Showing posts with label Desire as the conjoined twin of Sadness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Desire as the conjoined twin of Sadness. Show all posts

Friday, May 12, 2017

At the borders of dreamland

Art by Natalie Shau. That's what my (beloved) demons probably look like.
Just a note before I close my eyes and drift off to dreamland.
Isn't it funny how you can spend your entire day busy and when the time for sleep comes, still feel that you've achieved nothing?
In spite of my tiredness, I presently resent going to bed. It means the day is gone and it is not coming back.
Time is slipping from my fingers again. 
The only cure I know for this ailment? Writing.
When I am writing, time ceases to exist.
What is your cure?
Good-night.

Friday, January 20, 2017

Ants in my pants


It's one of those frustrating nights. I'm frantically looking for something, but it eludes me in the same frantic manner. I jump from one site to the next, looking, searching, desperately trying to get a glimpse, a faint idea of what I'm missing. And of course failing, because I don't have a clue what I'm looking for. I'm just restless and unfulfilled, and internet can't help me with that. No-one can help me with that.

I found this song that is a reward in itself. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Until then, enjoy.

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Triggers


I recently read that grief isn't a process, but rather a new way of seeing things. It was one of the best ways I have seen grief described. I'm still mourning for my friend Virve and it has altered my entire perception. I will include the quote at the end of this paragraph. Some might find it helpful. I did find it helpful.


How do triggers work? They work due to the mind's ability to make associations and connections. You see something that for another person means nothing, or something positive. For you, however, it has a very different meaning and causes vastly different feelings. For example today I saw a bottle of soda water on my desk. I wanted to give you that bottle because you love soda. Then I remembered we're no longer together. That's a perfect example of a trigger. A soda bottle made me feel sadness and a sense of futility.

Don't get me wrong. I don't regret a thing I did for you, and I don't consider it futile because you didn't appreciate it. I am who I am. Nothing can change me. Only death can take my personality away. When my time comes, death will step in lightly and transmute my being into something bigger and brighter and literally larger than life. Death is the one place, the one condition that wipes the slate clean of everything. And guess what, the first thing to go are our lies. All the lies we told ourselves and other people are gone like morning mist under the blazing sun. For death is yet another sun; it shines black and negative and peaceful in its anti-existence. The doorway opens and you step through it naked as a baby. Everything you have been holding onto for comfort is gone.

When your comforting lies and possessions are gone, I hope each of you will hold onto the one thing no-one can take from you, not even death. Your dignity.


Good night. 

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Love



What do you do to deal with the inadequacy of every day life?
What can you do to deal with the fact you are isolated inside a body and will be so for the rest of your life?
I thought I saved myself from danger and my own temperament that loves tragedy and impossible loves but in reality I opened the door and stepped out of life. I left everything behind, and as the piano pours out one melody after the next, I watch life from behind the window like a beggar outside a busy restaurant. I watch everyone else eat and have a good time. I cannot enter because I don't fit. I never did. Or so I used to think.
The line that 'killed' me came from an excellent TV series called True Detective. It was about how each of us considers ourselves to be something more than a collection of biological urges. Each of us considers ourselves to be more real than the rest, each of us thinks that our perception and life is more real than other people's. And we are all the same, a pitiful bundle of flesh and urges wanting to go on and condemned to die. We crave reproduction and power even when we claim that our causes are noble, even when we dress our desires with a higher meaning.
I crave the sky. I crave death. I crave freedom. I crave life. I crave godhood like the protagonist of 'Perfume'.
I am a bloody idiot.
I am no different than anyone else, just better at deceiving myself. Smarter than most, enough to muddle my thinking with my own mind games. I have exiled love from my life and feel comfortably numb, empty and safe, unfulfilled and manic. Yet I go on. I despise my own biology for condemning me to these urges because I have glimpsed something else, bigger, better, different. And at the same time I realise just how silly I am to despise something that is perfectly innocent, my body. And also because what I have glimpsed may be nothing else but Love. Love as in everlasting Love, that we try to bring down to our human size and try to live it as best as we could, reducing it and twisting it to something we can understand.
When the protagonist of True Detective briefly crossed over what he found was Love.
I am almost there. Almost at the point of understanding.
Almost at breaking point, where everything will make sense once more.
All I need is to take one more step, even if I have to crawl.
Open the door again, even if my hands are shaking and I am absolutely terrified.
Welcome back to the game.
Welcome back now that you know how everything is connected.
Breathe. You are safe.
Just breathe. The rest will follow.

