Not certain anymore

You say that you miss my wisdom, but my wisdom (if I can call it such) is telling me one thing. I am scared. Very scared and very sad. I no longer know which direction to take so I sit and stare at nothing.

Any better options out there?

And I still pick at scabs

and my mind won't let me rest

and I cannot take one deep clear breath.

My only wish is not death. In the past it would have been death, but it is not anymore.

Now I pray for rain.

It will come like a gift from the heavens and wash away every moment, good and bad.

It will free me.

I will melt like sugar, become smudged like a watercolour picture and hide in the reflections of the wet pavement. Slip away like a dream. Not exist anymore.

That would be so nice.

Everything would take care of itself afterwards.

Why am I here if there is no place for me?

Why am I here if this reality disagrees with me?

For just how longer will I be able to carve a breathing space in the rock with my nails?

Why should life be about this?

I have no answers.

I have nothing.

I am, in reality, nothing.

A dream that strayed.

Please let me leave.

Facebook

Home sleeping. This is what I should be doing right now. But I am not. What comfort can sleep offer to a restless mind? Rhetorical question.

Many people are bugging me to get in Facebook in order to be in contact and chat with them. But I don't want to be in contact 24/7. Even if I had the time, I don't want people to see my photos. I can't bother to take photos of myself in swimming suit and full makeup to acquire more "friends". I don't want all my ex boyfriends to know who, and if I am fucking someone presently. I have no desire to meet new people or meet friends from the old. If they were meant to be my friends still, then they would be my friends, here and now. I don't want to meet my friends from school. I had none most of the time. I still at this age see nightmares about being in school and wake up gasping for breath. I was 15 and reading Lovecraft, listening to metal music and loved vampires. No-one considered me normal or trendy enough to be friends with me. Why would I want to meet again all those who made fun of what they could not understand? To be asked if I am working in a highly paid job, have two kids and a husband? Do I owe them, or anyone else an answer? What I do is my personal business. Even if I work as a prostitute, sniff coke and pluck my toenails out with pliers, I owe no-one explanations.

God/dess dammit, I still read Lovecraft and listen to metal music and love vampires.

I don't want to be part of any team of people. I am a very private person. I don't want to have to deal with the politics, cliques and whatnots of any group of people. Yes, I feel lonely. But my loneliness has to do with mortality, with the fact I am one separate entity cursed and blessed with the isolation and confines of one single mind. I have no delusions about "being understood" by others. We all filter reality through the personality we have developed, which is mostly a result of our experiences. Even identical twins who have grown together have different personalities, though they see their own reflection every time they look at the other twin. Even identical twins at the end of the day are alone.

No, I don't think that Facebook can make my loneliness go away. I don't think that watching photos of abs and nearly exposed breasts has any insight to add to my understanding of reality. I don't want to talk with "like-minded others" (read between the lines: they listen to the same music or read the same books, but what about the way they treat actual people?) and I don't think what I am in need of is more friends. Perhaps I am unfair towards those people who use Facebook and enjoy themselves and indeed find what they're looking for. But obviously I am not looking for the same things.

Odds and ends

"Where is our fortunate future? When does our fortunate future come?"

*I love the night. I love to take long walks during the small hours. However, were I to live in darkness for the rest of my life, unless my eyesight became nocturnal too, I would miss the colours of nature very much...

*I find it hard to sleep on my back. Then again, tiredness works miracles.

*My sense of hearing and smell have become more acute lately. It does not work to my advantage.

*Most of the time I am certain I am invisible. When I receive compliments by men, I feel immediately alarmed. I am sure they have something bad in mind.

*When I start conversing, actually conversing with people, they either irritate me, disgust me, or both.

"For all that is worth/ the blood on my hands/ is the blood of divinities."

*In my happiest moments I have always been alone. I don't think this will change no matter what happens. The purest contentment is always found inside one's own self. I have recently come to the conclusion that happiness while being with others presupposes a rather naive mind. I've recently also come to the conclusion I am very damaged.

*Beautiful images attack all my senses to the point of actual physical pain.

*I use music the same way others use class A drugs.

*I don't like being touched, hugged, fondled or petted for more than ten seconds at a time, any time.

