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

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

A part of a long talk...


 [Picture: Uruha, guitarist of the Gazette.]

"...because I honestly believe I will still remember, I will know to the full extent how wrong it will be. But what the heart knows and what the mind knows are very, very different things. And the heart and the mind can never reach an agreement between them. They take up swords and attack each other mercilessly. They hack and slash and they only stop when they are exhausted, when they are too weary to even raise a finger. Only then do they stop, and the heart goes somewhere quiet to cry itself to sleep, and so does the mind, it goes somewhere quiet to wallow in its pain. And the distance is never, ever, ever bridged between them. 

The names that we whisper in our sleep is something only the deepest wounds of the heart know and echo even when the mind has mercifully forgotten, and the heart cries till it has no tears left and it only whispers one thing, why, why, why didn't you try a little harder, you were almost there, like Orpheus when he turned the very last moment and looked and Eurydice just flew away from the tips his fingers. Why, why, all you had to do was change, and you were so close, and I will never again love someone as much as I have loved you, and all you had to do is take that single step and fall into my embrace. I would not let you. I would hold you! I would hold you. Just one single step. 

And the mind, hidden in his own little hell replies, he did not want to, and it is a matter of free will. There is nothing you can do. And the heart ululates and shudders and sobs and says, it was only one step, one more step, and I would have caught him. And the mind replies, it was one second. One more second. All it would take would be one more second. And the heart replies, I know, I know, and I will never again love someone as much as I loved him, doesn't he see this? Doesn't he see what he did? And the mind replies, still, you cannot go back now. The choices were made. 

And then the heart screams like an animal dropped in acid and flame, it screeches to the heavens and all the way down to hell, and it cries like a banshee gone mad because it knows it's true. The heart knows the truth even when the mind is deceived. And its maddened screams are loud enough to cover the mind's silent sobs as it cries in the corner of its own jail.
They both cry in their cells and their sobs are united but the distance between them is never, ever bridged."

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

D'ah!



God/dess give me strength!!!

This will be a rant. Be prepared. Both feet firmly on the ground and off Elizabeth goes like a rocket screaming GAAAARHHH! Picture the incredible Hulk with brown hair and olive skin, blogging and cursing like a sailor who got shat on by a flying cow.

I need to express something or I'll burst. Can someone please explain to me why some people have a prison inside their heads instead of brains? I suppose there is no answer to this question. But still. My rant will be sex and gender related. Any of you gay "sensitive", meaning homoerotic material offends you? Then buzz off, for this will insult you and neither of us needs that. Plenty of other blogs to read! Shoo!

HOW can someone use the characterization "disgusting" in relation to sex practices concerning two conseding adults? How can ANYONE pass judgment on what other people do and enjoy? How can someone JUDGE other people because of this? I understand someone saying- well, that's not my cup of tea, or, boy, that's something that really must hurt, I'd never try it. Or even something stronger than this. But how can you call another human being sick because he likes the same sex as themselves, for example? Why is this thing sick? In what sense? How can you disregard and badmouth another person just because you are different? Why so much fear and hatred for something that is not enforced or practiced on you and at the end of the day it's none of your goddamn business? I will never understand this.

When I finally go to bed with someone I love...
*sigh* It's useless. But I'll try to put it to words anyway.

When I finally go to bed with someone I love, reality is shut off. I lock it out of the room with a kick on its butt. There is NO reality save for the reality of two bodies. No time, no space. Reality begins and ends on the other's flesh. I do not see gender there. I do not see genitals. I see only soul and desire, I see need and heat. I touch the other person the way I would touch a statue I wish to bring to life. I kiss and caress them from head to toes, I love them and accept them and thank god/dess for the chance I was granted to merge with another soul, for as long as this is meant to be. I see their skin responding to touch, their heartbeat racing, their bodies blooming like flowers, opening like wings, unfolding like miracles. I see them lost in the sensation, for body is meant to be pleased regardless of sex, size and shape. I feel them entering another realm, in which there is no mind, no thoughts, only submission to mortality. "With you inside me comes the knowledge of my death." I live to make them scream and cry from pleasure, I live to hold and embrace them and make them forget death, make them forget tomorrow, make them short-circuit and drown in desire so much that they transcend flesh. I am the universal Mother that gave birth to them and held them like their mother perhaps never did; I am Death, letting them know through orgasm what it means to lose control of one's body. This is what my gender is originally meant to do, impersonate compassion, mystery and death. Be as the great Ocean, suck them in, cover them fully, claim them whole and eventually guide them back out, safely on the shore. Blow their fucking brains out, send them sky high and catch them on the way down. Finally let them sink into sleep, smoothing their hair with kisses, letting them know they are safe between the sheets.

