It is official.

It is indeed. I understand nothing.

I have an authority problem.

I have issues.

I also have many cats.

I want to go and hide somewhere so that I don't have to talk to people anymore.

I want to shave my head and wear on it a pot with flowers.

I want to fuck half a million people.

I don't want to fuck anyone ever again. Safe, my head screams. You're safe. You must be crazy to want to get in trouble again. Think of what can go wrong. Pregnancy, disease, falling in love and losing control, getting hurt. You're safe in this place of non- action. And all this danger, all this risk, for what? Getting sex that you don't even enjoy? You must be mad.

Indeed. But I may change my mind in a month or ten minutes from now. And I probably will.

All this thinking gets me tired and depressed and gets nothing done.

If you ask me what I want to do, the answer is never again get involved with anyone on any level.

If pigs had wings they would fly. Naturally.

It's almost hilarious.

I am running away again. At maximum speed.

I wish I was more consistent in the way I feel.

I wish I was uncaring.

I must discover a different way of being and feeling.

I am a member in thealterium.com, an alternative social network. Like Facebook but with no censorship. Nudity is allowed, in fact encouraged. They are pretty much nice guys and girls there. But the roles I can play are limited. Yes, yes, yes, I can put pictures of my ass and get many flattering comments. But I am not an ass, or a pair of boobs, or my vagina. I am a human being. There is so much more to a human being than just body parts.

The game is played with flawed rules.

I refuse to play the game with such rules.

And then I wonder why I feel I lack something and what am I doing wrong, as the game can only be played with the aforesaid rules.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. And so tired I feel someone turned me upside down and emptied my very soul out of my body.

It's your fault.

I can think of three people I can accuse for my present state of being. But accusing others for where you stand is just silly. If you don't like it go somewhere else.

I need to get more tattoos done on me. They won't help me resolve my confusion, but they may prevent me from getting laid, or even help me get laid. I am not sure what would be worse at this point.

[All the above can be concentrated in ONE word: scared.]

Getting nothing done is a fine art

I am not so sure of what I want to write.

I only know I am good at what I do.

Sometimes it feels like I am trying to untie a knot with my eyes blindfolded and my arms tied behind my back. I keep pulling at the knot with my teeth and eventually it gives way. The knot is, of course, inside my head.

Some days I am sure I am one big knot that defies gravity, logic and any attempt to be untied. But I’m going to reach the heart of the matter no matter what it takes.

Communication is improving. Before there was no communication.

I am trying, trying really hard. I am sure you have no idea how difficult this is for me, to keep trying while the messages I receive from you are discouraging. You can't see it because of your own problems that hold you tight. Over the years, I have seen so many people destroyed by their parents, their ability for intimacy uprooted before it could even bloom. Still you need to understand, this does not come naturally to me. What I am doing now is surpassing myself and my own conditioning, letting myself open and vulnerable. My whole being cries out against it. But I have to un-learn. I have to try and move on from someone closed and sealed like a safe to a person that leaves some light slip in. Judging by the way you are handling this, perhaps in vain. Or probably not in vain, but we don't do things because we expect a response from someone else. We do them because they need be done. But the heart wants what the heart wants and doesn't care about anything else.

The heart needs a place to call home. Even Endymion had Elidora to call her home. Even the maddest, most callous and cruel beings want a place or a person to call home. And home is where the heart is, the heart that is deceitful above all things...

Special thanks to B. for the beautiful song accompanying this entry and matching perfectly.

To Nowhere by Yuki Kajiura

Lyrics:

Can you hear the calling of the raving wind and water?

we just keep dreaming of the land 'cross the river

we are always on the way to find the place we belong

wandering to nowhere, we're paddling down the raging sea

Who can cross over such raving wind and water?

on the rolling boat we sit, shivering with coldness

come by an island, come by a hillock,

it's just another place, we paddle on down the raging sea

But in one morning we'll see the sun

bright shining morning dew singing

they who will search will find the land

of evergreen

Can you hear the calling of the raving wind and water?

we just keep paddling down the sea, up the river

no destination, but we are together

in the silent sadness we're paddling

down the raging sea down to nowhere.