"I will scream as much as I want and if my voice dies, then let my voice die."

*I can't sleep unless I have a pillow between my legs. Failing to find that extra pillow, I place both hands, a jacket, or anything else I can find.

*I think humans go contrary to nature in a million different ways. The concept of females beautifying themselves is alien to nature; in all cases, the male has to be beautiful and make highly ritualistic approaches for the female to choose him.

* In the blowing of the wind I hear the trees chatter away and share secrets. I wish I could understand what they say.

*I'll always regret not becoming chaos in its most refined, unstoppable form. I'll always regret not leaving behind me a trail of corpses. I'll never, never stop hungering for destruction. All behind the perfect mask.

"Your scars, my love, show me your scars... What a delicate pattern they must dance across your heart..."

*I sometimes marvel at the ease with which people trust. The human body is so fragile, and yet with how much eagerness they entrust it to perfect strangers. Look at me. An utterly inconspicuous nobody. So simple to take someone home. So easy to get on top of a brain dead, excited male. The wall next to bed. My hand on his head. One sudden, decisive push. I am strong. The blunt item in my hand as he is shocked and dizzy. End of game. Only trouble, getting rid of the body. Could I live with myself afterwards? How many times a day do I step on an insect and don't even realise it? What is the difference between the average human and a cockroach? The fact they plead once they realise what's going on? Perhaps cockroaches plead too, if we could hear them. And girls... Girls look so pretty when they're scared out of their wits. Big eyes. Tender big eyes and lovely soft parts on their bodies. I could be the woman you ogle at a bar. I could be someone you have known for the past five years and have never ever given you reason to doubt or suspect me. I am the woman some of you have known for years and you don't doubt or suspect me. How can you know the kind of strange flowers that take root and bloom in my garden? You can't.

"In the dark morning I hear you whisper goodbye. Love me. Abandon hope."

*There are days I see those women in their sixties or seventies, with dead eyes and dead souls. They have nothing to look forward to and nothing good to recall. Becoming one of them is my greatest nightmare.

*Sometimes, the greatest act of heroism is to keep on living.

Wandering

...aimlessly. From one stupid site to the next.

Checking mails. No. Nothing of value in my mailbox.

Ebay. I don't want to buy anything, thank you.

It all looks tempting, but empty.

Blog. What the hell am I doing here anyway?

What is it that I'm supposed to find and I can't?

Where is the link I am looking for?

Perhaps I ought to be asleep already.

My dreams are much more interesting.

If only I could remember them.

Small steps

Tattoo number two is at place. Now both forearms are decorated on the inside, in a rather unusual way for a girl. Then again, I am a rather unusual girl from what I gather.

I am sick and tired of those who come to me with problems they have absolutely no intention of solving and then get mad when I tell them so. It happened today. Then again, I have no patience and I owe no-one explanations. They can just take their leave from my life. I am not expecting anyone to solve their problems. But I surely expect them to keep them for themselves since they love them so much that they can't part with them. I have enough of my own. The fact I tend to keep them for myself or talk about them only to people I trust does not mean I have no problems. So let's try not to screw my nerves and turn them to shreds, eh? I'd appreciate it.

I've hit rock bottom concerning things I want to do. I mostly let things happen to me. And things do happen. Short stories and poems, fights because I am forced to reclaim my space and kick intruders out, little creatures coming out to greet me and me shitting myself (hehe, some occult practitioner that I am xD), total strangers considering me a blessing while friends are turning to strangers, or are rediscovered as the weeds that they are. Life goes on with me following suit. And there is nothing I want to do anymore. Perhaps this is trust; perhaps I am dead and rotting while still conveniently walking around. However I am calmer than what I have been in years. I suppose this is as good a compass as any.

Now all I have to do is find a way to lose my tummy so that I can once more fit in tighter pants. Maybe I can forget it in a bar and someone else will accidentally pick it up? :-D

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.]

I am angry.

