Judgement Day

And then comes one day that you want to turn Angel Safari into a national pastime. Hunt the fuckers. Raid the Elysian fields or aetheric levels or whatever place they live in, sleep and tan their gorgeous bodies while gracefully sipping mojitos or whatever shit they drink. Pluck their feathers out with pliers. Take a plane and fly over them while they snore peacefully and throw them anvils and safes to flatten them in their sleep. Paint them with black nail polish. Chase them with a flame thrower. Throw them big cactuses with the entire clay pot attached while they merrily chase each other in the ever green fields of the paradise. Next time I am introduced to one of those lazy motherfuckers, I will kung fu their brains out of their skulls. Yeah right, why EVEN TRY to bother with the earthly shit? Oh noooooo, THEY are TOO IMPORTANT to bother. It doesn't matter that this plane of existence has turned into a demo version of hell. Oh nooo, it is not their fault, you see there is this thing called FREE WILL, and since that thing exists, well, THEY CAN'T do anything, it is not their RESPONSIBILITY. You see, there are RULES.

I will rule your ass out of existence you shitstained pieces of feathered ego, you Pharisees of heavens! You bloody scum! Handing over your powers to the exactly wrong kind of humans without caring as long as you will not bother with us lowly mortals, with those oh-so-unimportant mortal affairs. You see we're flesh and blood, too disgusting for your divine hands and standards. When you fucked mortal women they were good enough. Now there is no fucking involved so you can't really bother with the rest of us, can you? Oh no. Too much work and a very dirty job. Too much trouble. A whole fucking planet turned into purgatory and billiors of souls screaming in misery and despair every single day of their lives and you can't move a finger to help. No no no. You are safe where you are. Why bother?

You miserable, arrogant, pretentious pieces of crap. You fucking hypocrites. YOU LOWLY, COWARDLY SCUM. If you cared, really cared, if you indeed served the Creator you claim you serve you'd be too ashamed to show your fucking faces. The brave ones of you have taken the dive in flesh and live amongst the mortals, suffering just like any other human. Being oppressed, victimised, raped, scorned and used like asswipes by mortals and immortals alike. Behold the wonder of existence and what it has turned into. I hope you are proud of yourselves. This is your responsibility as much as anyone else's. When you see a crime committed and you do nothing to stop it, you are as much a criminal as the one commiting it. Hail to the entire angelic race! As above so below; as below, so above. Go fuck yourselves and see if you multiply. Douchebags!

PS I swear, the next forty something American lady/healer with the serene, all knowing smile and the catchy New Age vocabulary I come across in the net, "channelling messages" from this or that or the other Archangel or Teacher or entity, I'll track her down and fuck her up the ass until she recites the entire Greek alphabet backwards.

Treasure chest

[picture: Shinya in action, the fantastic drummer of Dir en Grey]

I went through my usual summer cleaning binge. I threw away stuff, recycled old magazines, gave books and items to friends or charity, recycled old letters from people I no longer am in contact with. Suddenly, while being amidst a mountain of torn paper I stopped fully, because I found a small pile of letters. They were the letters my fictional characters had written to the characters of another lady. We intended to write stories together but this never happened as she was ill and we eventually lost contact fully. But the letters were there; I had kept copies. First letter I came across was the one gentle Sergios had written to one of her vampire characters. I paused and re-read it.

It is hard for another person to understand why a writer may feel the way they do about a particular character. After all they are not real, right? But Sergios is or rather was me. All my characters are pieces of my personality, facades of what I am, was or could be. And as such I love them more than I love my own two hands. My hands will wither and rot one day, but my characters are immortal; they are the closest thing I have to a soul.

