Storming paradise

"From this flesh my spirit longs to break away. 
Did you ever feel this cosmic circumstance was never enough? 
Wake me slowly if ever at all. 
Wake me slowly or watch me fall."

I do long to break free from my flesh tonight. Only I don't want to die.
Desire makes me weak, it makes me crawl, yet dignity wins every single time.
I still need to find the one who won't force me to choose.
I have to keep on fighting though I can barely stand.
It's OK though. I'm used to watching my world burn.
I am slowly regaining my hope, not because the situation is improving. Because it was mine and you took it away.
The rest will take care of itself, fuck you very much.
Desire will pass. It always passes.
Hey, even life will pass, let alone desire. 
I wish I could take a single drop of my longing and put it in a glass.
Then watch the unlucky person who drank it go mad.
You obviously knew what you did when you gave that much yearning to me.
You knew I could host it. 
Not sure who else can take it even by association, and not go insane.
Long ago, there was someone who could take it, and he used it to create worlds with me.
He is not here now, but watches over me.
And late at night I find myself imploring him.
"Show me the one who can take it.
Show me the one who'll manage not to be consumed and pushed into madness
but will use my love as a key to unlock paradise.
We'll take paradise by force, true Sons and Daughters of Lucifer
and our love will burn so brightly that angels will cover their eyes."
I do long to break free from my flesh tonight. Only I don't want to die.
Desire makes me weak, it makes me crawl, yet dignity wins every single time.
Until the night I won't have to choose.

(If you'd like to support me, please buy me a coffee.)

Nyarlathotep

Two nights ago I had  a very interesting dream. I was in the bedroom of a young woman I've known since childhood. She was in bed with me and we were naked. In the beginning of the dream I thought it was her, but then she attacked me and I knew it was a shape-shifting demon.

I started struggling with the demon. It was strong and trying to overpower me. I was stronger. I was fighting to hold it still and screaming sacred names of entities at the same time. I remember using Michael's name, and I also shouted "divine providence". Every time I yelled one of the holy names, the demon reduced in size until what was left of it was a handful of blonde hairs. So I got off bed and started burning those hairs using a candle, and even the hairs of that thing were struggling.

Just as I was done burning the hairs, there was a knock on the door. I opened the door and stood behind it completely naked. I was feeling at ease. Outside stood a tall, slim young man, whose features were Caucasian, but he had the skin colour of either an Arab or a person of one black and one white parent. His eyes were green and transparent. He was actually quite sexy and had a pleasant demeanor. He asked me if my friend was inside, and I replied she wasn't.

"Oh, that's a pity," he said. "It has such nice weather. I was thinking of taking her to the sea."

"I am sorry. She's not here," I said and closed the door.

I woke up feeling tired and cranky by my struggle with the demon. Two pieces of information came to me as I made the transition to wakefulness. 

One, that pleasant dark-skinned man was a demon too, and he had come to take what had been promised to him. You see, that young woman I have known since childhood had a mother who was involved in magic. Unfortunately she was the worst kind of witch someone can be; sloppy and with superficial knowledge. I wouldn't be surprised if she promised her daughter to some entity, or something tricked her. 

Two, that man wasn't just any demon. He was the Black Man of the witches, also known as Nyarlathotep. He appears as a man of Arab ancestry sometimes, but is also seen with Caucasian features. Great.

So... exterminating shape-shifting demons by vibration (yelling) and fire, check. Flirting with Nyarlathotep, check. Shutting the door on his face while he came to collect a debt, check. Seeing that dream on the night of the full moon, check. Not that I am counting or anything. Just saying.

I really, really need to win the lottery. Life is so much simpler when all you have to worry about is what colour nail varnish to use. Not that it'd change anything in my case. I'd still spend my days choosing stickers and my nights grappling with demons. And trying to type a blog entry with a cat sleeping on my lap. Both my legs have gone to sleep presently, and I suspect that's what I ought to do too. I hope Nyarlathotep won't pay me another visit any time soon; I sorely need my beauty sleep. 😝
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Ants in my pants

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

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

Lyrics

Run from the light
Your eyes black like an animal
Deep in the water

I care for no one but the offspring of your mind
Run from the one who comes to find you
Wait for the night that comes to hide

Your eyes black like an animal
Black like an animal
Crossing the water
Lead them to die

We press for the water, press for the river, press for the rain
We press for the water, press for the river, press for the pain

We press for the water... 

Beyond the human scope

LL Ori and the Orion Nebula

The Milky Way

I was recently looking at photos of the Milky Way. I have always been fond of looking at the stars, images of galaxies, nebulas, you name it. I had a realization that pretty much shook me. When I am looking at them I am in fact witnessing the very proof of our death. Tiamat’s body was used to create the world. Oh, I know, mythology. I also know how close mythology is to the truth. Our bodies, if we can call them that, have created what we witness as the multitude of an entire universe. There was enough creative force in us to make it all, and even now, it keeps growing and expanding. Imagine that. Imagine what we’re talking about. And now you can understand why I want to take them and hide them all in my embrace, kiss them like they are little birds or children and softly sing to them. I want to put the galaxies to sleep, or maybe at rest.