I am angry because one of the people in my building is throwing away the courier notifications and two packets that I have ordered have arrived ten days now already and no-one told me. I am pissed off because I went against my personal code that more or less tells me to mind my own business and not interfere with other people's blogs and comments. In the aftermath, I feel I lost valuable time- and time is the only thing that cannot be replaced, bought or brought back. I am also pissed off because of a million other things- because of the person that calls herself my mother and she doesn't know how lucky she is I have not used a pillow to kill her in her sleep. I am raging mad at the fact people have a very sick idea of what human relationships should be like and consider this normal. I am hopping mad at the fact I have to deal with this really twisted way of viewing reality on a daily basis with everyone, save for four whom I consider actual friends. I am disappointed because I want to have more tattoos done and need to wait. I am disgusted by the fact some people consider a torrent of swearwords and flame the standard way of communication in internet, because they don't show their ugly mugs and don't use their real names, so it is safe to be insulting towards everyone else. I am even more mad at the ones who call themselves open-minded but the only humor they considered approved is their own. I am generally, totally officially and awfully ANGRY and know just the way to deal with it. I will listen to the two GazettE cds that arrived today a few more times and enjoy those pretty Japanese boys in action.

In other news, I am happy I have not yet succumbed to the sirens singing in my head to send a few people directly to their next incarnation. Because I am sure that if I want to, I can. Who will stop me? And it is not like they are offering something by being here, quite the contrary. But then again, the worst thing these people do to someone is turning them into a version of themselves. And I will serve no-one, not even my wrath. I will not change myself for their sake. I will not change myself for the sake of anyone but myself. I can see your faces, thinking, owww, the poor thing probably broke a nail and she wants to kill the manicurist. Hahaha- I wish. I wish my problems were of this kind. I wish I was one of those unthinking blobs of meat out there. I wish the pain would stop. But the pain never stops. I wish I could at least befriend it but it keeps biting me, the damn thing.

I can't.

I can't put my finger on what's bothering me. I have been like this for days. It's like I am expecting something but I am not expecting anything, anymore. I simply exist in the center of a whirlwind. Envelopes arrive in the post-their contents fail to keep my interest for more than an half an hour at most. E-mails arrive in my inbox- I feel dissatisfied and bored to even read them, let alone answer them. People arrive at my doorstep- I chit chat and go with the flow. I don't really care.

It's not like I sit flat on my ass doing nothing. I am doing more and more important things than ever before in my life, but I somehow lost the silver thread that connects me to reality and my feelings. I run around like a headless chicken, confused to the utmost and delirious with need for something I cannot identify or capture. Someone may say to me that I need to find a partner, fall in love again- last time was in 2000. I will not accept this. I am my own center, my own person. If this happens again, it does, if it doesn't, it doesn't. And anyway, I need more than those pale imitations of people that I see around me to fall in love again. I know the one I need, but he is so many miles and months away that it's like he lives in a different reality. So love is out of the question, and lust is not my cup of tea. What now?

Go on, I suppose. Eat lots of ice cream to deal with the hormones and punch all my pillows to deal with the disappointment. Right? Right.

Wrong.

Contemplating...

I need. Constantly I need. Mental provocation, beautiful pictures, interesting conversations, something to busy my hyperactive brain with. I need something to keep me occupied. Boredom is not an option with so many different interests and yet I am tired of being the only one to keep myself busy all the time. Someone else should do that too. Someone other than me, a third party.

Sometimes I see all those people in fancy clothes and wish I could go out. The thought makes me very excited. Yet, whenever I do go out, the excitement soon dies as there is no-one gutsy enough to approach me. And even if they do come, they are just normal people, full of phobias, insecurities, stuff they try to hide. They are pitifully plain inside, even if outside they hold some promise. Yes, beauty is a form of genius and desire the only god I'll ever allow to drag me around chained. Yes, I am arrogant and conceited. I am pride and wrath from the seven deadly sins. I will not judge people for being plain or boring, but at the same time won't touch them with a six foot pole. No-one gave me my knowledge for free, no-one made me mature by magic. I have won every single bit of knowledge and maturity that I possess with effort, disappointment and pain, so forgive me for being demanding as to whom I spend time with. I am not average. But there is a cost to all this. I am alone. I have friends, but when I lie in bed at night, there is no-one in those dark hours. No friend and no lover can kill this beast late at night. My loneliness feeds me and kills me at the same time.