I stood for a while. Remembered all the things I know about my dear Sergios. Felt very depressed because he belongs to a different story line and the copyrights for that world belong to a company, so I can never have anything published. I wallowed in my misery for a little while and eventually scolded myself because I once more remembered what any serious magic practitioner of magic (and anyone familiar with the fundamentals of physics) must not forget: energy is NEVER lost. It changes form but never vanishes. The solution had been there all along: I slapped my forehead and concentrated, then called upon the Liberating One and handed them all to Him. There you go, these are my creations, the closest thing I have to a legacy. Take the old characters, the undeveloped stories, all those "what ifs" that will never take place in any world and return them all to the Heart, the Creator/Creatrix. Let Him/Her have it all back. They were once born in dreams, I now return them all to the Womb of dreams to be transmuted and reborn and returned to me to a new form. He naturally was only too happy to do this, and I was not happy at all (because I am such a insecure, sentimental sucker) but felt released. I bet that if a child was looking at the sky that night they would see this flock of multicoloured pegasi passing by and vanishing in the black horizon...

Ahhh, what the hell. Some things are never meant to be. Back to my boring life of blowing up reality, snuggling with Archangels, scratching Yahweh's face because he kept bugging me and showing me his hurt nail, slapping the asses of Japanese rock superstars silly because they won't let me be, fondling the Babylon whore and lending her money and getting into the pants of my female email pals in dragon form during my sleep. Now, if only I could figure out a way to win half a million euro, it would simplify my life a lot but spare me none of the drama.

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.

Mistake

I am sure I have made a mistake somewhere.

It can't be explained otherwise.

It makes no sense.

All my choices, though valid, take me to dead ends.

I rerun this story in my head and yet find no escape.

But this is not how it was supposed to turn out.

No, it was not.

What have I done wrong?

Your hands, my beloved, look so immaculate.

What have I done?

My eyes cannot be read anymore.

You will never know.

Even if the time comes, you'll never know.

I'll make it gentle.

But late at night

When I toss and turn in my bed

Thinking over and over again

this sad turn of events, that might turn me

into the hand of fate

Who will take away my sin?

Who will grant me sleep?

Even you

the one supposed to love and forgive us all

the one who stayed in delicate balance

you ask me to do

what you could never.

You cannot absolve me.

I cannot absolve me.

I can only pray

that future will never come to pass.

Predicament

"I know, the past will catch you up as you run faster, I know..."

All bonds break

Reality subsides

All hell breaks loose

It all crumbles to dust

No turning back.

This body will eventually fall apart just like everything else and it won't even have fulfilled its purpose, which was to be loved.

I am left with no choices. You left me with no choices.

Loneliness creeps in and sadness pours down like a unexpected summer shower. Startling cold.

I was handed a sword. Entrusted to cut clean.

I did not refuse it.

"Fear cuts deeper than the sword."

I twist and turn in my sleep, pushing the nightmares away, flailing, gasping. Not now, I will not have those memories surface now. I will deal with them in my own time. When I am awake. NOT IN MY SLEEP.

One day it will all be gone. No more second chances. No other choices, no alternative pathways. Nothing. Void. Back in the Embrace.

Do you realise that?

Have you played the game well?

Have you done all you could?

Have you tried all options?

Have you given your best?

Cause one day you'll be gone. Gone for good.

No one will ever again smile like you did, with the same knowledge gleaming in their eyes. No one will make your favourite food or coffee like you did. No one will touch your lover, or child, or parent in the same way. Nobody will throw tantrums in the same manner or be sad in the same degree. Nobody will be able to replace you. No one in the world will be able to appreciate a moment the way you do. Do you realise that?

Do you realise your time here is finite? Do you appreciate every day? Do you give your best, or plainly drag your feet in a half-hearted existence? Do you understand, fully understand, feel to your bones the irreplaceable void you'll leave in your place once gone? Do you appreciate yourself for all that you are and do, every little quirk and gesture that make you unique? Do you comprehend that one day there won't be a next day to set things right, to apologise, to touch someone or kiss them, to say sorry or "I love you"? Do you really, truly understand that some people will never hear this from you if you keep postponing it?

Do you really think you are going to live forever?