Much activity here

Means I am in a rotten mood. :-) *chuckle*

I am listening to Iron Maiden's "Caught Somewhere in Time". Oldies but goodies. Music that accompanied my teens. And I am thinking, thinking, thinking. The wheels inside my head turn so fast that I can smell something burning. Hopefully it's not my laptop that has a busted fan.

There are things I want to write but cannot write about them here.

I often feel like an alien. My personality makes others react in a very odd way. This baffles me and hurts me and makes me consider dozens of "what ifs". "Perhaps if I did that, they would react differently." "Perhaps if I did the other thing, they would do that other thing." But the thing is, I don't want to change myself and the way I think/ feel/ behave. I don't want to regulate my behaviour in order to achieve "results" because those results will be fake. It is important to show others your true self, to not deceive them or misguide them about who you are and what you want. If I tell lies or hide things sooner or later truth will out and then I'll be the one who's in trouble. Therefore I try to make sure what they see is what they get. Sure, I don't talk about my full list of interests to strangers. For example, my interest in the supernatural, my fascination with serial killers and horror and my beliefs on various social subjects are strictly personal. But other than that, I don't pretend something I am not. Some examples are:

I am introverted and don't like meeting people very much. For me quality is a million times more important than quantity. Because of that I make sure not to find myself in situations that include a crowd I don't know. I am aware I am the one who's going to suffer if I do this and therefore I don't pretend I am social, or a party animal. I hate noise. I hate smoke, I hate drunken people. Can't be more clear than this.

I am opinionated and headstrong about lots of matters. I don't try to hide it. I don't care about being easy-going. I'm not. I don't mind what other people believe in as long as they don't lecture or try to shove it down my throat. But I am not going to pretend I agree with something I consider stupid. I'll keep my mouth shut and wait till the subject changes.

When it comes to liking others, I don't like most. This does not mean I'll disrespect them. I can put up with civil everyday contact but if I don't like someone I am not going to pretend we're best friends. I will not be insulting, I will not attack them verbally or despise them but as soon as there is nothing more to say I'll vanish. 

When I do like someone, as a possible new friend or lover, I let them know I do. I seek them out. I try to meet them again. I show and tell them I am interested. Usually the erotic arena is where the real trouble begins, because I don't like to feign indifference or play hard to get. My feelings, when they occur, are deep and genuine. However, the majority of people feel great discomfort, alarm and confusion when they encounter such a straightforward behaviour. They are used to games, fake indifference, people that approach them in order to take from them. Most erotic relationships have only sex as an exchange coin and no communication. If I was interested in that, I would not have this blog. I would be someone else. But I am not. Well, this pretty much scares off and freaks out everyone. And this in turn hurts and pisses me off. But as for how this can be resolved, the answer is not to my liking. I just have to wait for that one person that won't freak out.

Great. Just great.

My mind is OK with it most of the time. But try explaining that to feelings. Oh boy, you're in trouble.

So what do you do?

Personally, I love crafting and blogging. I have also found masturbation to be soothing. Actually anything that does not cause permanent liver damage or reduced brain function is fine. Especially if the reduced brain function in question is because I got so mad that I bashed their head in with a metallic ashtray or strangled them with one of their luscious cravats. No oxygen supply to the brain due to strangulation can cause permanent damage and it's such a pity when the brain in question is so quick and witty and talented. Just saying.

Oh well. When I become a rich and famous author they will all regret the error of their ways. Till then, crafting, blogging and masturbation seem like an excellent alternative.

Grumph.

Grumpy

[Art by tobiee.deviantart.com]

I am in a grumpy mood. It was not a good night. I spent two hours, from 04:00 am to 06:00 am tossing and turning on the sweat drenched sheets. Then another hour, from 06:00 to 07:00 staring at the ceiling. I finally fell asleep after 07:00 and woke up around 09:30 to 10:00. Unsurprisingly, I was in a bad mood although by now the particular routine is all too familiar to me. There are nights I cannot sleep until the sun has risen, and that's that. I miss my youth, when I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow... Haha.