I know it is all part of the maturing process. I know I have to be patient and not worry. I know all those things. It does not make it any easier. Knowledge not accompanied by facts offers little or no comfort. I feel that I cannot connect to people on any level anymore. I don't know why. Time passes and I get lost deeper into the world of archetypes. Problems my friends have move me little or not at all and I have to do what is expected from me while wondering inside why I feel indifferent if not impatient with them. I go half hardheartedly through the motions with them while I may burst to tears while reading an article or a book. Is it me holding back? Have I become incapable of befriending and feeling for others? I really don't know.

My beautiful dragon, do you sleep curled, like I do, licking your wounds and shame? Would you share your shame? Since love is out of the question, then perhaps we can lick each other's wounds.

Come.

Happiness is a state of mind

...that I do not seem capable of reaching lately. :-) It is okay. "Happiness is a temporary chemical imbalance of the brain." Lusiphur from Poison Elves...

I am waiting. Walking on the thin line between two lives. I belong nowhere. Both lives claim me. I can do nothing but wait. I have fought the fights, I have faced the enemies. More to come. All from inside. Fictional. All reflections.

I am waiting.

For the dreams to pass through the veil and come to me.

Dorian, my darling, hold my hand. From the place of cobwebs and echoes, reach out and hold me.

Where chalices are filled with red.

Red is fast. And furious.

The tide is turning. Listen.

There.

The aftermath

What bugs me lately is that in order to decipher, unravel, make sense of something one must be a dispassionate observer. BUT. That's exactly my problem as of late. I feel too much of an observer. I feel totally disengaged with life. Things are happening and I don't give a damn. People die, animals die, and I am blissfully detached. On the contrary, I read about a character in a comic book suffering and I cry. It's fucking tragic, crying for paper people and not crying about my father who died. It's tragic cause he turned himself into a total stranger, and I had to build a fortress to keep him out and never let him hurt me again, and I don't have a single happy memory from him. Even now, in his last days, I stood by his side and let him feel loved and safe, but I never opened the door of my heart to him again. The door does not open anymore, a wall has sealed it off, and I can't pull the wall down for anyone, anymore. It's tragic cause I am turning into a total wacko and feel pity for those people and things inside my head (and other people's heads) and not those around me. It truly makes me worry. Perhaps I should not worry, but I feel I am turning into a walking statue. I feel I am losing my connection to real life. And what is real life, exactly? That sanitised, joyless version of working like a slave and your every surprise being predetermined, your every choice and encounter controlled? Is it any wonder that I sympathise more with heroes from books and comics?

I want to give a few kicks to a few asses, but haven't discovered the people these asses belong to. YET.

Strange dreams

About dawn break. The ship approaching. Soon.

I am nettled by the feeling there are things just beyond my reach. Human beings, me included, are predictable and boring. We squabble about petty things: power, cosmic affluence, money, sex. There must surely be darker desires than this, there must surely be other pleasures, other ways to spend time. There must be something different than what the average human dreams about.

I am bored of myself. I need to rediscover myself. I feel mind-numbingly predictable. But I don't know how, I don't know what to do. I suppose I'll find out.

Androgynous men...

Photo by http://blueblack.deviantart.com

A little irrelevant comment.

I wonder what is it that makes me so crazy about feminine men, men with make-up, androgynous creatures, men who are in reality women (have two of them in my stories and I mean it literary, not cross-dressing) and gay men in general. Perhaps it is my gender confusion. Heheheh, in a recent test I took I got 36 points in how male my brain is, while the average for women is 24 and for men 30. Hahaha! Anyway, tests don’t prove anything at all, so back to my point. I am crazy about such creatures, (especially of the gothic type) though I fully know I will never have one such myself. Perhaps it is the crush I had on Darryl, that beautiful Scottish goth eons ago, when I was in UK studying? It was never really fulfilled, but it seems that it was just a symptom, not the source of trouble itself. Perhaps my androgynous soul instinctively looks for men who are aware of their feminine side and not afraid to embrace it? (even though it seems that the only thing the men in question embrace is fashion and their countless insecurities…) Perhaps I am a victim/slave to beauty and this will never change? Funny thing being, I am fully aware of how empty these boys/ men are in reality, how incapable of holding a decent conversation, how childish, high school-type-of-mentality this reflects about me, but cannot get rid of it. I don’t think I ever in my life will. I mean, look at me, I am past twenty-nine and on the way to thirty, and still dream of androgynous angels and goths. How sad is this? I do not mean that I should at this age dream of doctors and lawyers (God/dess forbid that I ever fall for such mainstream, slave-to-the-system “ideal husbands”), but since I fucking KNOW what the deal is with goths, why not get over it? I’ll be damned if I know. You tell me. At least I now am wise enough to realise that the outside is just a beautiful wrapping with no content. If there was something inside, they would not be goths to begin with. 

