Small things make me happy

 

"There is a fundamental reason why we look at the sky with wonder and longing—for the same reason that we stand, hour after hour, gazing at the distant swell of the open ocean. There is something like an ancient wisdom, encoded and tucked away in our DNA, that knows its point of origin as surely as a salmon knows its creek. Intellectually, we may not want to return there, but the genes know, and long for their origins—their home in the salty depths. But if the seas are our immediate source, the penultimate source is certainly the heavens… The spectacular truth is—and this is something that your DNA has known all along—the very atoms of your body—the iron, calcium, phosphorus, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and on and on—were initially forged in long-dead stars. This is why, when you stand outside under a moonless, country sky, you feel some ineffable tugging at your innards. We are star stuff. Keep looking up."

Jerry Waxman

 

Small things  make me happy because I can't have the big ones I dream about.

I can't leave this planet behind and travel to the stars, except maybe as stardust.

I can't understand everything, not without leaving this personality behind like a discarded piece of clothing. And this body, this personality has not had enough experiences to leave it behind. It's good to be human before giving ascended master status a go. It's good to scrape your knees before you learn to fly out of your body; to have mundane love break your heart before you draw conclusions about the Heart of Everything.

It's good to see the worst this world and you have to offer before you don yourself the title of messiah, avatar, empath, lightworker, earthly angel or whatever else.

Never before have I seen dust of our kind. We're dust, nothing but dust, yet the night sky speaks to my heart in the voice of the perfect lover I never had. When the moon is at its last quarter, it rises late, bathing everything in a weak yellow, almost negative light. The wind blows and shakes the branches, making me shiver with longings I can't put in words. It's four in the a.m., I am standing at the rooftop and can sense I'm not alone, but no human is awake at this hour. Four a.m. is not an hour for humans, except maybe for the sick, the mad, the broken and those too young to have responsibilities. 

It is a humbling experience to find yourself alone and outdoors in the small hours of the night. It makes you realise how insignificant you are. I can feel it during those late nights with waning moon. Other beings and entities roam the night and sneer at me, and the same rooftop I've been to hundreds of times is an alien, scary place. The stars are hesitant to lend their light and the failing moon spells sickness and death. Crawling night serpents with scraping, poisonous scales, and other, blacker things the names of which I don't know fill the skies and the shadows. My heart is a bird frantically trying to escape from my chest, and my only ally is my resolve. I know that same moon shines its leprous brilliance over swamps, and ruins, and nightmarish, desolate places forsaken by the so-called champions of light. So I kneel, and call upon the darkest aspects of being. I call upon Hecate, Hel and Kali, and the Angel of death, and ask for their blessing. Those strange, horrible landscapes are as much a part of this reality as everything else. I can't understand this world or myself without them. I can't reach comprehension unless I embrace them too. Because as above so below, as within, so without. Everything is part of myself, not just sweetness and light. And the night obliges. The heart slows down and opens. The soul drinks and is sated.

Oh, what would I give to go back to whatever dead, dark star the atoms of my being originated from. To go back home. But I can't. And so I strive to find a job, and find someone who understands, and love my cats and my friends. And make this world a better place, not because I love the light, but also the dark. I love the dark with all my heart, because the Heart encompasses everything and everyone. 

I serve the needs of the Heart, and through the Heart, all my needs are served.

PS: The soundtrack of one of my most favourite movies is as good as the movie itself. Enjoy. 

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Because f*ck you.

Source: http://indigojester.tumblr.com/post/124153458911/socialpsychopathblr-photographer-rina

Let me tell you one of my  personality traits. One thing I don't enjoy is routine. Repetitive tasks kill my enthusiasm like nothing else. Regular spellweaving very easily becomes a chore, unless I do something different every time. The problem with magick is the same you face with exercise. If you want to see results, you need to be methodical, hard-working and mostly REGULAR at what you do. Especially if there is a small army opposing your efforts, who wants to see you in the shit, and they work constantly. You see, those who hate you don't forget you. You may be living in green la-la land, merrily watching your favourite series and reading books and so on, but they aren't as happy-go-lucky or hare-brained as you are. (Talking about myself here). I remember the anecdote about the pilgrim who asked a holy man, "if I loved God with all my heart and being, how many lifetimes would I need to become enlightened?" and the holy man replied, "five." "And how many would I need if I hated and despised Him?" the pilgrim asked. "Three," the holy man replied. "I don't understand," the pilgrim said. "If you hated Him, you would be thinking of nothing else all day long," the holy man observed. And he was right. 