How can anyone call this disgusting?

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Much to tell, nothing I can write about here...

Okay. Here we go. Just a bit, to keep both me and you happy. Or perhaps hungry.

Thought that has been pestering me for the past two days and need to get it out: to make a specific someone close his eyes and start breathing lightly on the soft skin over his eyelids. Then touch him with my lips. Not kiss him. Caress him with my mouth, let him feel the breath, the source of heat inside the mouth, a bit of the wetness inside. Open my mouth and use the lower lip to leave just a hint of that wetness on the light curve of the eyelid. You know how when we close our eyes all our senses are augmented; so just imagine lying on bed with your eyes shut and feeling this. Another human being on top of you, breathing lightly over your eyes. You can hear their breath, the light rustle of their body as they move on bed, limbs and cloth on the covers, the shifting of weight. Their smell close to you- clean clothes and clean body. The heat of another body close to yours. The way your entire body craves more touch, but all you can feel is the ghost of touch over your eyes. No fingers. No body. Nothing testifying that there is another someone close to you save for a breath. It could have been a hallucination. Right?

When the clothes are off, so many people lose most of their charm.
I think you'd shine from the inside.
There is a core in you that shines like the rarest diamond, dulled only by the fire of egotism.
But angels have always been egotistical creatures, presuming their way is the only way, presuming they know everything. Why should you be any different?
You belong to the order of death and messages.
I am a wildcard as you yourself discovered recently. One of the first. Crazy lot, those ones.
I don't think we can get along. Or rather we can. The ocean will swallow you whole just like you fear and let you on the coast once more, half drowned and weak like a newborn kitten.
You've done this once already. The second time might just kill you.
Perhaps you should step back this time.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

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.]

Friday, January 09, 2009

The twilight of excuses

Ever had one of those times you wished you were someone else?

I saw the movie Twilight. It really made me wish I was someone else. I won't refer to the movie. It was simply the emotional boost I needed to reach my present state of mind. Which is, I wish I had someone to protect me for once.

I don't need a daddy at my age. I am not looking for a daddy. But I am tired of always being the strong one in my relationships. Tired of being the one to give advice, understand, insist, retreat, encourage, look for hints, read the fucking cards. I wish I was normal.

No, lie. I wish I was brain dead .

I wish I could find comfort in my female nature. I wish I had been accepted, protected and loved when I needed it most. I wish I had a normal family when I was small. I wish I had not been destroyed by the ones supposed to protect me and not turned into what I am- someone disgusted and terrified by human touch and appalled by intimacy.

I wish I had lived a normal life, that's all. It will pass.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Love letter

I have been watching pictures of you for the past half hour. The only question that makes some sense is, ‘how can you be so beautiful?’ How can anyone, for that matter, be so beautiful?

I have no answer to this question. Lately I seem to be collecting this type of questions in particular. It is a new bizarre hobby of mine. 

Someone may ask me who you are. It is irrelevant. I am not going to give any details because details don’t really matter. I want to focus on how you make me feel. I am sure all people with some light in their souls have at some point seen someone that made them shiver with awe, that near-terror feeling, so name, sex and occupation of the target of their desire is of no importance. I am referring to the feeling itself and how it touches me in a way I can barely grasp or describe in an understandable manner. 


You are so close to perfection that it is scary. The lines of your face almost form perfection. The smooth folds over those tight almonds of your eyes. The way those lips seem like little puffy pillows, soft and juicy at the same time, inviting me. Their light cherry colour signifies something edible. You make me want to extend my hand and press them lightly, test to see if they are real. If you exist. 


Kissing is a forgotten art and for me an advanced part of the foreplay; first I eat the other person with my eyes and try to capture their smell without them realising I do so. I often steal the smell of passers by, follow their trail as they walk fast, not knowing someone is following them. It is very erotic. Then, after I have had a first taste through eyes and smell, I start to chart someone with my fingers. Long after I have satisfied my eyes and nostrils and hands and also my ears through their little sounds, their shivers and whispers, it is inevitable that taste will follow. My mouth would open to taste you, not necessarily your lips, but the soft flesh on your neck and cheek and jaw. People have forgotten how to touch others, how they can use more parts of themselves than just the fingers. I can touch you using my face, my hips and hipbones, my breasts. I can touch you with every part of me save for fingers if needs must. And for such an exquisite being I certainly must.