I saw you in my sleep. You embraced me fondly as soon as you saw me and we chatted. It matters not. I don't care what happens in my dreams when my waking time is so different. It just adds to my bad mood when I finally wake up. I could have emailed you and told you about the other things I saw in the dream concerning you but what difference would it make? Would you listen? No, you'd probably freak out and run away even faster. Bah, I cannot be bothered anymore. I really can't. Run, knock your head on the usual walls you do, drink yourself stupid as you do anyway, take drugs, fuck around, try to escape your own self in every single kind of meaningless instant gratification you use. See what changes, what gives, what stays. And in the morning ask the stranger in the mirror what he wants from his life to receive the same shrug as a response. 

I should not be ironic, I know. I am not doing much better with my life; I would not know what meaning was even if it bit me in the arse one sunny morning. The only difference between you and I is that my body is still intact, because I respect it far too much to abuse it. Or because I am too much of a coward to dabble in the area of permanent alteration, save, of course, for my beloved tattoos. But meaning? Bah. Meaning is a lie. The only things keeping me here are untold stories and new songs I am waiting to discover and paintings to fall in love with. So decipher your life as best as you can and I'll struggle with mine. You might even be happier than I am; happiness, as I had written in my latest short story, is often found in the strangest places. So forgive me if I sounded like I was judging you. It's my disappointment speaking. I could and should do better than this.

A dear friend of mine is back from the "dead". I thought I had lost him for good but no, he's made a comeback I never expected. I am still too shocked for words, but happy. Life gives you lemons in abundance but from time to time also treats you to a big chocolate cake. I hope he stays. I have known him for so long and our qualities are so similar that he's a landmark in my existence.

I miss my heroes. I miss their qualities in my daily interactions with humans.

Next time I see Dorian I'll ask him to kill someone for me and I'll watch.

But Dorian is not part of this reality.

I am no part of this reality either.

So we're even.

I need to have more tattoos. This will solve pretty much everything. I am certain it will.

The big stage production called life

Dear Elizabeth,

you are the genuine article of strangeness. Sometimes, I cannot understand you at all.

Your feelings live a separate existence from you, pretty much like your personality does. You observe what is happening but very often you don't really identify it as your own. I doubt there is a single thing you identify as your life or you. Most of the time, you are trying to scrape an existence by mimicking behaviours considered acceptable. Like a person who has never learned acting does when they suddenly find themselves on stage. You keep glancing at what the other actors say and do and try to understand what is expected from you. You are too intelligent for your own sake and have managed to blend in so well that no-one has a clue that you are not an actor, or part of the show. They even find your moments of awkwardness or puzzlement endearing. You are doing such a good job you have almost believed it yourself. And day after day you go to the same place and do what is expected from you, but deep in your heart you hide the same panic of that first time you found yourself on stage. That sooner or later, someone will look at you and understand you're a stranger, an imposter that has no right to be there. You're not an actor. You're not part of all that. How come you're playing this role, you'll never understand. You're no part of it and you'll never be.

You form friendships and manage to make yourself irreplaceable. You know what to say and when. You manage to worm your way into their deepest secrets and the inner chambers of their hearts, and when you find yourself there, you don't know what you're supposed to do. You say to yourself that you care, and perhaps you do care after a fashion. But at the same time you know it's going to last as much as it is going to last and then game over. Nothing is forever, nothing is really important. Life is about change and endings and new beginnings, all of them as important and as trivial as the ones before them. You know it's all dust in the end. And you're not even certain you care about it.

You fall in love and the chemicals of your brain have a party with your glands and the rest of you. You desire, you crave, you want the other person's attention, you want to be one with them. You say to yourself that you want them, but lately I have the strong suspicion that you merely want to use them as anchors to this nonsensical reality. You know they're not really important, just what you need right now to advance in your learning, and afterwards... afterwards you'll get over them. The fast way or the slow painful way, you'll get over them. They are anchors, they're things to be used or to use you for as long as necessary. Necessary for what? Probably to feel that you're no different than the rest of the people you see around you. You have a life, friends, a love interest. Therefore, you belong somewhere. You are safe, and other such bullshit you don't really believe for one moment. You just need it for your disguise as a human.