You got confused? Lemme help. Someone who dresses as a goth, or metal fan, or anything, shows nothing but the need to belong somewhere in order to be safe. I belong absolutely nowhere and am very happy about that. I revel in my lack of definition style-wise, religion-wise, mentality-wise. Anybody who tries to classify me is in for endless trouble. I do cheap, mushy, kitsch, pink/fluffy, classical, solemn, gothic, macabre, high aesthetic, surreal, even hippy, goddammit. I do anything and everything. “I am a chameleon of sorts”. I do a mix and match of things. I am. I am NOT a goth, an 80s fan, a lady of the castle, a girl in a kiosk, a mad erotica author, an absolute failure according to the standards of society, the next step in human evolution, a misanthrope, a communication expert, a heretical prankless Erisian, a perfect atheist, a reader of soppy romance or a fantasy geek. I am all of them together. It is a matter of dosage. I do lawyers and doctors too. I just don’t fall for them, if you know what I mean. And it’s okay if you don’t.

System of a Down: “Hypnotize”

New fb label (very informative!!!) *titter*

There is, in a sense, a tradition to this blog. And as my beloved Dorian (a serial killer and vampire in my stories) would say, “Keeping the etiquette is inevitably a good thing.” So the tradition for this blog is one funny text followed by one or two sad. People undoubtedly are caught a bit unawares by this habit of mine. How funny can it be to read something expecting to laugh and find the gaping maw of manic depression nibbling your toes? Or, for those naturally inclined towards melancholy, how disappointing it must be to one week read something familiar and next week to come across one of my surreal, graphic, humorous pieces? It’s like seeing this fella advancing towards you holding a pillow, only you are not certain whether the pillow contains feathers or stones. But anyway. As one of my new labels (that I use in friendship books) says:

Five facts about me.

• I am not here to be pleasant or agreeable. If this happens, it is purely coincidental. 
• Most “open-minded” people I know just parrot opinions they got second-hand with no personal experience involved. As for the “normal” ones, they bore me to sobs, goddammit.
• My Gods are funnier than your GOD
• Male/ male pairs make me wet.
• My inner pendulum swings between two “poles”: the Twins Eros and Thanatos (=death) and Chaos/Art. Which barcode do you worship?

Amuse me, impress me, make laugh, think, write my ass off. But please do not disturb: already disturbed.

I think that should be enough to actually scare “normals” and discourage a generous portion of the “open-minded” ones. Open-minded my arse.

To proceed with what I wanted to refer to, I am steadily losing the last connections I had with the human race. Or to quote myself from a letter I wrote today, “I used to care deeply about the human race. I still do. I just don’t like them anymore.” There is no connection save for the semblance on the outside. I used to feel pity for those who were in a difficult situation. Now I don’t, because they either brought this upon themselves, so I won’t spare any sympathy for that, or there is a useful lesson hiding somewhere in their trouble. Why should I feel troubled by other people’s life lessons? I have a lot of my own to feel pity for if I am in that mood. Moping about reality. How stupid can one get? What a fucking waste of time…

I am not in any specific mood for the past few months. I am slowly trying to find a new direction to push myself to, because I got rid of the old compass. This is how actual change happens. Fist one starts to feel that there is something wrong with things. Then one day s/he wakes up and the inner shift has taken place, and s/he is no longer capable of returning to the old patterns. This happens with no emotional fireworks involved. It just happens. The fireworks explode waaay before the actual realization of things being wrong. Finally, the person takes a new road, but just after the crossroads, there is a light confusion as to what s/he has to do while on this new road. I am exactly there now. Have to wait to see what has to be done. There is, however, one thing I know for certain: the majority of humanity can no longer surprise me, in a pleasant way, that is.