So spellweaving it is. Focused and regular, otherwise the waves of negativity sweep you off course and don't allow you to resurface and take a breath. They aren't sporadic. They keep coming when you least expect it. Energy is sentient and follows the path of least resistance. As soon as you lower your guard, it slips in from the smallest crack in your defenses. As a result, last night found me on the stairs to the rooftop, considering my options. I had to do something about the new moon. I was bored as hell and didn't want to. The drill sergeant in my head told me to quit my bellyaching and get on with it, and reminded me of what happens when I don't spellwork regularly.

I opened the door, cursing under my breath. Pleasant surprise number one awaited. The sky was covered by clouds, and clouds have the fantastic ability to illuminate the night. There was a pinkish(?) light everywhere, strong enough to see clearly in spite of the dark. Second pleasant surprise: the air was damp and cool on my face, although my room had been stifling. I could see the clouds descending from the mountain like cotton candy and sense the moisture in the air. Irregular raindrops landed on my face and the cicadas were deafening. It was beautiful.

I put the MP3 headphones in my ears and took a deep breath. This is what happens every time I decide to step out of my self-imposed imprisonment in my room and go to the rooftop. On the way there I am bored and nag about leaving my familiar routine. But once out there, I feel relieved and silly for my grumbling. It is a different world, with other rules, and you can leave all your problems behind for a while. 

It wasn't long before I found myself dancing to this   https://youtu.be/WJUZHiYX0XE and also this https://youtu.be/X7gSphrz-I0?list=PL7zVxNbF_jC3ZWDGaLbixJ5FXvGfYYaq9. Both taken from this amazing youtube channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC_dPXkUPztbPrRF_O4BqAvA. The beauty of it is the irrationality of it. I am  a woman nearing her 40s (it still seems impossible!) and last night at 04:00 am I was dancing on my rooftop to the sounds of an Irish jig, smiling as if I was on drugs. Why? Because fuck you. Because I could, and also because the best spells are spontaneous ones that overflow with feeling. And because I was having fun, so much fun it should be illegal. Who knows, maybe if they find out they will make that illegal, too. 

We need more happiness in this world. We have too many robots as it is. We need more lunatics dancing on rooftops at 4 in the night, in the embrace of clouds and solitude. We could benefit from less up-tightness. Of course, one can argue that I am trying to present my oddity as something normal, but you know what? Fuck you. I've lived my entire life as an outcast because I speak my mind. I've spent years suffering. And I am not going to let anyone lecture me about what is right. I know. Oh hell yes, I know. Nothing is real, everything is permitted. So long as your choices don't restrict anyone's future freedom of choice (yours included) then do what thou wilt.

I am off to eat some home-made marmalade. Be naughty and happy. 

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Vile threats and magick-made porn movies

My left shoulder is stiff and sore, and has been so for the past two days. Today was the worst. Every time I tried to move it or turn my head, I was getting muscular spasms that made me groan.  I got the stiff shoulder after a thorough house cleansing. Should I be scared of what kind of old energies I shifted? :) Counterpain ointment will heal all ills and drive the mosquitoes away as a bonus. The smell would drive me, too, out of the room, if I wasn't firmly attached to the shoulder I apply it on.