You look at yourself in the mirror and you see your face and body change and really wonder who that person is. Yes, you feel familiar with your body in the same way someone would have felt familiar with a T-shirt they wear every day, but at the same time you often stare at it in bewilderment, in wonder, and with genuine restlessness. You wonder when you'll be allowed to finally shed it because it's faulty and uncomfortable and it cannot do half of the things you were used to. You don't hate it, just wear it in the same way an actor has to wear a really uncomfortable article of clothing for as long as the show lasts. And you wonder when the day will come that someone will come and smile and caress your hair and say to you, "it's over now. You don't have to do this anymore. We can go home." And you'll cry in their arms, and those will be the first genuine tears in your entire life.

You know Elizabeth, you truly make very little sense. But still love you so much that I'd kill anyone who dared look at you the wrong way...

Be brave, my little actress, and smile.

Smile as much as you can.

(If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.) 

Come on, hop in the washing machine.

A lot of contradictory feelings have bubbled up.

One of the reasons is something I was reminded of.

I was devastated. Haha. :-) Past lives. Fun, fun, fun.

But it was very important. It was necessary.

Another reason is a failed love interest.

I’ll live. I always do.

And I’ll kill the “what ifs” with my sharpest sword of reason.

What I cannot kill is dreams, but they’ll die a quiet death of their own.

A third reason is someone I love dearly.

Not sure what to do about that either.

But I love him so much that my heart hurts, for all the things he is and does.

All that is more than enough to make everything inside me enter a noisy emotional washing machine.

Eclipses, how I love you...

Life theories: Synchronization.

I have a life theory I want to share with you.

The theory is the following.

Many times, life is a matter of synchronization. In most cases, synchronization that doesn’t happen. Take my friend for example. She spoke to her boyfriend about seeing their relationship a bit more seriously than just the odd fuck in the weekends. She did not mean marriage, just a more decent behaviour, for example going to the movies together or for a drink, and so on. He did like her a lot and cared about her. Just not enough to make the extra effort to have a relationship instead of someone to use as a fuck toy. She gave him a lot of chances, again, and again. In vain. Today, three years after they split up because of his behaviour, he still sometimes sends her messages to ask her if she is ok. In reality to ask her if she is available and they can get together again. This seems absurd to me. I mean, he had her and made no effort to keep her. What does he want from her now?  The answer is simple. They couldn’t for the life of them find common ground at the time. He didn’t want to try or he was not ready, or he couldn't deal with it. Perhaps he never will. Bottom line being, my friend shrugged and moved on. Well, it certainly wasn’t that simple.This is the short version. She cried, she yelled, she thought about going back. But reality is very crude in its simplicity. No-one can wait for someone else. Life does not wait for you. You can spend your time waiting for someone else, someone else who may NEVER be ready to follow, or move on. My friend decided to move on, he stayed back. Sad? Certainly. Two people who genuinely cared about each other are now total strangers, not even speaking  anymore. It boils down to choices.

Even as write this I can see my choice and don't like it, but it's the only one I am left with. 

It boils down to choices and priorities. And self-respect.

So- goodbye.

It was nice knowing you.

I hope you live and learn.

I hope I live and learn.

Thank you for teaching me.

It's time to move on.

Trouble is an old friend of mine

Beautiful drawing by http://egosun.deviantart.com

I am looking for trouble in all the right places. And trouble finds me, kisses me on the cheek and shrugs. And I shrug too.

-Well met, Trouble.

-Well met, Elizabeth. How are you?

-“I am so screwed over” is the right answer. But you know that. I mean, we have just met. You’re supposed to be Trouble, not my aunt Helen. Don’t ask me things that are self-explanatory.

-Trying to be polite, Trouble replies. Never knew it went out of fashion. So, we cut to the chase then.

-Oh yes, we do.

-How do you want the chase to be this time? Trouble asks.

-Anything that does not involve chasing my own tail is fine, love.

Trouble hears that and doubles over with laughter.

-Are you plainly fucking delirious? He asks. We are talking about a male fairy here. Don’t tell me you don’t know what they are like. From all the things under the face of the good-ol' sun, you collided with one of the most whimsical, hedonistic, lying, obsessing, overindulging, sex-addicted races. And you don’t need me to tell you how murder is also their cup of tea, at least for some of them.