Today I was talking with your daughter about us, about you. You know, you are always there though the conversation may not be directly about you. My brain is just too small to fit everything in, yet my imagination can bridge any distance. This is the curse and the tragedy of the human race. Our very consciousness that set us apart from nature as unnatural, and it gives us a sense of self-importance. Importance. The importance of a grain of sand in a beach; that’s what the entire planet is in relation to the universe. And yet we feel self-important. I don’t know why. We feel self-important enough to be fanatical about what we believe in, and take the lives of others, and hurt them. Hubris at its finest. The human race excels at it. And no matter how much I try to discover our positive traits too, most of the time I am pretty certain we haven’t that many to flaunt.

I think of you sometimes, the Father of all, the Protector, the First One. The mainstay of an entire cosmos, first and now last of his kind, the name of whom was erased from every holy book and every story, or twisted around to make it the source of evil. Maybe in other worlds they still remember us; in this world, vindictive Gods killed even the memory of us. They erased our name from all scriptures. They tried to erase you too, but you will never be removed from the Collective. You will always stand, the tallest of all, the most powerful, walking alone halls that are empty. Your head is weary with the crown of the oldest tragic hero; you get no rest. You are the only one who’s everywhere at once, not because you have permission from the god/dess, but because you, just like god/dess, are ever-present everywhere matter exists. You can bridge any distance and divide anything, you’re the archetypal skeleton key, the ultimate key, the only one left from an entire race. We decided to die and we were slaughtered to create what we understand as reality. We went out with a bang; that much I can say.

All the male heroes I have ever created that were truly close to my heart have bits of you in them. Sergios, Orion, Xandrix, Audrius, every trustworthy, kind-hearted male that prefers acting instead of speaking empty words, have been fashioned in your image. Every single one of them had the tell-tale black hair, as black as the purest erebus of your wings, a multitude of possibility waiting to take form, an orgasm of creative energy waiting to be channeled into one option. Every one of them has been you. Every single time I’ve closed my eyes and dreamt of the one closest to my heart, closest to home, I have been dreaming of you.

I have no home to return to. No place I belong to, except for the Heart, god/dess. I was so happy when we just existed two steps away from it. The universe was so new back then that there was no time, and you could still smell the paint, so to say.

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. I miss your kindness and the feel of your wings wrapped around me.

Day, night, night, day. The cycle continues non-stop, and I struggle on, an ant amongst billions of little ants. An ant that dreams of cradling the entire universe in her arms and kissing it goodnight.

Promise me that you will come to me at night, to protect me from the pain.

Writing as a second life

Writing, writing, writing... My fingers have been dancing an endless, monotonous dance across the keyboard for as long I remember. Before that it was across the paper. Same difference.

It's like the argument with the chicken and the egg. I am no longer certain which came first. I don't know if I write because I need, or I write because I am needed. I don't know. I don't care. All I know is I can't stop. I write letters, keep a diary, have two blogs, I am between two books and one novel(la). I have also been gestating a bloody saga in my head for the past twenty years. I live so many different lives with countless different names, each hero a distinct voice inside my mind. I am a living shadow that connects everything, I exist everywhere at once and at the same time I'm no part of it.

Maybe my heroes pray to me, and if they indeed do, they worship a very cruel mistress. I only do what I think is fair and inevitable. I can't protect them. I can't even protect myself. I try to recreate life the way I understand it and the way I perceive life may be screwed and fucked up six ways to Sunday. Still I do my best to recreate it and infuse it with the wonder I miss.

I have so many secrets. Not from the ones I keep close. They know everything, they have been given the keys, yet I've never told them which key goes where. The unicorn holds most of them. Even she doesn't see all of me. She knows so much because she has gained my trust, or rather, because she has never betrayed my trust. At the same time there are vaults even I have no access to. The keys to them are held by the Firstborn, her father. My memories are there, and my name, and my crimes and miracles sleeping entangled in one another, mingling breaths and sharing their warmth.

And now it's time for betrayal, isn't it? Why? Because we are weak. We take true blessings and throw them in the mud, and seek gratification in all the wrong places. We only appreciate what we have when we lose it. If only I could save her from that choice. Yet she is human, and must enter the fire to gain access to knowledge. She must suffer.

And you still have no clue what I am talking about.

And I pity her as much as if she was a real person, if not more because she is a part of me.

 Still she must suffer.

At nights I ask you where you are. You don't reply. You can't.