Last night I was sending out CVs again. It is a ‘delightful’ pastime.  I was reading the ad titles trying to decipher whether the job is something worth applying to/ I have the necessary knowledge to do it. Many ads have the word ‘administrator’ in the title. Recruitment administrator, Payroll Administrator, Sales Support Administrator, Order Processing Administrator, Senior Administrator, Compliance Administrator… From a point onwards I started reading out loud and replacing words. Cunt Administrator, Bollocks administrator, Dick Administrator, Butt Administrator, Boob Administrator, Pube Administrator. It was 2 in the a.m., and I realised I was reciting a litany of anatomical parts and swearwords and sticking the word ‘administrator’ after every single one of them. I started laughing with the absurdity of it, and the absurdity of looking for a job for seven months and not finding one, and the stupidity of human existence and the mess we have made out of everything. Society, money, politics, war, it’s all a gigantic bollocks of a mess, and I honestly wonder why I bother. Right now the European Union is tearing my country apart, turning it to shreds and bloody bits and ashes, and I can do absolutely nothing to stop it. I can’t even help myself.  I know, that’s not what the media tell you. The media also don’t say anything about the thousands of people who have committed suicide because of their debts, the hospitals who have no medicine, the families who have no electricity, the 60% unemployment in people under 30, the 30.000 jobs and companies who have gone out of business, the fact we are expected to pass a whole month with a 400 euro wage while the expenses are at least double. Don’t listen to the media. They lie. 

I wish I could work some serious black magick and execute a few of the present European leaders. I wouldn’t take credit. I’d do it for the heck of it, because someone needs to do it. For the despair and misery of millions worldwide while fat, bloated leeches of leaders shake their finger and accuse us we’re not trying hard enough. For the waves of desperate refugees drowning in the Mediterranean with the ‘help’ of coastal police, that sinks their boats. For the guy who is beaten to his death in an alley because he had the bad luck to be born with the wrong skin colour. For the teenage whore with the dead eyes whose pimp is forcing her to sleep with twenty people every night, and whose entire life was one foster home after another, a responsibility no-one wanted. For the small girl who is held down by others while someone severs her clitoris with a piece of broken glass. For the dog they take when it’s a cute puppy and then abandon like trash. For every single one of you, with a breath and a conscience, whose names I don’t know, whose tears water this earth non-stop, I’d kill them. Fuck karma. Fuck consequences. I don’t care. If they don’t care, neither should I. They are not human anyway. They are scum. They are bipedal leeches who rule and destroy the lives of millions. Someone needs to squash those disgusting creatures, step on them and then scrape off the remains and throw them away, or even better, burn them in a bonfire.

Lately a ‘friend’ of mine comes to mind, and some things she said to me. Instead for apologising for being the scheming, shit-hearted, petty, envious cunt that she is, she had the nerve to accuse me on top. I guess she is lucky I have a good hold on my dark side. If I didn’t, by the time they got her off my hands she’s need full facial reconstruction.

Do you hear me, you fucking cunt? I am out for your blood. No more freebies. You and the rest of your side, you’re going to hear from me very soon. You’ve gotten away with too much for too long. Time to pay the bill. It’s going to hurt. I am going to fuck you to the moon and back. I hope you enjoy stargazing while a porn movie is happening to your arse. 

On that happy note, I advice you all to watch Sense8. It’s an excellent series. Makes you feel human and alive.

Off to bed. 

The rebels of my round merry arsehole

I catch myself running. I have to be smarter than the ones who chase me. It’s guerilla war. They never show their faces or true intentions. They hide behind the mask of acquaintances or friends.  They are the ‘oh poor me’ or the ‘I’ll criticize the most irrelevant things with a personal attack’ garden variety enemies. On their own they amount to shit, but they represent dogma, fear, self-righteousness. They are the vessels for the Powers That Be. I smile, nod, run. Don’t look back. Don’t answer.  Just flee, dodge, laugh, put on some fantastic music. Don’t even bother.

These ‘lovely’ chaps are dangerous in only one way. If you don’t see them for what they are and you let them in your life and secrets, you are in trouble. Their beady rat eyes observe everything and evaluate everything. Because thinking is hard, they judge*, and everything that does not fit their idea of acceptable is immediately a reason to tell you their opinion. They are not jealous, but envious. They began their lives as rebels, but lacking the guts to back their convictions, they gave up. They occupy a couch, shoot opinions on everything (especially matters related to your life and choices) and shake their heads on how you can possibly be so gullible and immature. Or they have always been underdogs. Woe is me. Please pity me, oh poor me. Pity pity pity. Hard titty said the kitty. Eat my panties.