Do you sleep easy at night?

Do you have secrets?

Do you cry?

Do you get mad when people smile at you?

Does anyone in the world hold you when you are alone and afraid?

Do you care?

Late at night, when I walk the streets with my dogs, my footsteps echo in the distance and manage to stir only dust and memories.

Sometimes I sing with my MP3 player shutting off all sounds and I wonder what my voice sounds like.

[A mad woman, an owl, someone calling out to ghosts.]

So many ghosts

so many goddamn ghosts

hordes of ghosts following my every step and me crying out like a monster, an owl with the face of a woman, a harpy, a miasma.

My hands weave spells secured by my voice; tightly woven intricate patterns of energy like some spider from a fairy tale or stories from the old, and I grow older with every passing breath and yet there isn't a single stone on which I can lay down my burden and rest...

Everything carries power and special weight

and I wish I could embrace you and show you my love

Break your frail, bird-like bones in my grip...

Tiny creatures

we're all tiny creatures digging a pitiful existence in the mud

our eternal loves and ideals swept away in a single blink of a dragon's eye

and yet the pride, oh what pride we have...

Name the reality drug that keeps you going

name the illusions that feed your ego and make you feel invincible

name the addictions you harbour that make your world make sense

and all these while our existence lasts only for a scream

and our souls flutter away blind

leaving as blind as they arrived

and it's repeated into eternity.

Is it all meaningless?

Is it futile?

All those years, were they wasted time?

Only time will tell.

Till the dragons fly again,

farewell...

Restlesness

For the past one month I have been on the lookout, continually deflecting psychic attacks from someone. "Attacks". Hmm. Not attacks. Not direct attacks. That would be a lie. Someone was "checking" me out after a reiki therapy I did to him. No problem with that. But then he decided to turn this into a power game. It was partly fun and partly stupid. Spells started flying to all directions. As soon as I realised what he was up to, doors were repeatedly shut at his face, to keep him off my case. He is perhaps as stubborn as a mule enraged by a three hour beating, if more. Amazing, I said to myself.

I closed all the doors I have to my conscious self.

He went dreamwalking.

I shut him off my dreams.

He wove spells.

I tore them apart.

He used other people trying to once more reach me.

I shut those doors too. On top of that I had to give therapies to those people as they were contaminated by his shitty energy. Power games= ego= left path energy= shit energy.

We reached the point of him using one of his friends to borrow energy in order to re-open the doors to me.

Ah, great, but sorry my friend, I have a water dragon who acts as my protector and I did not even ask him to; he simply wants to. I did not need his help, I think I could put you both down single handed if needed, but he butted in anyway. You see, he too received help by me and he feels obliged to protect what he understands as a woman against two men. Different mentality I suppose.

And the grand finale? The discovery I made three days ago about a spell blocking my erotic life. It was then that I've had it with this person and finally got permission to explain to him a few things up close and personal. I never attack, I always deflect and ignore. But this time it was different. I have no idea exactly what I did to him, but I know he deserved it. I hope it was very painful for his pride. I do know two things; one, he got me furious and he should have avoided that because I only helped him, and two, there is possibility of him being in the hospital right now. This second thing I hope is not true, but he should let sleeping tigresses lie, not step on their tails repeatedly.

I'll keep my ears perched, and if he indeed is at hospital I'll give him another therapy. *snigger* :-P

Farewell

I wish I had more actual things to refer to rather than dreams and happenings in other planes of existence. It's not that I disregard those. I am fully aware of the importance of dreams and how they are as valid as "real" life, if not more. It is myself I have a problem with concerning dreams. I can't help but think of myself as a miserable idiot counting dreams instead of actual deeds. Which is funny, as I always go for the quote "as above, so below." I know that all changes happen to the inside first and then the environment, what we call reality, changes to adapt to ourselves. Dreams are as important as real life, they are a second life, much more attuned to the divine spark inside than daily existence. And yet, when it comes to my dreams, my experiences, I always question my motives. "Question my motives". Yeah, in the manner of a officer of SS interrogating a saboteur.