Monday, April 08, 2013

High maintenance boyfriends

You know, I keep wondering about it. Not that it changes anything, no matter how many times I preoccupy my brain cells in wrestling marathons with it. But I can't help but wonder.
Why very beautiful men are the way they are? Which means immature. Or stupid. Or too vain. Or too gay. Or whatever. My purpose isn't to make a list. Why? As soon as I see a truly breathtaking man, I almost immediately realise he's not relationship material, end of story. I have no delusions about changing them, saving them, or discovering a hidden, different self if I dig deep enough. There is nothing different no matter how deep and how long I may search. They are just unsuitable. Period. If he's very beautiful, there is something fundamentally flawed about him in some other part of his being.
But why is that?
I don't understand it one bit.
I do have a life long regret that I'll never find the kind of man I dream about. Because the kind of man I dream about is the high maintenance kind of boyfriend. And that kind of boyfriend never falls for my type. They fall for the equally problematic type of high maintenance woman. Or the kind of woman they can relate to whatever issues they have with their mom or dad. And I am neither. I am too straightforward for such. And a part of mine is very, very disappointed and regretful because I know time passes and I must get my act together and look for the kind of companion that will be suitable for me, and not the kind of man I dream about.
If that isn't a contradiction in terms I honestly don't know what is. And I don't want that.
This is the basic reason I don't do relationships. I don't want any more half hearted relationships with 'good guys'. No matter how lonely I feel, I refuse to do that again. Been there too many times in the past. Not again. Never again.
It's also one of the reasons I write. My longing for all things I cannot have.
Well FUCK THIS.
There must be at least ONE person that is attractive enough, smart enough and kind enough to be my match.
Just one. Billions of people on this sorry planet. Just one? Pretty please?
Two would be even better but let's not get greedy now... :P

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

God hunt



Desire is the cruelest god/dess that exists. By far the cruelest entity. And the one I wish I could hunt down and draw not letters, but whole stories on him or her using blunt knives. Desire always drags me by the hair no matter how hard I try to resist, no matter how much I kick and yell. No matter how good I am at suppressing countless things for unfathomable amounts of time, desire always has the last word. And for some reason, he/she appears to be the Siamese twin of sadness.

Goddammit.

I am angry, no, I am ballistic with that fucking asshole, that excuse of a man who had the nerve to suppose I am the kind of idiot girl or snake girl he is accustomed to mingle with on regular basis. I wanted to chop his head off, cook it and serve it to his oh- so- important parents. But as per usual, he will never know a thing. My nuclear explosions are the size of my own brain. No-one gets hurt save for the usual suspect, me. And sometimes reality.

Desire desire desire. That demon of flesh, the only thing that gives us meaning.

I am depressed and at the same time unstable and giddy which results to the hilarious effect of talking out loud to myself and engaging in surreal conversations with mother Teresa Elizabeth / psychotic Elizabeth who wants to kill/create, maim/sooth, do spells that will unravel reality, fuck everyone in view/ nobody ever again, kill people of her immediate environment/ move to another planet or plane of existence.

Desire, desire, desire. No excuse at all for your trespasses, is there? No need to apologise or explain. You just exist. Just like heroin and rainbows. You just exist. Nothing about it. Nothing at all.

Save for inarticulate screams just behind my lips, at the tip of my tongue. Never making it out save for late at night, late, late, late. Too fucking late. Too late to explain, apologise, count your blessings, change your mind, sing us all a merry song, go have a flying fuck around the moon, die, die, die.

Cockroaches. Fucking cockroaches, a fucking shame on the face of the universe. That's what we are. A waste of flesh, breath and resources. A waste of divine inspiration.

Perhaps if I curl very very tightly around myself I will create my own little Moebius strip and vanish in it.

Perhaps desire will leave me alone to leave the remaining of my life quietly and without any meaning.

Perhaps.