I sometimes wish I could tell them my opinion without any censorship. However, this is what they do, and come on now, I’d never do that. Besides I am not here to tell anyone my opinion on anything. If they can’t see they are being assholes, who am I to enlighten them? My job here is to fantasise about my glorious hero Nuare spending hours pleasing my gorgeous hero Nemeryl. Or the Archduke of Vantir, Aristius, paying homage with his lips to the flesh of his stunning L’etilian slave and-king-to- be, Liland. My job is to watch good series, movies, read engrossing books. I live to serve myself and my own pleasure on all levels, and be kind to those who love me, and not behead those lacking the good taste to do so. My cats worship me. If cats worship me all humans should stand in awe of my personal achievement. Bwa ha ha!

Other than that, I have editing to do. So long, and thanks for all the pageviews. :P

*Carl Jung said that.

Some thoughts on "thank you".

You can call me self-centered or an attention whore. You can call me selfish. You can call me naive, but I am still going to write about this: it doesn't hurt to say "thank you".

I am a member of bookmooch.com, a very nice site for book exchange. The whole system operates on points. You give books you don't need, get points, then use those points to get books you want. Good? Good.

I have stated in my profile I don't mind sending books even if the other member doesn't have the necessary points. Anyone can message me and ask for a book and I will be only too happy to send it to them. What really matters to me is sending the books I don't need to those people who want them. So, when a member asked for a book and they didn't have points, I accepted. When I emailed them with my acceptance, they said it was very kind of me to do that. 

A month and a half passed. I emailed them and asked them if they had received the book. No answer whatsoever. Of course the book could have been lost in the post, or beamed up by aliens to another galaxy, but would it really hurt so much to write back and say, "Hi, I'm sorry, I haven't received it" or "Yes, thank you, it arrived"? That's all I expect. One line of text telling me they received it. And if I'm not asking for too much, two more words: thank you. They never replied to verify either scenario. And this is not a one time occurrence. I've lost count of the times I have given or sent something to someone without expecting reciprocation, to receive absolute silence as the answer. It doesn't happen only with bookmooch. It happens with everyone and everything. It's an overwhelming new mentality of goldfish attention span and thick skin. One would have thought I run a multidimensional scam operation and as soon as they said "thank you" their name would be automatically added to an infernal register and after that, they and their children and their children's children would be damned for all eternity to serve my dark lord Boiled Broccoli. I don't know what is to blame for this mentality. The wayward planets? The overuse of mobiles? The anarchist communist black Jews who are the Saurians who hide behind the Freemasons who rule the White house by shooting laser beams from their asscheeks? Or maybe the fact so many people live, drive, fuck with their heads so deeply shoved inside their asses they have no clue? Your guess is as good as mine.

Hey. Yes, you. All those 'you' I've come across. I only want to know you got the damn book. Saying "I received it, thank you" does not hurt you in any way. Acknowledging isn't shameful. It doesn't affect your statutory rights. It doesn't affect your health, lifestyle or coiffure. But it does affect mine. It makes me less and less willing to send anything to anyone when they can't be arsed to spend maybe thirty seconds of their glamorous life to type a few words and press the 'send' button. It makes me angry and frustrated that humans pay attention to you only if they have something to gain. It makes me consider not giving anything for free ever again, but hell, I don't want to become like the ones I described. I enjoy giving. I enjoy making others smile. 

Maybe that's my real problem.

Many letters to write, and one.

I have several letters to write and I am too busy to sit on my arse and do so. However, there is one letter I want to write more than others, and it is the one letter that the receiver will never be given. It's a very long catalogue of swearwords and things I have been meaning to say to that person for years now. I have never told them because even if I did, they would get hurt and not understand a thing. They live inside their own head and love to play games. The games they play are preferable than their real life, which sucks. I play games inside my head too; it feels nice to be queen of the universe for a while, even if that universe is solely inside my imagination. But I feel the desperate need to get it off my chest and will do so. I will do so in my diary, because I don't want to say it in public, in case they stumble upon it and then freak out. You see, contrary to them, I do consider the kind of impact my actions might have on other people. I am not beyond it. I am not too busy being Sorcerer Supreme or the Left Testicle of Odin to bother with reality or other people's feelings. 'Nuff said on that.