What makes us desire? Is it just our glands and hormones, screaming for reproduction? I do have a body, I am trapped in flesh. I desire. But I do not desire flesh. I desire form. I desire the little wrinkles you make when you smile, next to your delicious lips. I need to eat you, not fuck you. I want to capture the essence of your beauty, the alchemical equivalent of your smell, the sum of lines, forms and matter that creates you as a result. I want to devour that which makes me want you. I want to capture the little wisps of air that brush against your face when you raise your eyebrows or momentarily blink. I hunger for your soul, not your reproductive organs. I lick my lips at the possibilities of what your life might have been like, of what moments had been like before we met. Were they longer, shorter, more or less interesting? Do you toss in your sleep? Do you just stare out of the window when bored? Do you, perhaps, make little sounds of confusion when you drop something? Those are the questions that keep me busy when I stare at such a face as yours. That, and the gut wrenching realisation that I will probably never find out.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

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.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Between dream and frustration.

You smile at me. I wonder if you will do anything more.

I also smile at you. But will do nothing more.

So many days of our lives pass because we expect something to happen-and it does not.

You look exotic.

Please do not make me wait for too long. I might just give up.

Some people are fueled by frustration. I need fear.

The other can wait. He is not here. You are here.

But are you, really, here?

Please give me a sign.

I need this.

My reality has been the limits of my skin for too long. No-one touches me.

I promise I will never let you know you are not the one.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

The moon is cruel...

I cannot change anything, and I try too fucking much to no avail.
Nothing is real.
Everything is real.

I think I have gone officially crazy. Rejoice, oh crowds. Where is my scepter and my crown? And what kind of army do I have under my command? To conquer which land of fancy do I march? To the death, to the death. Fantastic beasts curl at the legs of my bed at morning, watching over me while I sleep, exhausted from last night's pursuits. And my army has no men. Only willowy ladies who play the harp and dine with youth and beauty, leaving behind them senile men and wasted landscapes. Yes... It seems that my army run amok in this reality, hence its condition. Dry and humorless.

I went walking again last night. It is funny how my body from the waist down seems to belong to a different person. My legs guide me. I have no idea where. I just walk aimlessly. I pass trees and have this urge to punch them to make sure they are real.

I look at the moon and wonder how sick it must be from watching all this bullshit happening down here.
I look at the moon and see one of the female aspects of the divine. I call it 'mother'. Ha bloody ha.
I look at the moon and see dreams passing by from her face, like smoke in front of a window.
I look at the moon and see the earth's satellite, cold, lifeless and distant.
I look at the moon and shiver and sigh like a person in the grip of opium or malaria.

Nothing is real. Everything is real. You choose your dream, your interpretation, your reality. You choose your drug, your booze, your fix, your jail, your aspirations. You choose. Or that's what I think anyway. But choosing needs brain, some sort of mental activity going on between one's ears. *giggle*

Only death is real, expressed through absence. It is funny to consider how something as absolute as death is expressed through the negative of existence. Absence. It never fails to amuse me. Life in general, and myself, never cease to amuse me. I am a funny gal, it seems.

I feel like my very soul has left me. Went away silently, flying on transparent, velvety wings.

And A. is leaving for U.K. Go, my girl. Go. Leave this land of lunatics and idiots. Godspeed. There is nothing more for you to do here.

I dine with ink, pieces of paper and impossible wishes in the ruins.
I pray I will be granted the chance to follow.
The moon is cruel tonight...

Saturday, August 16, 2008

So fuckin' original.


[Mana from Malice Mizer, J-rock band, now has a band name Moi Dix Mois...]


Whenever I spend more than just a bit of time with my mother, we are at each other's throats like maddened dogs. Nothing strange about it. We have grown too close for comfort and familiarity breeds contempt. I wish I could give an end to this uncomfortable, meddlesome affair. But just like it happens with everything else in my life, I have to wait.

If I nuke this planet you will know I just got bored of waiting.




[Klaha, ex singer of Malice Mizer, after Gackt left...]

On a happier note, I have been downloading endless pictures of J-rock artists with Malice Mizer and Gackt being the center of my affections. *sigh* It never ceases to surprise me that such men exist. I never cease to look at them dumbfounded, their make-up, their clothes, their style... Their hairless bodies, smooth faces, almond shaped eyes... Why do Greek men look like apes? Ugly, no necks, just a head stuck onto their shoulders, fingers like sausages, manners like Ostrogoths on a raiding spree, and the permanent fear of being called gay... Why do their interests begin and stop at football and television? There are exceptions, of course. Like my best friend. But I am tired of this whole bullshit trade. I am generally tired of everything and everyone, this why I once more focus on that which I cannot have. To escape somewhere better than here and now. And then I have to return and it hurts non-stop.