Hyacinths

(Image by Yang Fan, http://jiuge.deviantart.com)

The smell of hyacinths brings death to my mind.

There is something about the smell itself, its oily sweetness that reminds me of a rotting substance. And something about the flowers themselves when they start to wither and lose their suppleness. Then the finger touches them and feels no resistance. They give way under one’s touch in a rather unsettling manner. Like a dead body after a few days. I love hyacinths, but just like human beings, I want to see them for small periods of time. Beyond that, I start to feel put off by them.

Everything has to have a special meaning. Everything has to be dissected and analysed. Magic needs to be trapped and explained using test tubes. Happiness measured by machines and explained in wavelengths. Each and every one of us so certain he or she is right. Each and every one of us eternally craving, eternally thirsty for something we can’t put our finger on. The water given for free and yet it never quenches our thirst, meat and bread set out for each of us on the dinner table and yet we trace patterns in the dust and ash instead of eating. That is the nature of humans, judging where they should simply accept and finding fault in all people but ourselves.

I am tired. I am exhausted and feel like I have been nothing but pushed around by howling winds. And the worst is yet to come. There is no time to rest. In order to break free, the butterfly must tear the cocoon. The bird must break the egg. The being we call human must tear apart his or her reality. All the things we take for granted are just the first layer. Layers over layers.

Oh how I miss the sweet taste of blood of the freshly killed pray, and the times killing was the most honest and justified thing in the world. We got civilization and added more layers, we mummified reality under false laws and false values, while once there was a time of innocence. If you did not like someone, he was the first to know, by face-to-fist contact. And if you craved someone he was also the first to know because you asked for pleasure. Children had no fathers, or rather, a host of fathers but only one mother and the main concern was remaining alive. Now we got laws and lifestyle and nobody eats his dead relatives, but rather digs the grave of the living by lies and hatred and half truths. And we are all civilized. Proper. Caring. Open-minded. Alternative and mainstream. We talk to those we don’t like and never say “I love you” to all those we really care about. We smile to our customers and cry ourselves to sleep. We live (?) in our little cement and metal boxes, gather stuff we can’t take with us and argue about the meaning of life. And one day we go away, one day we lie silent and still and those left behind try to understand why.

My tom-cat sleeps with his front leg wrapped around my right arm and purrs in his half-sleep. And he is happy because I am home from work and I fed him and rubbed his tummy. And I am happy because he is happy to see me.

Death is what makes everything so precious. Don’t you see?

It has come full circle. Goodnight…

Elizabeth is a nag-bag

Music: Lisa Gerrard: The mirror pool.

I'll nag like an old woman. I miss the wondrous. I miss that which gives my life meaning. Save for the daily routine which keeps me busy, and the thingies which keep me pleasantly occupied. My heart needs to flutter. My eyes have to see something bewitching, or they feel empty.

I am that which people abhor. I scare them. I make them feel uncomfortable. And all I do is be myself. All I do is make jokes. Forget to keep my mouth shut in front of strangers. They smell I am different and react accordingly. They smell the thing inside me and become hostile. For mine is a dragon, a glorious beast of terrifying beauty, or a curled, sleek feline, and theirs a mole, or a pig. And they squeal as such. They run or bare their teeth as such. And the dragon inside me or the big cat turns its back and leaves, too haughty to even snarl.

The people in the store. The waiter in the bar. The customers at the kiosk. They seem to somehow smell it, and just how fast they do nowadays. They needed longer in the past. Now they feel it immediately. I can bend them all to my will and crash them like little men of clay, but why even bother? This is not my way. I can't even bear them around me for too long. I just want to retreat somewhere far away, and write, and read, and only converse with those worthy of my voice and time. I know this sounds wrong and I don't care. I don't need to explain anything to anybody. I need only listen. See what needs to be killed. Inside me. Bring forth the cleansing fire and the blade, and cut clean. I'll take it.