Generally speaking, it helps to write letters to people telling them everything you never said, even if you do not intend to give those letters. I am serious. You can do it even if you are not on speaking terms with them, or they aren't alive. What really matters is the inner cleansing that follows a proper vent. Get it off your chest, my darlings, and don't be afraid to write anything you damn please. Then you can burn the letter and complete the cleansing. I do advise burning, not tearing it up. For those of you into paganism, Vesta is the Roman goddess related to purification, and Hecate can also help. Give the ladies a shout. For the rest of you, just set it on fire. Try it and you will see. :)

Precious secrets

He's got secrets too. He's also part of several more secrets. Some of them are mine, some are his, and some connect us in a highly unlikely manner. He has given me a very precious child. I may pay the favour back, or at least, let him know about it one day. Or I may just decide to keep it mum. ;)

I have many secrets. They get more with the passing of time. I wish they also got a lot more interesting.

For example, this entire blog is a secret as I have not included it in my CV. I don't want the wrong person reading my musings, especially if that person is the key holder to a possible job. Then there are other secrets, which I don't write about even in this blog; only in my diary. And there are those secrets no-one knows about, and I will never write down.

Most of the time even those people who read my musings and have a relative background have no idea what I am talking about. I choose to write in a way that it is open to interpretation, in order to say what I want and avoid detection. I am pretty sure that the reason this blog exists is to read it and feel comforted by my own words and my own point of view. From this aspect, all humans are the same. We love that which is familiar.

Okay, let's share some of these secrets. See if I can shock some of my readers into stop reading me, thinking I have finally lost it.

My favourite author who also happens to belong to the First Ten (or maybe Eight or Twelve) is married to a woman who despises him, and she is a siren. Not metaphorically speaking. Literally siren, which means, winged woman who eats people kind of creature. Every time she smiles, she looks like she is about to bite a chunk of flesh off someone. Of course, he has no clue, and when she is around he smiles, a man in love. She always grimaces as if he disgusts her. Then again, she always grimaces as if she is either disgusted by the entirety of existence or she's about to lunge at some poor human and eat their face.

Another author I love has a son who aspires to be as successful an author as his father. The son hates his father and is very jealous of him, because deep down he knows he's not as good as his dad. The son has gone and made a deal with an entity for fame, and his books leave an aftertaste like licking the floors of a slaughterhouse. I am serious. It's an essence of rotting blood, fluids from entrails and shit combined. Of course, no-one seems to know it. Instead they pile awards on him, making me wonder about their taste and doubt my own sanity.

A few weeks ago my house was under magickal/ demonic attack. In the course of just few days, I had two dead cats, one possessed cat and a very sick dog. I had to actually exorcise the cat.

The crazy lady next door was under possession of a thought-form or entity. I could see that being looking at me from within her eyes. A similar entity resided inside my father before he died. I can tell apart those possessed by thought-forms or entities. They all have the same glassy, unfocused eyes. I wonder why other people don't see it when it's so clear and unsettling. Then once more I wonder if I am crazy.

Two of the people I hold closest to my heart see visions and spirits and other such. I sometimes wish those visions came with names of people, phone numbers and dates.

I have written a thank you speech in case I ever receive any kind of literary award. I even checked how long it is by keeping time. I hope I'll get to use it one day.

Now guess which one of these is a lie. Then guess again, because maybe I am pulling your leg, and they're all true, or all lies, or what I perceive to be real. And that is obviously debatable.

I am off to finish a book no-one knows about under a pseudonym no-one suspects. Ha ha.

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.

Well into the a.m.

 (The pictures have an educating purpose. Do not disregard them. It's Khan from Star Trek- Into Darkness  dressed as a French maid in the first, and about to have sex with someone in the second. Read the text below for more information. Source: http://kimeido.tumblr.com/post/91128959618 and http://kimeido.tumblr.com/post/99052818858 )

Naturally, the best time to visit my blog is well into the a.m., while my mother is asleep and the house is absolutely quiet. One of my cats is sleeping in a basket close to me, I have music on, and two candles are burning on an altar across me.