-Naga are the exact same thing, only they have scales and the ones I know don’t like to lie or kill, I interrupt Trouble playing smart ass. He snorts.

-Same difference to me. Are we talking about the fairy here or your collection of Naga acquaintances?

I shrug.

-So tell me about fairies.

-Come on, Trouble protests. You know everything about fairies. You have written half a book about one. You had picked the murderous type for the book, but other than that, there is nothing I can say you don’t know already.

-What do I do then?

-I don’t know, Trouble says. Run? Hide? Begin a stamp collection? It’s all the same to me. If I need to find you, I know where to look. My address book is always up to date.

I curse lowly. Trouble never lies.

-Do you think that I have some hope to get out unscathed?

-Ha, Trouble sniggers. I am the wrong one to ask concerning that. My job is to flay your skin, not give you advice. And he smiles a smile full of dagger-like teeth. 
I nod.

-You’re right. I am sorry. So, we begin?

-It has already begun, Trouble says and looks outside, then at his watch. He kisses me on the cheek again and I can swear this being smells like the tastiest thing ever draped over a rotting carcass.

-I am sure I’ll dodge you this time, I say seriously. I am certain the danger has passed. 
Trouble smiles his sweet dagger-collection smile and lights a cigarette.

-We’ll see about that, he murmurs.

-Goodnight Trouble.

-Goodnight Elizabeth.

Messy business

I am not sure why I keep bothering when there is nothing there to see.

There is so little time.

Humans keep wasting it in ways that defy not just common sense but stupidity itself.

There is nothing there.

Nothing.

Time flies.

The beautiful men and women I see in photos will be reduced to sacks of failing meat in a matter of years.

I will be reduced to a sack of failing meat in a matter of years.

And when this happens people think the youth we claim to have possessed was only in our minds.

Don't you realise?

And once more I look inside.

Every time I interact with others I get so exasperated I am always forced to do the same, look inside.

And no-one can compare to what is inside.

Nothing on the outside can begin to compare with it.

And I get mad.

And it's pointless.

And I grow anxious.

And it's useless.

And I see the same faces waving at me once more.

In the same order.

Desire, Creativity and Death.

Fucking hell.

Not again.

And then I get depressed.

But I am too proud to let depression get the better of me.

Okay then. Let's play.

Give it your best shot.

Let me pretend I am amused.

Let me pretend I am impressed.

Let me pretend I give a fuck about reality and everything it entails.

Dress up. Be smart. Be pretty. Be arrogant. Be haughty. Be even yourself.

See if I give a fuck.

So what will it be?

And why should I care?

I've forgotten how to care.

Smoke and mirrors.

Dust and old photos.

Nothing.

First picture: Bartek Borowiec, second picture: Andrej Pejic.

Video for the song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1EzU9sLQ6I

Dervish Wisdom

So what is desire?

Hormones?

Smells?

How about desiring someone you have not met?

Is that really desire?

Yes, he has done a considerably good job at turning your brain into a bitch in heat. He snaps your fingers, you jump. But you also bite if you need to.

Go with the flow.

The flow is slow.

The river is full of greenery that rots.

The waters are lazy and filthy under the sun. Your head is buzzing like so many flies.

You suddenly feel the need to kill.

You see your beloved Dorian in your mind’s eye snapping someone’s neck with his bare hands. It is a gratifying sight. It offers you comfort.

You’re aware of the absurdity of everything.

The Heart of the Ages sings from In the Woods.

A small black kitten is running and playing on your bed and biting your fingers.

Last night you were crying for that kitten and how small it is, and how there are so many things out there that can harm it.

Last night you were crying because innocents must suffer.

He’s waiting.

Perhaps to hurt you.

Perhaps to hurt himself.

There will be ample time to discover.

And perhaps make amends.

The black kitten wants to sleep.

The other kitten wants to play.

You want nothing.

The perfect equilibrium of no desire.

But what is desire?