"Perhaps you WISH to be able to do what you think you are doing."

"Maybe you LOVE to live your little personal dramas and you are nothing more than a DRAMA QUEEN addicted to her own pain, real or imagined."

"Oh yeah, let's SUPPOSE you did that. I you were THAT powerful, don't you think your life would be different?"

"Of COURSE that happened. Who do you think you are, the next fucking MESSIAH? Wake up from your reverie little deluded girl, you are not Buddha with boobs."

No-one can be as merciless as I am. Nobody can hurt me the way I do. None can pull the carpet from under my two feet the way I do it. I am unforgiving to myself. I grew up learning to disregard anything that I could not prove, under continual suspicion of me being incapable of dealing with reality. I learned not to trust my instincts and thoughts, not to pay attention to gut feelings unless there was a practical usefulness to them. And there was none. I am still fighting tooth and claw to UNLEARN these things. The power of conditioning is just beyond description. There are times I have hurt myself physically, I have reduced myself to nothing, absolutely nothing, while the voice of the interrogator kept spitting accusations non-stop, hitting me under the belt in the manner only I myself am capable of. Nice, isn't it? Your own private tormentor installed within your head thanks to your family, married with you and living happily ever after inside your thoughts, chewing at your self-esteem until you go stark mad. Until you want to knock your head on the wall to fall unconscious and make that cold, precise, merciless voice SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP.

Today was hard. Very hard.

The only way you can regain control of your life is unlearn these patterns and conditionings. All manners of crazy things take place during that process, ranging from trivial to unbearable. Usually the installed 'program' starts behaving like a virus, attacking the host, making you feel like you have gone bananas. Outbursts of violence towards one's self are not unusual either. I have experienced very interesting side effects. However, I am a very stubborn person. No-one will have control over me to the degree this is possible. And certainly not my ego, not my patterns and other people's misconceptions installed inside me. Therefore, I cringe my teeth and onward I march, pressing it to the end. I will get rid of this shit from my head. I need to be free! I need to reclaim my being from three disturbed people that are my family. If I am to be disturbed, at least I will be serving my own vices and the voices of my own head, not theirs.

I feel like I am walking in a desert during a terrible sandstorm. I almost have no idea where the ground and where the sky is. I am continuously attacked by howling winds, I cannot see a fucking thing, the sand is inside my mouth, eyes and nostrils, my tongue is so dry that it feels like a piece of cotton wool, my lips are split from the heat and sand and I taste my blood every time I open them, I cannot swallow and the sun batters my head mercilessly in spite of the goddamn wind. I stumble on, having no idea whether I am on the right track or not and no proof this is the right decision. I mumble and curse on the inside, feeling a growing despair that since I have no way to verify my direction perhaps I am walking towards the center of this desert instead of the oasis. Needless to say, if this is true, I am as good as dead. And yet I have no choice, I need to press on. I cannot live with myself the way these people have distorted me.

This is the problem with the journey of self-discovery. There are no guarantees, there is no safety net, no assurances, no do-it-yourself little help book with directions. "Here be dragons" and I knew it. With that in mind, someone would have expected I would take any and every scrap of help I could summon. But this is my journey, my soul's journey. Other people cannot help. And today was particularly hard for me because I knew what had to be done. This beautiful creature that came to me some time ago, this water dragon that had encircled himself around me like a ring of protection, had to go. He came to help, and his intentions are pure, and he wanted to show his gratefulness for the therapies. And more than anything else, more than sanity itself, I NEEDED him to be here. I needed him to be close to me, not because I cannot protect myself, but because I am so lonely that it feels like actual physical pain. A pain like someone is tearing off bits of my soul. I needed his being here because he is the only one who has approached me to protect me and soothe me in any way he can, although he cannot soothe his own pain. And I needed his being here because I need a companion more than dear breath, this agony inside cannot be ignored anymore. I knew I could trust in him. And once more I took the hard way, once more I did what felt right. I asked him to go away because I have to go through this alone. He did not want to go away. He even thought I rejected his help, which god/dess knows it is not true. However, he needs to learn to love himself for what he is, not because he is useful to others. And I need to concentrate on here and now. He is not here now, he is not an actual person in my life. Perhaps one day he will be a real person, someone in arm's distance. Someone that can curl next to me in bed and will sleep with his breath caressing my arm and I can smooth his hair and watch over him, just like he did for me. But this is not now. The desert is now.