It's funny. I started spellweaving again after ten or more years. I have an altar again. I haven't had one since I came home from U.K., and now I have an altar in my room and I do spellwork, demanding nightly spellwork I never thought I'd have the patience or the guts to do again. Go figure.

Desperate situations call for desperate measures, thought there is nothing that resembles desperation in my current state of mind. Desperation isn’t only a bad advisor, but also not an inappropriate reason to do spellwork. You're most likely going to fuck up spectacularly. No, in my case, it is ‘lex talionis’, lawful retaliation. To put it simply, I am sick and tired of being every idiot’s asswipe for 36 years now. They want to screw me over using magick, fine, free will and all that. How about they get that ‘nice’ energy handed back to them on a silver platter, by a universal force/ porn star wearing a leather French maid costume and brandishing a huge erection? No? Why not? I mean, you had no qualms about sending this energy to me in the first place. It’s not like your conscience bothered you so much you couldn’t sleep at night. But if you don’t like the discovery that the one you have been throwing knives at can actually catch them in mid air, and oh shit, she’s throwing them right back at you, well tough shit, sweetcakes. Oh, it hurts? Oh, you didn’t expect it? Oh, it sucks having shit energy shoveled in your life? You poor, poor thing, maybe you should have thought twice before shoveling it in mine in the first place. Dang and fudge and ginger-pie, someone I loved had to die. 

Most of the time I am perfectly happy because I have cats, a steady supply of correspondence, a roof over my head, good music, good health, food to eat and people I call friends. I don’t go out of my way to hurt others, I steal no-one’s money or boyfriend, and I keep my mouth shut when I don’t know who I am dealing with. I treat so fucking lightly I doubt there is a single person who knows I who I am except for my circle of close friends, which is the staggering number of five people. And I treat lightly because I hate being disturbed. In the same manner, I don’t want to disturb.

You’ll be surprised to discover how many people see that not only as a weakness, but also as a reason to attack you. Why? Because you and they are so fundamentally different that a person with your mentality rubs them the wrong way. They see your lack of involvement and think you consider yourself too good to bother with them. They see you being humble, because you fucking know how easy it is to die and also because you take nothing for granted, and they perceive it as haughtiness and arrogance. They will project their sick inner landscape on you and then proceed to eliminate the threat by attacking you.

There are two ways to deal with these people. Disengage and go away, or kick the living daylights out of them. So far disengaging has not been working, so we’ll go for the killing them dead option. Not literally. Metaphorically. Let’s not forget that magick is the art of changing consciousness at will, so metaphor, symbolism and all that noisy and colourful lot are your tools and most trusted servants. Kind of the most evasive, obscure and drag-queen elements of human sciences being your homeboys. Great fun.

If you ask me, I’d choose the universal porn star with the leather French maid costume and the brandishing erection any time as my preferred pastime, but if needs must, they will eat my dust. 

:D XD :P

Empaths suck a donkey's ass.

There are days that I seriously wonder why the hell I keep trying.

It’s one of those days.

For the good things that will come in the future?

Yeah, right. Judging by how many good things have come my way already, I should have thrown in my towel years ago.

Come on then. Bring on the good stuff. I am already out of here mentally. I might be out of here literally unless something good happens. I am not referring to dreams or swaps or reading books or meeting with friends. I am talking about something tangible, practical, happening in real life. I am one step before I collapse and decide I don’t want to get out of bed anymore, because there is no point whatsoever.

Do something. There has to be something more to life than eating, bathing and dragging myself from one meaningless chore to another.

I am sick of this so-called life.

I am sick of everyone and everything.

There must be something I am doing wrong.

Some clue I have missed.

This can’t be real.

I feel dead,

cheated,

used up,

gone.

And even as I write this I know nothing is going to change. It's personal, isn't it?

Yes it is.

Hm.

Here is some Ian Somerhalder because it's a better option than taking pills and slitting my wrists or something equally melodramatic and stupid.