Cute as a crocodile

I am restless. I can’t calm myself and I don’t even want to try. I partly know what’s wrong, but there is nothing I can do to make things better. Sometimes what is here bites me, sometimes what is not here cuts me. I am trapped in the exact middle of suffering. Suffering? Not really. I am trapped in the exact middle and refuse to feel anything. (See previous post). Save for my heart that yelps like an abandoned kitten and my brain that is filled to the brim and overflowing and my loins that have once more started their never-ending whining (end of period, beginning of ovulation) everything is fine. Everything is peachy. Everything is great.

I refuse. Refuse to make myself cheap, to mingle with people that drag their hearts (or what’s left of them) in the mud of every day exposure, of meaningless facebook chat, that throw their hearts in the mincing machine. I refuse to dress my heart as a whore, dress my body in a way that hints “available” and go out, to bars and cafes in order “to meet someone”. I am not “someone”, an interchangeable vague quantity. I refuse to shut up, to feign stupidity, to become “cute”. I am 5’10’’. I don’t do cute. I do tall with generous curves and vicious fists, I do tall with ritualistic tattoos, a stinging tongue and an acidic intellect. I also do vulnerable as fuck for animals and innocents. I don’t do spinster, agreeable, easy going, conventional or safe. It does not matter if my heart cries its loneliness at night because I know who I am and know what my heart needs. We’re priceless and we don’t sell out. There is no trial period, no reduced prices, no nothing. There is genuine feeling, or nothing. There is passion or silence. And even if I don’t find what I am looking for, I won’t regret it. I am not here to live a normal life. I am not here to be agreeable or charitable. I am not here to be an example for the social standards that raised all those robots that piss and shit on the planet, relationships, their children, themselves. If I wanted to be such an example I would have opened a fashion blog to advise airheads to buy $600 and $3000 shoes to be looked at as ascended deities from the Hell of credit cards. I would be “cute as a button”, “social” and married with two children, a car and a dog. I am none of these things. I hope I’ll never be.

I only wish I could feel that there is at least one person, except for my friends, that feels I am the most interesting, attractive and challenging individual he or she has seen in a long time. And that I would feel the exact same thing. But I am not here for that either. I am only here to live as best as I can with anything that this entails, relationships or lack of them, desires or lack of them, hope or lack of it. I am just here to live as best as I can, period, and if I am honest with myself the rest will follow.

In the mean time: whatever. I am looking at the wabbit and melt. Fuck off and leave me alone. I am too hard-boiled and tough to be swayed by any overdose of fluffy cuteness. That's the spirit.

*Starts making silly voices at the wabbit again because she thinks she is alone*

A meeting with Death

Ok, now I am seriously wondering.

What’s wrong with me? Have I become so skilled at suppressing my feelings I fully lost contact with them?

(And more importantly, who cares? A little voice adds here. It’s really convenient that most of the time I am numb to, well, everything.)

It’s really convenient that I care about no-one save for myself. But I don’t care even about myself that much as it seems. Well, I don’t care about anything. The feelings switch is stuck to 'off' with permanent glue and six inch nails to make it more secure. Instead of feeling, I go through the motions. Half-assed at best. I am expected to feel sadness and pretend I feel it, or happy about something and I pretend about that, too. In reality don’t feel anything. I expect nothing, hope nothing, fear so much.

Funny how I am listening to Anathema now and the lyrics say:

“Today I introduced myself/ to my own feelings./ In silent agony, after all these years,/ they spoke to me…/ After all these years.”

I dread the day the feelings will speak to me again “after all these years”.

It will be similar to a handshake with a tornado. It will rip off my hand and then my head. And that’s probably what I deserve for denying my inner voice for so long.

But you see, I somehow have to preserve my sanity. I somehow have to keep functioning, keep working 75 hours a week only to watch the mountain of bills grow bigger with each passing month. To work from day to night in order to sink more and more in debt. To deal with the fact that if I want to do something creative or simply different than eating and dropping dead on my bed I need to sleep less. To somehow deal with the loneliness that always lunges and bites me at the jugular when I am least expecting it. To deal with everything. If I let my feelings run amok the way I used to in the past I’ll resort to breaking things, screaming at people, screaming at mirrors, hurting myself, hurting others. I have been there and I don’t want to revisit that place. It’s not constructive in any way to cry about where you are. In the long run it always makes me a lot more depressed and desperate. And I can’t afford desperate and depressed right now. I have to keep my wits about me somehow, in some way, and I’ll do anything it takes to do that. Anything needs be done. I have to stay focused, sharp and NUMB.