Nuking the planet still seems like the only valid option. :-)

[ And Gackt.]

Thursday, July 03, 2008

Things not meant to be put down.


[Beautiful photo by http://girltripped.deviantart.com]

In the old times, women used to kiss the lips of statues in the twilight, praying to the heartless god of love. Nothing has changed, save for the fact we kiss old photos and computers have replaced the glorious, lush gardens of the past.

You come quietly at night to claim me, dressed in moth wings. Wearing a long cape of blood and memories. My velvet prince.

I miss you. So much that sometimes the screams I never utter cut my insides. Like a mouthful of broken glass.

You whisper my name in your sleep. You seek my face. My caress.
I call out your name in my waking hours. I need you to be here.
Yet we don't meet.

Sleep claims me like a coma. Life claims what's left of me. Onwards I stumble, determined to take it to the end.
We never meet.

Sometimes I try to imagine what you may be doing. If you are happy or sad, busy or bored.
It's useless.

It all matters. It's all futile.

I throw away old love letters and recently acquired phone numbers. Again.

You keep yourself perpetually busy.
I am tired all the time.

We both know what's going on. Yet I am talking to your photo and you are talking in your sleep.
We never meet.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Rapture

Sometimes I doubt my own sanity.

My friends urge me further down that path by supporting my visions and crazy ideas.

Don't know if I should thank them for that or curse myself for my weakness. I suppose I am lucky to have them anyway.

Beauty feeds me. Like the sweetest nectar down my throat.

It is also addictive like the worst drug. I continually need more and more and more. It never really ends. Perhaps it will end when I draw my last breath. I will finally be free from the craving.

You are so beautiful that you seem otherwordly. Like a legendary creature, or a dream no man can touch. Your beauty is indescribable. Your eyes, the lines of your face, the way you focus. The way you move. Like a dream, a fantasy, a forbidden treasure. Like one of those creatures in literature, or manga, drawn directly from the collective consciousness of humanity. A fabrication of an artist. Not someone real. And in a sense you are not real. If real is what my hands can touch, then you are not real.

I think that the basic reason I feel so out of my depth by the feedback I get is that I will be very sorry if it is not true. And I do not think it is true. And I do not want to let myself believe. Because reality will charge in and crush me like a bug under its heel. And I will hate myself then. So I do not dare believe. But Desire, ah desire knows no rules, no limits, it can consume someone and eat them from the inside, make them bang their heads against the wall till blood comes out, make them scream into the night till they can no longer breathe, desire is poison that kills slowly. And desire enters my system with every eyeful of your beauty that I drink. Every time I lay my eyes on you, I feed. Every time I feed, I become more and more poisoned by desire. It is in a sense a disaster. A sweet torture. But I have promised myself I will not fall for someone I cannot have. No more dramas. No more tragedies. A straight line. Logical expectations. No gods and no fantasies. And I do not want to go back there again. Eight years ago I almost went mad because of desire. Not again. Never again. I promised myself, never again. Didn't I?

And yet, your face; what rapture. The nectar of gods.

If not for rapture, why live? Why?

I have no answers. Only the wisdom of pain.

Let this drama begin.

Friday, June 01, 2007

Moonlight...

Last night I went to rooftop. The moon is nearly full, but not yet. I could hear the birds of night, uttering their monotonous songs with what sounded like reverence; I could feel the wind carrying all those news and bits of information. Life being created and life ending. Ghosts resting gently upon mossy rocks. Teenagers dancing. The city mysteriously alive, pulsing, breathing. The moon illuminating everything with a secret smile. My heart felt like it was ready to burst with longings I could not put to words. I wanted out. I wanted to float like a balloon and follow the silver brilliance to its source, vanish. Be gone. Disappear. I wanted so many things, too many to count. My entire being is made up of longings...