Will you ever forgive me for sending you away?

Baffled and bewildered

That fucking thing called pure intentions. Oh that goddamn elusive chimera, so important for those needing to sleep peacefully at night. How can anyone be certain of good intentions when our mind pulls the blindfold over our eyes while whispering seductively in our ear, sweet talking us into yet another little game with our familiar toys? Mind games and other people, power games, games of possession, obsession, victimization. The promise that if we play the game the pain will stop or be forgotten. And the sweet shiver down our spine, the tingling inside our loins. He or she fell for me. He or she mistreated me. I am powerful/ I am a victim of circumstance. I am the one in control. I control my possessions/ I control my misfortunes. I choose my toys/ I choose who's gonna turn me into a toy. I will make myself crazy/ other people will make me crazy.

Good intentions. Not pure intentions. The way to hell is paved with good intentions. Literally. Good intentions can be a one way ticket to hell for both doer and receiver of the action. I know all these things. Doing the right thing for the wrong reasons is what makes good intentions nearly lethal and so immaculate in the eyes of the doer/decider. I know those things. And yet there is one thing I cannot see in a situation, one blind spot that makes all the difference, and I'll be damned if i can see it. I know I will. Ask and you shall receive. And I asked. But damn all the mainstream monotheistic guilt-ridden religions of the multiverse, I cannot see it YET. It drives me nuts. Hell and damnation! Being evil is certainly less trouble! At least I would be able to indulge in power games (which I sooooo love) without my conscience throwing fits and tantrums that there is something I cannot see. I would be able to violate lots of underage Asian boys as well, to the point of them always screaming my name when they have an exceptional orgasm. Always and forever. Till their last fucking days. Arghhhhhh!

I'm reading lots of English grammar lately. Perhaps this is to blame for my condition???

The symptoms

"Hello. I'm French."

"Hello. I'm sleepy."

(My reply to the guy who was trying to get my attention on a recent night out.)

The symptoms are easily recognised. I get a feeling of desire without a specific target, combined to uneasiness and restlessness. Then I want to listen to mushy songs in youtube and don't really want to reply to my emails, but still I want to write. What does this mean? It means another blog entry is in the making. Rejoice, oh crowds. I am back. And damn, I wanted to keep my silence a little longer. Make you miss me.

The Dir en Grey cds arrived. They sodomized and vandalized my ears. They violated my sense of appropriateness and dragged my aesthetic criteria into mud, shit and vomit. They even made me write dark poetry, full of gore and corpses. Now I have one more purpose in life. I've got to see them live! And donate my nice boobs to the holy purpose of shoving short, ugly Japanese singers on them, to comfort, soothe and pet the aforesaid singers. There, there sweetheart. It can't be that bad. Here's a pair of exceptionally nice boobs for you to rest your face on. See how good that feels? Now stop screaming your little black velvet heart out, stop scratching yourself till you bleed. Rest for a while. Sleep too if you want. I don't mind.

[Damn. Having said this, Kyo (the singer of Dir en Grey) is SO short that I have the impression that I will need to first put him on a stool and then shove him on my boobs.You gotta love this possessed little pixie.]

I recently had a interesting conversation with Mr Osram. Mr Osram is a very sweet supernatural entity, whom my best friend has nicknamed thus. He (she?) is a fellow lunatic member of the ones that decided to land flat on their ass down here on this miserable planet. So here is a part of the "conversation" (me nagging and him/her listening without complaining).