And then something slips by. Something slips through my guard. It may be a picture on the net, or a song, or an article in the newspaper. Feelings are represented by the element of water. And you cannot imprison water. Sooner or later, water will find a way, as a friend always says. It may be a single drop, but that drop falls on my heart and burns it like acid, like boiling oil, it runs through it like a barbed spear. The pain is so intense that it gives a whole new dimension to the entire concept. It’s brilliant. It’s magnificent. It’s almost beautiful in the way anything final or lethal is beautiful as much as devastating. It cannot be ignored, suppressed or escaped in any way. It’s similar to ending a life, taking the wrong turn in a way that cannot be undone and it will always and forever live with you from that point onward. That’s the pain I experience. It’s so deep the night seems transparent in comparison, the red of blood looks pale yellow beige standing by its side. And I want to stay away from it. I want to keep it at a safe distance. I am not sure if I should blame myself for it. It’s not a passing notion; it’s not a fleeting sensation. It’s nebulae and supernovas and the end of the world distilled in one single moment. The moment the pain switch breaks the glue, spits out the nails and clicks back to the 'on' indication. Then a multitude of other feelings stampede in, and they use me as a pogo stick, with my head down, before kicking seven shades of blue and red and purple out of me. It’s not fun. Desire is the first to rush in and wrap me in its arms, kiss me in the mouth with its breath smelling of chocolate and honey and summer and run its nimble fingers all over me, setting me on fire.

“Remember me?” Desire asks. “Now look at him. Isn’t he beautiful? Wouldn’t you want to smell his hair? Wouldn’t you want to touch the back of his palms, oh, look at how beautiful his hands are, wouldn’t you want to see him with fewer clothes on? Wouldn’t you want him to look at you and feel the same, wouldn’t you want him to inhale your scent as he bites you during lovemaking? Now, don’t lie to me, because I know you want to.” And I want to, I burn with the need to. But I manage to kick Desire's groin and wring the necks of those needs fast and effectively, as if I was dealing with poisonous snakes. And run, while muttering lists with things I need to do in order to distract myself from the urgent demands of sexuality.

Then Creativity steps in. “Hello", it says. "Remember me? Don’t you want more people to read what you write? Don’t you want to speak out loud? Don’t you want to sing when so many others screech and whisper and croak when they write, while you sing? Don’t you want to free every child you have made out there, and see how they fare away from your hands?” 
I smack Creativity in the face, take my whip and force it to put that down on paper instead of yelling it into my ear. And that’s the point I manage to escape that threat. Creativity writes furiously while muttering to itself, one eye blackened, its attention diverted from me. And I run like hell only to stumble upon Death, who gives me the look he has patented and copyrighted and trademarked.

“Hello Elizabeth” Death says. “Remember me? We used to be friends.”

“That was in the past. When I thought I had plenty of time. Now I am running out of time,” I mutter nervously.

“Well, you can always pick reproduction as a means to gain immortality,” Death says with a shrug. “You know, pass on your genes et cetera.”

“What the hell?!? What are my genes to pass them on, a second hand T-shirt?” I yell at Death. “I am not falling for that!”

“And what do you think time is?” Death asks. “You cannot run out of time. There is time enough for your needs. Time is not coffee, or the Herald Tribune in order to run out of it,” he observes. He seems amused, but I am not.

“It’s a trick. Sexuality is a trick to force us reproduce because we fear you!” I shout at him while pointing with my finger. 
Death shrugs.

“First of all, I’d like you to stop pointing. It’s not polite, and you would not want me pointing at you.” I gulp and immediately stop pointing. “Now, you sound like a Cosmopolitan article gone existential Freud. I did not even know such a thing existed before now.” He makes a face as if someone added curry instead of cinnamon and salt instead of sugar to his cappuccino. “I believe you need to sleep and you need to get laid. Not simultaneously, it will be a failure from both aspects. And I cannot bother about any of those, they are your responsibility. And I suggest you sleep now, since getting laid requires company that you presently lack.”