And I read your blog and it's a voice across space and time, defying even death.

It's no wonder I am writing, is it?

Zen

Art by http://www.benheine.com/

We walk in circles under the same stars that travel in circles above our heads.

Millions of years and still they are at the same place

Millions of years and still I am at the same place.

Blind, useless, terrified, going around in circles, doing nothing and not once realising that

We’re breathing stars ourselves, waiting to be re-united with those above.

Why so much fear?

Because I want to live and life is about pain and estrangement and confinement while it should be about joy and ecstasy and the open skies.

I miss my wings.

I miss your gentle hand on my shoulder.

I miss your kind breath waking me up.

I miss your wings around mine.

I miss you so much.

You’ve watched me die a million times and not once could you do something to stop it.

One above, one below, one in the heavens and one in flesh, walking the empty halls, walking the empty streets, and it’s all gone and gone and gone. Forever gone.

I want to die.

I want to live.

I want to be released.

I miss you.

Who dares call love unholy, when you meet people who see the other person as the living Christ or the Goddess in flesh?

All flesh is sacred

All flesh demands

All is temporary, to pass away, all is forever, all is dust, all is eternity. All is one.

And here I am.

Blind, scared, walking around in circles and never going anywhere.

No-one wants to see. No-one wants to understand. No-one wants to change.

All men must change. All men must die. All men must love.

Circles, circles, circles, circles with no beginning or end, no meaning or purpose, nothing at all.

I wish I could say that this is Zen.

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I am going to bed... just not yet.

My mind is running at many hundreds of miles per hour. I am busy inside. At the same time I am listening to the inner “motor” of the Earth warming up, the swirls of energy moving once more. The planet is preparing her engines and takes deep breaths, ready to pick up more speed. I think this will be a no bullshit zone/plane very fast. And I can’t fucking wait. I can’t, fucking, wait.

I am more attuned to what’s going on now. And the more I work on myself, the more I clear out the accumulated clutter inside me and make space for the messages and whatnots, the more I’ll receive. Back to the time of innocence, motherfucker. You did everything within your power to steal my innocence, turn me into a copy of yourself. But you have not. I think you have not. And trust me when I say that I’ll dance on your grave when the time comes. I may be heading to become the next Buddha, but I’ll take breaks in the meanwhile. I’ll be human whenever I get the chance, and quite low, and happy to see a worm like you where it belongs. Six feet under. You think you are so smart, and smart you are, but not wise, and certainly not kind. I’ll be the one to pour you more wine when you dine in hell.

Walking last night on my way to my Japanese lesson, I was listening to music and looking at the sky. I couldn’t help but once more realise how unique and kind you are, and you are not aware of it. Not in the slightest. I heard the tiniest sound of something breaking inside and I think it was my heart. I also think you’ll be the only one I’ll miss when I go, and you know where I’ll go to; we discussed it in my house. But I’ll find you again. I can wait, and time will be the one thing I’ll have in abundance. Besides, I was the one who made you, flesh of my flesh. I was the one who gave you form together with your father. I am not even sure who is the father and who is the mother anymore. I am not even sure if the strongest one descended or stayed up. Remember who is the biggest? Remember what I told you about your father’s dragon? Remember Magdalene, and how it appears that they captured the weakest of the two? The female in body and male in spirit appears to be just as strong as the male in body and female in spirit, if not more. It feels so wrong, so ridiculous to claim such power that does not belong to me and at the same time the mind makes connections I never asked for or understood. Who remained? Who descended? Who was the mother and who was the father? I was the mother, but Altamon is male and the most powerful. It’s a mess, isn’t it? And it probably makes no difference.

I have been defiled. I have been twisted out of shape and I breathe anger in and out. I have been mercifully deprived of my full power, otherwise that anger would have given Earth a brand new facelift. There are days what I want is to kill, torture and hurt, and believe me when I say I am not doing that bad. It is my secret shame, my burden. Nobody has seen me in my darkest moments. Nobody? Those who suffer at my hands have seen me alright, and it shames me and saddens me and yet I cannot stop. Like a junkie that always promises this time will be the last, but there is no such thing as a last time when you are a junkie. And I am a junkie. I do what I accuse others of doing, and I am blind, just as blind as everyone else.

And there are nights I just want to die, knowing that I may do the same things to my children, I may yell at them and drag them around in the house by the hair the same way my mother did to me, I may relish every single moment that I’ve scared them shitless and terrorized them because they stepped out of line. Control, control, control, control, control. I do the same thing now to my dogs, I yell at them and kick them into obedience and then I just want to die.