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

After the Torture (Garden)

“Shall we be elevated/ or pushed into the fire? I don’t know.
Sometimes, sometimes, I loved someone/ sometimes,
sometimes, someone loved me/ that’s all I know.”
Deine Lakaien: "Sometimes"

There’s one thing beyond the norm that I ought to comment on. Save for the usual chores that such a night entailed, and we all know but don’t expect happening to us and thus don’t avoid. Such as the gaffe of dragging too many people alongside me and thus arriving late enough to miss the first show with Lucifire. (*visible fangs on my face*) Or the depressing air of desperation the whole Gagarin stank of (“I wanna get laid tonight”). Or the fact there were people in there that had made the usual mistake committed in such cases: they had spent a lot of money to buy and wear what they believed looked good in, seeing it on a model. However, they were a minimum of forty pounds overweight than the model in question and their flesh so flabby that hang like that of a pig a fortnight after rigor mortis, and they had diligently “dressed” it (squeezed it, and it was overflowing and frantically escaping from all openings) in lace and silk. Hm. No darling, nobody is hungry for flesh to the point of finding a potbelly or a half-naked ass the size of my refrigerator enticing. Yes, I know you have boobs. You and the other half population of the planet, and some much better than yours. Going around in your bra does not make a statement; I am sorry to break your bubble.

The thing I must refer to is Jonny Dragon and his show with fires. He was a full scale compensation, or should I say, a full scale attack? He had the kind of face I would call exquisite, full of wonderful angles at all the right places, and when he smiled devilishly during the act (which he often did) he was plainly ravishable. Why? Cause he was smug as fuck. He was full of that wonderful self-confidence of a person very aware of the fact that every single pair of eyes is watching him, and well, they should be. He was damn good at what he did and obviously had the time of his life being the centre of all that attention. Some people are born for the stage. He belonged to that category. Fiery talented and deliciously self-involved, in a manner I consider characteristic of a true artist, he made me goose-bumpy all over. I do admire performers who use their body anyway, and make no mistake, he was a sight to behold. Dressed in leather, shaved, slim, not very tall, long legs and wonderful lean muscles everywhere, a male dancer. The show just stole my heart; to see him encircled by endless rings of flame on a darkened scene, never stopping, never miscalculating, and moving with such grace that put most women to shame, ah, that was just... perfect. He often knelt in front of the photographers while juggling with the rod or the chains, inviting them into the fire, mocking them and bewitching them at the same time, and I doubt there was a single male in the audience that would not give anything to be him, even for a moment, and a single female that would not give anything to feel his full attention on her, and vice versa. (Save maybe for those turned on only by the sight of Porsche and a stack of credit cards, whose opinion does not concern me anyway; they can stuff both up their nether regions or down their throats and I’ll gladly provide the lubrication.) So thank you, Jonny. Just for you being there it was a beautiful night indeed. To see one such as you, a deviant of society, making a living out of sheer talent and determination gives me the courage and will to go on.

The only ‘bad’ thing after such performances is that my loneliness kicks in at full effect and want someone to pamper me. Badly. Both want badly and to pamper me badly. Yet no-one has the guts or the qualifications for it and I don’t have enough patience for the average relationship. The first stupidity I hear and out the window goes flying the transgressor (with the sole of my boot engraved on his butt).

PS There was more Jonny afterwards but I missed it because we had to go. :-( Argggh…

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Uncalled for



By the way, I am totally in love with Olivier Theyskens, ex designer of Rochas. NOT the fashion bullshit surrounding him (though some of his creations are magnificent) but the man. He looks so feminine and sensitive and sweet. I want to smother him; he just inspires me to. Death and love always walk hand in hand; death reminds us of the need to reproduce... (Evil little cackle). I can be so fucking predictable.

Sunday, June 11, 2006

Epic battles the size of a brain


Music: Aesma Daeva: Here lies one whose name was written on water.

It's quite funny in a sense. I work in the kiosk while archetypes clash and heroes die and battles rage within the four walls of my foul brain. I don't know what's worse: the fact reality is lacking so much or that the customers won't leave me to my quiet to write about these things. :-(

My soul yearns for things I cannot put to words or explain. And I know that no matter how long and hard I try, how many years I strive, how many times I struggle with them, they'll never be captured and put down with enough success.

Have you ever hungered for something you cannot have, hungered for it to the point of madness and screamed till you felt your very soul was released from your body through your lungs? Have you been overwhelmed by blind desire for something you cannot reach or does not exist -from a point onward they are the one and same thing- and cried because of that, till you were empty from both tears and strength? Have you looked at your face in the mirror till there is absolutely no spark of recognition whatsoever, till you look at nothing more than an animated corpse? Do you know what it feels like to talk to statues and trees and dead pets and realise that most human beings never stop to listen, let alone try to understand?