"...I mean, this sucks. I am not cut for this. I don't get along with flesh. Flesh and I are just not compatible. I feel like a goldfish on a fucking bicycle. What am I supposed to do here? I am offered all these gifts in this recent incarnation and still I can do shit. Look at me. I have an exceptional voice, my writing ability surpasses by far what many of the so-called professional writers out there can manage, I can practice reiki on perfect strangers living in fucking Australia, even my doodles are better than what some deviantart members upload, and what do I do? I am working in a kiosk and putting up with morons and eejits on a daily basis, only to return home to have terrible rows with my mother. I don't have a sexual or social life. I use nothing of what I have. I live every day of my life trying to give the best I have and at the end of the day, nothing changes. What a fucking waste of flesh, breath and resources. I want to die, Mr Osram. I really want to die. Don't get me wrong, you know I don't mean commit suicide or hurt myself, but somehow find myself in spirit again. Not in flesh. Fly again like I used to. I am sick and tired of this shit. I am not cut for this, I swear I am not. I feel pity for everyone and compassion for the entire human race, even for so and so (referring to two people who have done some really nasty things to me). But I am tired, Mr Osram. This is not what life should be like! This pitiful existence is NOT life. When I was a kid I imagined that life at this age would be full of beautiful moments with my friends, with something new and wondrous every day. Not necessarily buying something, but you know, something silly, like trying a new flavor of ice-cream, watching a new movie, talking about a new experience or book, seeing a new flower blooming in my garden. And this... thing, this life that I am living is just killing me, I can't take it. *starts sobbing* I want to die, Mr Osram. I don't want to die literally, but even if I died I would not mind, I have made my peace. I just can't take more of this ...life. I want to move on. Please help me. Show me what I need to do to change my life situation. I can't continue. I have started inspecting buildings when I walk the dogs, trying to locate those with the many stories and wondering if the door to their rooftops will be locked, in order for me to jump from there. This is not me. Please help me."

The worst thing is that I know what needs be done. I need to continue doing what I do, which is, live this kind of life. Typical contradiction of reality. In order to change things, you have to continue doing what you already do without any visible change. All changes are happening inside, that wonderland of despair and Japanese singers sleeping peacefully on my boobs (probably holding them and drooling on them, while the rest of the band around the bed play soft melodies.)

Thank god/dess for my sense of sarcasm, because there is an awful lot of tall buildings in my area.

I feel like doing something stupid tonight.

But I have no idea what this could be.

Sometimes I wish I had superpowers just so that I could jump from one rooftop to the next when I am THAT much bored. Or land next to some irritating fuckhead in the middle of the night to make them pee in their pants. Yet if we keep in mind that I am about as fit as your average sloth, I would end up beaten up as well as used to wipe the floor clean. What a super-heroine...

If it was early I would probably dress up and walk the streets. Or go buy some ice-cream. It does not matter that I am alone. I can always take a book with me and eat my ice-cream dressed like a medieval lady... But it is not that early to begin with and I am too bored.

The sense I miss more than anything else when I wake up is flying. And what pisses me off more than anything else is my inability to bring specific items from over there to over here. No matter how hard I try to concentrate and how firmly I grab them in the dream world, I fail to bring them over here. I often open my eyes and start looking furiously on my pillow, under my bed, under the covers. No success as of yet. But I am stubborn. Or motivated, if you prefer.

I feel a bit inclined to blow the universe tonight. However I did blow it in the afternoon and I think once is enough. The energy blast must have rearranged reality on a global scale. Hey, don't you give me that look. When we change ourselves, that minute portion of reality that we have power over, we change the entire universe. So no sympathy looks for my mental condition, thank you very much. The only side effect of my type of reiki/magic/sex on reality is the number of times I visit the restroom afterwards. Small price to pay. No alien invasion, no going insane (at least more than what I already am), no R'lye rising from the watery abyss. Hell, not even the electricity bill paid by magic. This is some shitty magic that I practice. Literally.

