I am writing a poem for someone who has been by my side ever since the day I was born. If it turns out to be a half decent one, I'll publish it here. Generally speaking, I avoid uploading poetry here because anyone can take it and say it's theirs and publish it. It is the same reason I have never posted any of my short stories here. But I don't think this poem is such a big success anyway. Contrary to the person it talks about.
Life is becoming stranger and stranger. In the past I used to read my cards. Lately I am having talks with supernatural entities while being wide awake and under no influence of anything (except for a Greek milk chocolate bar with almonds). They tell me things, things I am not sure I want to know or do something about. Then I go home and read my tarot cards to see if I have gone nuts or not, and the cards verify the "conversation" I had had earlier on. Aaaaaaarggghhhh... *miserable moan* I am not sure I want to know all that. Hell, I am not sure if I want to be reading books as a pasttime and know that the writer made a deal with a supernatural entity to become famous. How do I know this? Oh, it's just the energy feedback I get. I feel like I am eating entrails of still living infants stuffed with cockroaches, that's all. And the fact I am yawning like I haven't slept for ten days, or there is a yawning contest. I am not sure I want to look at people and know so many details, know that they have hidden motivations and entities attached to them, know what their souls are like, know why they do the things they do. Ignorance is bliss indeed. But I can't help but wonder, what. The. Fuck. Don't other people feel it? Don't they realise there is something WRONG, fundamentally wrong with the book they are reading or the person they are talking with? Am I too sensitive? Too weird? Too picky? Is it all in my head? What is wrong with me? Is it wrong with me or with them?
Questions multiply by water, answers are scarcer than unicorn shit, as a friend says.