In my dreams I can fly

In my dreams I can name the things that make me weep till I have no breath left

Notions turn into livings beings that can be captivated and tamed

An gathering of dead poets and writers is not very lively company, but I can tell it's heading that way. An multicoloured herd of cats, a rather big, empty house with countless libraries and a crazy old lady atop the roof every now and then, throwing her usual tantrums, reading Kavafis to the bats and moths of the neighborhood. An army of cats, dead lovers of literature and a house that seems even bigger than what it is cause it's so quiet. And no little boys chained in the basement, no playroom with weird torture instruments in the attic. Just mould and spiders.

Does it matter?

No. Creativity blooms in solitude and madness needs shade. Add a pinch of reality every now and then, stir and inspect. Remove dead dreams and outmoded notions every waning moon and add new books on waxing moon. The results can only be spectacular...

Saturday, March 25, 2006

The wake


Music: Saturnus, "Martyre".

It's hard to admit you managed to make me cry again. I never thought you'd be able to do that. Not after all this time. I had raised my walls and put up my defenses; I had locked my inner being away. I had "buried my heart under the snow." I had done everything and yet found it you did, like the blind man who stumbles upon the proverbial pearl by mistake.

I went home, sat on my bed and let the night sink in. Seconds later I was crying. Just like that. The one moment I was thinking and the next overwhelmed. All I could do was let it out. The instinctive wisdom of a drowning man.

Don't get me wrong. It isn't hard to for me to start crying lately. Quite the contrary, actually, as I'm more fragile than ever. I just didn't think I'd cry again because of you. I thought myself dead over this matter. "Comfortably numb." However life loves to prove us wrong. It would have been even encouraging, in some sense, if it wasn't so utterly devastating. The one moment there was ground under my feet and the next there wasn't. Just like that, really.

We create mental images of people in our minds and when we run away from them we start living with the image and not the person anymore. We unwittingly create our own tormentor and feed him or her on a daily basis with all the "what if", the frustration, the anger, the guilt. The more time passes, the more this imaginary person gets out of touch with reality and the person it was based on, till we end up harbouring a ghost and living with this creation in the past, dwelling in our misconceptions and mistakes. And one day we meet the real person once more and that ghost vanishes, leaving us to rediscover the other in flesh and blood.

What hurt me the most, my dear, was not the lover I lost, for our relationship was a failure in every aspect you care to name. For me giving is the most natural thing in the world, while you were incapable of taking. Some people even said that you were a bit jealous of me in some sense, that I was too much for you. I'll never know and it doesn't really matter. That night I did not cry for the lover I had lost years ago for it seems you were never there to begin with. Therefore I never actually had you in order to lose you. Maybe the timing was wrong, or maybe we were not cut for each other. I will not allow myself to reconsider the whole matter from that aspect, because I had done this countless nights and it led me nowhere save for the darkest pits of despair. No, for whatever the reason, it was not meant to be. What I lamented for was entirely different. I did not mourn for the kind of relationship we had and neither for wanting us to be lovers again. We are incapable of being together; incompatible, for some reason. What I cried for was that for one more time I realised what I had loved in you: your intelligence, your wit and humor. You had made me laugh countless times (and I am as easily provoked to laugh as I am to cry) and that night you did so again. And it all came crashing down, and then the bottom fell out.

It just broke my heart to realise, my dear, how little time we have at our disposal before I leave again. I cried because you are not going to keep in contact -you did not do that even when we were a couple- and I will miss you. I will miss you more than words can say. But some things are not meant to be, some people are not meant to be together either as lovers, friends, or anything, really, and that's that. "There is no time for us, there is no place for us." I cried because everything and everybody that I hold dear is always snatched away and removed from my life, be it a person, a favourite pastime like role playing games or anything, and those that stay are usually changed beyond recognition or had never been what or whom I thought they were. And I am left in the company of books and comics and CDs and my imaginary heroes and heroines. Don't get me wrong, I am more than honoured to be their focal point of existence, but from time to time it is just not enough. It cannot keep my sanity intact.

Some people might say that it would have been good for me if I fell in love again -it has been a very long tome since the last time- but I know that nothing good is ever going to come out of it. Wisdom-wise, I can certainly be taught a lot of things by it. But happiness-wise, not a hope in hell.

PS: The title refers to the tenth graphic novel of the 'Sandman' comic series. For some reason (obviously because Mr. Neil Gaiman is such an excellent writer) the very essence of how I felt was perfectly captured and depicted in that volume. And what better proof there is of an artist's skill that seeing one's personal experiences clearly, almost blatantly reflected in a strangers' work?