At least I re-read something that made me smile. Neil Gaiman has written some very small short stories to describe fifteen cards from a vampire tarot. Those texts are published as introduction to 'The art of Vampire the Masquerade' by White Wolf. My favourite is the one he wrote for the Tower.

The Tower

The tower's built of spit and spite,

Without a sound, without a sight.

The biter bit, the bitter bite.

(It's better to be out at night.)

I know it does not necessarily ring any bells for you, but it does for me. Who knows why certain things affect us the way they do? Yet the more I look at it the more it makes me smile. A perfect short story. Ideas waiting to be used. The word and sound play of the third line. Ah... Just perfect.

I have not role played for five years now. Time is there to remind us to be on our toes.

Maybe I should try to type a short story I wrote last December. I know at least one person who would love to read it. Perhaps she is crazy, but she says she wants to read it. So why not.

Rest

[To see the light failing inside someone's eyes, to feel their breath faltering on your fingers, to hear their very last heartbeat. Then silence. Then stillness.]

There's a monster on the loose inside me and it cannot be comforted, no matter what. No blood can sate its hunger. No entrails can fill its gut. No fingers can caress its claws and no kiss can put it to sleep. It wanders all alone inside my head, crying out its anger and loneliness, its hurt, its frustration, its disgust. And it only wishes for the pain to go away though it is made from that very substance. It is on the loose again, dining with empty words, feeding on lies, living off anger and fear. Pregnant with possibilities.

Come and embrace me. Your claws will hurt me. Your fangs will draw blood from my shoulder. Your breath will make me sick. It is okay. Come and embrace me, rest in my arms. There is one place you can call home now and forever more. I love you. I love me. Now sleep.

[The entire winter sky is dying inside your eyes as your soul departs.]

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.

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.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Music: System of a Down: Toxicity.

If I was my character, Dorian, I would have gone out hunting. The night is deliciously cold and crisp and it smells like winter. The air has a razor quality that cuts through clothes and freezes the face, but in a pleasant way. And the sky is such a dark blue that puts any fabric to shame.

If I were Dorian I would be walking out nearly invisible, looking for the one to kill, the one to quench my thirst. Not for blood. For sky. Killing is one more way of deifying one's self. However Dorian is a vampire, and that's a handy excuse for killing. A vampire is no longer human. It does not obey to the same laws a human does. A wolf is only expected to kill, after all. And we have lost the archetype of the hunter long ago. Or perhaps upon returning to the collective and diving back inside, it emerged as the vampire this time. The urban figure of the dangerous, alluring stranger. But I am straying from my original thought. And my original thought is related to killing.

My dark side is having a party. It is okay. I invited all my demons out to get to know them better. They talk to me, and the things they say are more than just tempting... They are delicious. That's probably the reason I will never understand vegans. Killing is a sacred act. Killing is not alien to our nature. I suspect that people would have a much better relationship with death and loss if we still had to catch and kill our own food. And as for all those people freaking out at the mere thought of taking advantage of someone innocent, there is nothing more tempting than the destruction of innocence. That's natural to us too, and only cowards would deny its pull.

I need to voice out my darkest callings. I need to let them roam free inside my head, or else I will burst. If thoughts were a crime, we would all be behind bars or in padded cells. Yes, I would love to kill, or scare someone witless. Yes, I would love to take something beautiful and destroy it utterly. And I would certainly pick the most beautiful and charismatic I could find from the human crowds, and also find them at an age I would be able to work on them as if they were clay. No, I would not kill them. I would turn their world view upside down and make them like me. I would make them worship their egos as the only god that exists in this sad age. I would create little viruses like myself and I would unleash them. And through the opposition I would only serve my part of the plan. Sad, isn't it? In all our glory and creativity, and though possessing the strongest weapon that exists -the human mind- we can only serve one of the two basic urges: love and death. Sex and power. We cannot escape our glands and genitals. We cannot think of something beyond that, and even if we can, human language cannot pinpoint it or describe it. Lovecraft tried to second guess alien gods. Arthur Miller and Arthur Machen tried to hint of Iago, to describe pure evil. The anti-saint. And all the average human can think of is money and pleasure. Sad.

