispered.

And the sweetness of your native tongue on her beloved lips was a gift you were not prepared for. Yet she gave it just the same.

Dead, you said, before you could stop yourself, head spinning, heart beating out of control. You're dead, aren't you?

But her sensation was more real than anything in your waking life for the past twenty years, and the pain was more that you could stand. Blinding and crippling, like death itself. You shakily extended your hand and found hers in the near darkness of that room, and it was the hand you knew, small and warm and beloved. Something broke inside you then and you found yourself on your knees.

Stay with me, you whispered. Please.

But the only thing that stayed with you when you opened your eyes were your tears.

My beloved Japanese pixie yells his pain out in what feels like gusts of wind. And I write, because there is nothing else I can do. Nothing else.

I am sorry, Mr Takeshi.

The Fool

I have spent the entire past hour editing parts of past posts. Youtube has deleted lots of videos due to copyright claims and I had them embedded on my blog. :-( And since I always choose the music/ pictures accompanying my texts with the utmost care in order to enhance the effect of my writing, it is nothing less than frustrating.

Oh well.

Last night found me wandering the streets again. Night? Five in the morning. I could not sleep. I was angry, and wanted to save the culprit (my mother) from a nasty if silent death by pillow smothering. So I was walking like a person on drugs in the wee hours of the night, hands in pockets, disheveled, dirty hair half hiding my face and a thin t-shirt on. When I went out, I was not thinking. It did not take me long to verify it, as soon I was shivering from the morning cold. But then walking made me warm. Made me feel a little better.

I cannot find the edge of this fucking stage comedy that we call reality. I am sure, you see, that if I find the edge and give it a hearty pull, this entire parody of life will just peel off like an old poster and reveal what's behind, and then someone will give me some explanations. They should better. But no matter how frantically I try to find the edge of the reality poster with my fingertips there is nothing to pull on, no edge, not even a hint! Gods damn all the lemon sorbet ice creams on the planet, there is no lead to pull at. And this leaves me walking at five in the sodding morning, only to return home and discover I'm still angry and cannot sleep even though it is daybreak and I have to get up in less than two hours.

Hell and damnation, there is not even discolouring or a tell-tale little unevenness around the edges. Not a hint. Nothing. Nothing at all. Because I know I can pull the damn thing down if only I could find that little edge. Those bastard reality architects really did their homework well this time. They know me too well, you see. They know I'm crazy enough to actually pull.

Hmph.

Strange stars are brewing in the skies lately, foretelling of your death, oh mighty one. Your time is almost done. Do you feel it?

Play with me.

You run after me but I am faster.

I am not a rabbit.

You think yourself a wolf, a mastermind. And you certainly are.

Yet every dog has its day and your day is long past.

I let you give chase and whenever you think you have me cornered I bite.

Chunks of angel flesh between dragon teeth.

Feathers on the ground.

And the day comes.

It will be my turn to give chase and much to your horror you'll realise I actually mean business.

So who's been playing with whom all along?

So many questions and no answers. Dark windows in the darkest hour before morning, empty streets echoing the footsteps of the lonely, the stark mad, the unwanted.

Hear my footsteps, then. And run, little wolf. Run for dear life.

Your kingdom is forfeit.

"You did not dream of us, you miserable creature. We dreamt of you. We gave birth to you in dreams, before reality existed, and this is how you repay us."

[Arachne to a liar writer- then again, all writers are liars...]