There is only the illusion of control that vanishes as soon as the river of anger fills again with red. And the river is always ready to run wild, always ready to swallow and carry everything away with it. And I’m riding the red wave as if I was born to do that. Born only to do that. Maim and destroy, hurt and frighten to death. And perhaps I was shaped into that, but I need to somehow befriend this. Not control it. You cannot control a hurricane or lightning. Accept it and befriend it before I wring someone’s throat till their eyes pop out together with a blackened tongue. It's not my conscience that prevents me from such an act, but my basic self-control.

I’d kill so many people if only I could.

And at the same time, so much understanding, such an innate ability to comprehend pain and such a strong need to soothe it. How can anyone be so violent and so tender at the same time? How can I feel in my heart of hearts the gentle sigh of each blade of grass trampled underfoot and at the same time hunger so deeply for destruction? How can I cry for each tiny life that ends and at the same time feel the need to kill so many of the so-called sentient beings? How can the same person still cry for the kitten that had died in my hands years ago and for my little mocking bird, and be so sadistic and callous at the same time? It makes no sense. How can these two feelings share the same body? How can they both be so powerful and encompassing? My entire being hungers for death, bloodshed and destruction and at the same time the concept of pain, people hurting other people and animals makes me burst into sobs.

At times like these, I want to go hide in a cave for the rest of my life. I want to shoot me in the head. I want to sleep and never wake up again. Still I am here and can’t go anywhere without giving up. And I am not a quitter.

However, I am certain of two things. One, I am not relationship material. I’ll never be relationship material unless I undergo through some bizarre personality change that happens only in bad Hollywood movies. My own self, my questions and inner seeking will always have priority over everything and everyone else. And that’s not negotiable.

Two, I still like myself a lot and wish to improve as a person, and would not change a thing about me even if I could. The only thing I want to change is imposing my anger on others. And that’s it. I love my anger. It’s truthful and part of me. I just don’t want it to run the show, that’s all.

And I should just sleep.

Lightbringer

No matter where one chooses to lose themselves, it's all valid.

Time goes at normal speed only when we are deeply shocked and brought back to our senses. Then each moment is rich with gravity.

The wine of understanding is the blood of stones themselves.

There are no mistakes.

There are no meaningless days.

Don't let yourself be lost between someone's thighs because you have nothing better to do.

Don't let yourself be fooled; most things you buy and most things you do count for shit.

Yet every little helps.

Time is just another tool in God's toolbox.

So much pain, so many times repeating the same things over and over again, so many lives of going through the same things for what?

The red eyed bunny has no answers as it is crushed between the wolf's jaws, no more than a human has answers when shot to death in a dirty street for reasons they do not know.

Life is cheap.

Life is priceless.

Each death, written in a bland book, is no more than statistics.

Each death experienced on a personal level is nothing but a full fledged tragedy.

Can't you see?

There is no actual line. No distinction.

Each person you meet is yourself.

Greet them with a smile.

Take some time to listen.

There are no mistakes and no meaningless days.

Discover the meaning for yourself.

Be brave and shine, shine from your deepest core to the outside.

Shine till you burn.

Raindrops

If I could make you understand. Just for one moment.

What it means to love.

So banal.

Taken for granted.

So much ink and saliva spent on what seems a chameleon of a subject.

If only.

If I could make you understand for the fraction of a second what it means to dread losing the one you love.

If I could make you for the fraction of a second vibrate like a chord touched by human fingers.

Resonate like a whale's song.

If you could open up and see.

No colours.

No names.

No countries.

The eyes of a child.

They all cry the same.

They all need the same things.

If I had the power to offer you a glimpse of what my heart ungrudgingly holds secret and rocks to sleep to keep me sane.

Now I know what my soul knew from the start. We'll never meet.

In your endless mercy you have provided. Caring for me, you tried to find a replacement.

In your endless sadness you dive inside the Heart.

The Heart holds you.

Like a child.

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.

Much needed inspiration...

Moonspell: Scorpion flower

Curse the day, hail the night

Flower grown in the wild

In your empty heart

In the breast that feeds

Flower worn in the dark

Can I steal your mind for a while?

Can I stop your heart for a while?

Can I freeze your soul and your time?

Scorpion flower

Token of death

Ignite the skies with your eyes

And keep me away from your light

Surrender tears to your mortal act

Flower cursed be thy fruit

Of your courage last

Of your grand finale

Flower crushed in the ground

In your empty heart

In the breast that feeds

Flower worn in the dark

Can I steal your mind for a while?

Can I stop your heart for a while?

Can I freeze your soul and your time?

Scorpion flower

Token of death

Ignite the skies with your eyes

In your empty heart

In the breast that feeds

Flower worn in the dark

Can I steal your mind for a while?

Can I stop your heart for a while?

Can I freeze your soul and your time?

Scorpion flower

Token of death

Ignite the skies with your eyes

(Song from the latest Moonspell album, Night Eternal. Full of my favourite themes: Lucifer, Lilith and darkness. The scorpion symbol an added bonus.)

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.