Thursday, August 20, 2015

Lacrimosa



 

There is no changing what we are.
There is no changing what we feel. Or is there? 

I am struggling inside my mind, layers upon layers of fetters and conditioning.
My mind resides inside a physical form that places more fetters around my existence.
My body exists inside a society, a preexistent construction that has its own rules and ideas, bringing more fetters in the equation.
My society is a country presently entrapped in a state of economical war with other countries, and I have no future to look forward to, no way to realise my dreams.
As if all the fetters inside weren’t enough, I am also trapped outside and there is no place to run to. I am stranded on a hostile planet with no escape. 

There is nothing for me here. Only the brief repose of reading a book, watching a movie, writing, talking to a friend, when time ceases to exist and that pain abates for a little while.

You tell me to keep on struggling, that better days will come, that this is not all that is, and there is hope.

Maybe there is. But right now all I see is darkness. I have struggled with all those fetters for years, and more fetters come to replace those I have removed and broken with so much effort. I feel buried under them. I cannot breathe. I keep pushing on, blind, broken, angry, furious with rage. I am blind rage and nothing more. Rage is the only thing remaining to fuel me. Sadness does not count.

There is so much blood on my hands, such a burden on my soul. This time I did not kill anyone. This lifetime I played by the rules, and gained a room with a view in prison.

I want out. I want to live. I want even the pretence of living. I want something I cannot have. I want bliss, and the brief moments I have experienced it make me even sadder for knowing what I miss. I want out of here. Out of this fucking planet. Out of this existence. Everything hurts. Every single thing I see cuts me and burns me and hurts me. I am an exposed nerve, and no matter how well I hide, if I make the mistake of walking out and looking at anything else than the trees, something appears to hurt me. From the piece of litter I see on the ground to the contemptuous glance a passerby gives to another passerby, everything hurts and overwhelms me. I am exhausted. I want to rest. I don’t understand anything anymore. I don’t know what I am doing wrong. Maybe this world isn’t for me. Maybe I am not made for this world. Maybe it was all a mistake.

I just want to rest. I want to close my eyes and sleep and never wake up again. I am so tired. So sick of struggling. So sick of fighting to gain what others take for granted. Everything is a struggle and a battle and I am so disgusted of existing just to suffer and flail and achieve nothing.

I want to do nothing. But there is so much I need to do. From mundane tasks to personal projects, there is so much I need to do. And if I open the door and step out of this life, even if something good happens I won’t be there to see it.

That’s what I tell myself and persuade her not to do anything stupid.

I don’t know for how long this will keep me here.
I don’t know how much time I have left before I break completely and don’t care anymore.
For today, it is enough. Tomorrow is another struggle.
One day at a time. One breath at a time.
We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.
That’s my girl.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Been here before...

Horizon



My soul is careworn and homesick

a balloon that lost

most of its gas,

and cannot take flight anymore,

nor can it

lie,

on humanity’s

concrete streets that go

nowhere in particular;

only build

a maze of lust

and wasted possibilities.
I wrote this poem on the 22nd of April, 2006. More than nine years ago, and tonight I feel exactly the same way. So, what's new? Nothing, I guess. For all my efforts, I am still at the same place.

(The pictures are for reference reasons. It's all doom and gloom around this time in my mind. So yeah.)

http://indigojester.tumblr.com/post/121292190841

Saturday, August 15, 2015

Because f*ck you.


Source: http://indigojester.tumblr.com/post/124153458911/socialpsychopathblr-photographer-rina

Let me tell you one of my  personality traits. One thing I don't enjoy is routine. Repetitive tasks kill my enthusiasm like nothing else. Regular spellweaving very easily becomes a chore, unless I do something different every time. The problem with magick is the same you face with exercise. If you want to see results, you need to be methodical, hard-working and mostly REGULAR at what you do. Especially if there is a small army opposing your efforts, who wants to see you in the shit, and they work constantly. You see, those who hate you don't forget you. You may be living in green la-la land, merrily watching your favourite series and reading books and so on, but they aren't as happy-go-lucky or hare-brained as you are. (Talking about myself here). I remember the anecdote about the pilgrim who asked a holy man, "if I loved God with all my heart and being, how many lifetimes would I need to become enlightened?" and the holy man replied, "five." "And how many would I need if I hated and despised Him?" the pilgrim asked. "Three," the holy man replied. "I don't understand," the pilgrim said. "If you hated Him, you would be thinking of nothing else all day long," the holy man observed. And he was right. 

So spellweaving it is. Focused and regular, otherwise the waves of negativity sweep you off course and don't allow you to resurface and take a breath. They aren't sporadic. They keep coming when you least expect it. Energy is sentient and follows the path of least resistance. As soon as you lower your guard, it slips in from the smallest crack in your defences. As a result, last night found me on the stairs to the rooftop, considering my options. I had to do something about the new moon. I was bored as hell and didn't want to. The drill sergeant in my head told me to quit my bellyaching and get on with it, and reminded me of what happens when I don't spellwork regularly.

I opened the door, cursing under my breath. Pleasant surprise number one awaited. The sky was covered by clouds, and clouds have the fantastic ability to illuminate the night. There was a pinkish(?) light everywhere, strong enough to see clearly in spite of the dark. Second pleasant surprise: the air was damp and cool on my face, although my room had been stifling. I could see the clouds descending from the mountain like cotton candy and sense the moisture in the air. Irregular raindrops landed on my face and the cicadas were deafening. It was beautiful.

I put the MP3 headphones in my ears and took a deep breath. This is what happens every time I decide to step out of my self-imposed imprisonment in my room and go to the rooftop. On the way there I am bored and nag about leaving my familiar routine. But once out there, I feel relieved and silly for my grumbling. It is a different world, with other rules, and you can leave all your problems behind for a while. 

It wasn't long before I found myself dancing to this   https://youtu.be/WJUZHiYX0XE and also this https://youtu.be/X7gSphrz-I0?list=PL7zVxNbF_jC3ZWDGaLbixJ5FXvGfYYaq9. Both taken from this amazing youtube channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC_dPXkUPztbPrRF_O4BqAvA. The beauty of it is the irrationality of it. I am  a woman nearing her 40s (it still seems impossible!) and last night at 04:00 am I was dancing on my rooftop to the sounds of an Irish jig, smiling as if I was on drugs. Why? Because fuck you. Because I could, and also because the best spells are spontaneous ones that overflow with feeling. And because I was having fun, so much fun it should be illegal. Who knows, maybe if they find out they will make that illegal, too. 

We need more happiness in this world. We have too many robots as it is. We need more lunatics dancing on rooftops at 4 in the night, in the embrace of clouds and solitude. We could benefit from less uptightness. Of course, one can argue that I am trying to present my oddity as something normal, but you know what? Fuck you. I've lived my entire life as an outcast because I speak my mind. I've spent years suffering. And I am not going to let anyone lecture me about what is right. I know. Oh hell yes, I know. Nothing is real, everything is permitted. So long as your choices don't restrict anyone's future freedom of choice (yours included) then do what thou wilt.

I am off to eat some home-made marmalade. Be naughty and happy.