At nights like this one I am happy. Content with the taste of winter on my lips and the sense of wild joy in my heart. As if I am the one leading the hunt, and there is a strong horse between my thighs and miles of snow-covered forest ahead of me, with no sign of humans anywhere, with no human city to be encountered ahead of me. Because they don't exist yet. I am happy to look at the night sky and watch my breath crystallise. I am fulfilled.

Partying my nights away.

A recent party at Bios. Cosplay (or costume-play, for those not really accustomed with the term) is the ideal chance to wear outrageous articles of clothing without having to apologise. I was dressed at the party. For more people and pictures, check http://easysubjugation.blogspot.gr/2007/11/cosplay-pictures-round-2.html. I tried my own version of madame Batolli from the manga Under The Glass Moon. A widow and a witch, heheheh...

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...

Night walk

Sometimes, late at night, the urge strikes me to go for a walk. I take my MP3 and off I go, letting my feet guide me. The place I live is close to a mount and a forest of sorts, but I walk the streets. They are a maze.

I walk quietly, or I might go dancing and singing if the song is inspiring and the mood is right. Most of the time I am what I strive to be in real life too: an observer. I walk by and steal glimpses of the lives of other people. I see their gardens. I stop and smell their flowers, or touch their trees. When a room has the light on, I stop and observe the house. I see what kind of feedback I get. Would I like to live there? I often wonder what I would be like if I had grown in that house and had been in the company of different people. Would I be different? Then I count the lighted windows, estimating how many people are not sleeping, much like I am not. Are they expecting something? Are they insomniacs? Perhaps they are guardians, even without knowing. Perhaps they are suffering, or making love, or staying up till late watching this or the other film. Or maybe they are tormented by others, or tormenting themselves or others. Are they happy? Are they sad? Do they realise time flies? Do they strive for the best they can, or they hold back, afraid of fate, others, themselves? Do they live at all?

I don’t envy the lives of others. I know I will never get to live their lives and don’t want that to begin with. It’s me I am always talking to/with. Through my eyes and personality I interpret reality and am content being myself. Yet there are times I wonder, how many of these people will come to be meaningful to me, how many will be indifferent or even enemies, how many of them will be my lovers, which one (if any) will be the one to kill me, though ill intent or otherwise. Does it matter? No, it doesn’t. Those are just questions to pass time. What does matter is that time passes.

Do you ever see me passing by? Do you realise I am talking to your flowers or myself? Do you think me crazy? Do you crane your neck trying to catch a glimpse of the glorious night sky which envelopes the whole planet? Do you realise how tiny you, me, we all are, how easily a tragedy can take place, stripping you bare from everything you consider familiar, from your security and preconceived notions of life? Do you tell to those people that matter to you how you feel about them? Do you spend a few minutes every day with the one you love, be it a parent, companion, child, pet, or craft? Do you let them know you are there? Or do you just let time pass, thinking about bills and wages and pussy and dick? Do you really care? Do you see? Not just look, but see? 

Open your eyes

The night sky is clear tonight and the stars are a sight to behold

The night is sweet, and mostly quiet, and smells of flowers and spring

The earth awakens

Every moment, with every breath you take you change, you become a different person, a different version of yourself

Every moment, with every breath you take, millions of cells in your body die and new are created and your consciousness is begging you to make that one step that separates thought from action

Open your eyes. Wake up from your coma.

This is your life, right here, right now. This is your life, so you might as well live it.

Open your eyes.

You might just see me passing by.

Goodnight.

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…