Scraps

Sometimes the stuck in-between period is just too much. Waiting waiting waiting... Waiting to receive e-mails, waiting for people to make up their mind and finally call me, waiting for the changes to take place, waiting for things to take shape... It seems that my whole life is one waiting period to the next. And then hopefully everything will happen at once, or not. Bah.

One of my stories was published (as I said months ago). My friend A. turned a little poem by me into a comic, that was published too. Now she wants to work on another short story. I am very honoured, but not excited. I am not really here. I am nowhere in particular. I feel like a ghost that exists in the in-between period between then and never and infinity, accidentally trespassing into now from time to time. I feel mostly fleshless. Everything begins from inside to and again returns to me, a cyclic river feeding itself, with no real source and no destination. I feel genderless, fleshless and purposeless. I will eventually feel better, I know. And it's strange because today J. told me some of the sweetest things I have ever heard about my writing style. He is sweetness impersonate sometimes, this being. Still the connection with me and this reality fails miserably. Ha. I don't know if I should laugh, cry or simply stare into nothingness with a thin, amused smile. The anchors are gone and I am floating like a balloon on the ceiling of my sanity. I will eventually find an open window and escape... 

I am just tired and perpetually sad and nothing can fill this emptiness. Too many people leaving the scene at once and me left behind to entertain an audience that grows more uneasy and angry by the minute. I still live on borrowed reality. But fear not; I have medicine. It is called a good crying (which I am afraid I cannot do anymore) and chocolate (which I am sick of). It seems that the situation is serious...

Brother piece of "friends".

Music: Porcupine Tree: Stupid Dream: A smart kid.

This world hurts me.

This reality, this plane of existence hurts me. People hurt me by being themselves. They make me crazy. They make me sad. I want to go away. Run. Hide. I want to stay hidden. Disappear. Vanish without a trace.

“The lady of the lake.”

Water, feelings. More than anything else, pain. Great pain.

I take pain too personally. I take pain as an enemy. I want to run away, to escape pain. I want to escape this world. And the only way I can do this is create. And I cannot create when I am so hurt. I cannot create. Creation is a cocoon to hide me in and make me feel protected. Safe. Nurtured. It helps me breathe cause I cannot breathe. Not in this world. I am not made to breathe air, I can only breathe underwater. And this world is dry and my gills feel brittle as if they are about to shatter. My chest aches as I breathe, my being hurts as I breathe. I cannot draw breath and I cannot create. I feel like a whale that was washed out and the sun is killing it.

It’s so hard to put into words what feels like a rain, a storm inside. So hard.

I need drugs

Hard drugs. And a big fucking gun. And two official translators: one to translate my Greek to simple Greek and a second one to verify in case someone missed it. But what I need most is someone to rub my back. Not my tits, not my fanny, not my ass. Just the back, if you could. Thank you.

Maybe if I post a very revealing photo of me I will find someone willing to cover all my expenses and send me to a place far away for weeks of rest. But I have the gnawing suspicion that the place will have padded walls.

Fuck it. I go to fantasise about my heroes fondling the buttocks of my other heroes. And if this doesn't make my mood better, I'll just sleep.

The hidden joys of queuing

Art by Joseph Vargo

I was waiting in the Post Office the other day to pay some bills and get a parcel. It was the one with the Vargo art book. (Nipples harden and breath catches; goths will be goths...) In my backpack was Poison Elves #6, and from time to time I'd glimpse inside and smile knowingly. My coherent thinking consisted of the fact I was too grumpy and sleepy (I hate waking early in the morning) and that as soon as I was back home I would roll my body all over the pages of the art book. The only other trail of thought I could follow with some success consisted of a string of swearwords related to me working endless hours daily, and something immensely insulting concerning capitalism, money, responsibilities and adults. They feed people with success stories which mostly consist of somebody being able to buy whatever one wants. But what does one really need? Substitutes of happiness in the form of things amassed around one? A new mobile every three months? A happy family with two kids and a dog? (Personally, I would swap this anytime for a little talk with Mr Marilyn Manson; I have spotted a few surviving brain cells which I want to eradicate from existence. Meh.) Empty promises of fame with one's naked body as a passport? Where does this stop?

Capitalism, success stories and priorities my arse. Which is neither big nor hairy, but adequate for the needed statement.