What a perfectly wise idea. Let’s be practical and realistic. Off to bed. NOW.

PS: Damn you. You are good looking, interesting, funny, have similar political views to mine and live a few thousand miles away. This is not very helpful, you know. Or practical.

Black and gold and full of scales

[Wonderful art by Royo]

Today I am wondering again if you are happy.

Of course, it makes no difference what I think or believe. It cannot alter your state of mind. I can only change myself. Yet sometimes thoughts pass through my head, similar to erratic flocks of birds. The mind as the most ancient drive-thru in existence.

Sometimes I wonder if I want to know. I know I am merely cheating. I cannot live anything exciting now and try to find something more interesting to bother my head with. But my head is bothered and fucked up and disturbed already, it’s a reverse Cathedral of wishes, dark games and obsessions. I should not add to it.

But are you happy? My mind once more asks. And what had happened between us back then?

Who cares? With my luck in these matters, you probably had murdered me. Much like another person we both know. Or have heard about. 

I don’t really want to know, to be honest. I want the naughty stuff without the painful details. Hahaha. What a bloody idiot. Wants a consequences-free sin. Like eating those disgusting 0% sweets. If you’re gonna sin, sin boldly. Sin like you mean it!

Will I be able to get rid of the past?

Will I be able to dance through the minefield of you all without ending up as minced meat? Burned, broken and destroyed? Because fully avoiding you doesn’t seem an option. I don’t know how stubborn you are as a person. The other one is extremely stubborn. And he’s about as attractive as that insistent, sweet toothache when one is teething. It hurts but kinda nice. One can't help but rub their tongue onto it.

And there are days I know that none of you has any actual power over me. I can simply slip from between your fingers like a memory and leave you behind, because that is what you deserve. I can simply get up and let you fall in the floor, in the manner of a woman who sheds clothes she does not need anymore.

Well, I am still wondering if you’re happy. And whether adultery is your cup of tea.

I promise I’ll add honey and spices to it.

Cat's cradle

 

Hello my conscious self,

Reality didn’t just slap me in the face yesterday. It slapped me with a door in the face. Just as I thought things were back on a good track, reality said, oh yeah? And used the steel door of a safe to slap me around a little. I feel a bit battered today, that's all. Just an elephant size bit. Oh well. It's not like I wasn't aware of the problem, but naive as I am, I was certain it was better. Never mind. One more relationship down the drain.  

Despicable bastard.

You're not helping me any.

My hormones are making this even worse.

I honestly wonder what the hell we need hormones for.

There is no answer to that.

There is no answer in general, and that forces me to come up with new interesting variations of an answer. And new fantasies I am too tired to do anything about. Just thinking, thinking, thinking, and consequently feeling horny, and eventually the day ends, and a new day comes, ad infinitum. The days succeed each other in the same meaningless manner. And I am about as aware of residing in flesh as the average ghost is aware of haunting a place. Hmph.

I was watching a friend of mine talk about martial arts and I envied him. Envied the ease with which he moves, envied his effortless posture. And thought of one of my characters, my beloved Takeshi. But there is no meaning there either, trying to live your life through other people's experiences. 

Where is the meaning? My inner voice demands. Tell me where the meaning is.

There is no meaning other than what we choose. 

I am so tired.

I did not lie when I said to my friend your energy is barbed. It has thorns and fangs and barbs and it's dark red, almost crimson black, solid and wet and sticky at the same time. Like the inside of an exotic flower that first attracts you with its smell and colour, then traps you and sucks you dry. But at the same time it gives, it gives fever dreams, nightmares and weak mornings. You are all devouring, all demanding. You leave love bites and secret poison as proof of your having been there, and finger marks on wrists and napes. You make women muffle their moans in between sheets and inside pillows, and next morning as you make your bed those moments fall on the ground like the beads of a broken necklace. I wonder, truly wonder how happy you are with what you have.

Are beings like us ever meant to be happy? And I don't mean be happy together. It will never happen. I am just wondering, that's all.

It's not like I am doing anything more noteworthy anyway.