You know, I keep wondering about it. Not that it changes anything, no matter how many times I preoccupy my brain cells in wrestling marathons with it. But I can't help but wonder.
Why very beautiful men are the way they are? Which means immature. Or stupid. Or too vain. Or too gay. Or whatever. My purpose isn't to make a list. Why? As soon as I see a truly breathtaking man, I almost immediately realise he's not relationship material, end of story. I have no delusions about changing them, saving them, or discovering a hidden, different self if I dig deep enough. There is nothing different no matter how deep and how long I may search. They are just unsuitable. Period. If he's very beautiful, there is something fundamentally flawed about him in some other part of his being.
But why is that? I don't understand it one bit.
I do have a life long regret that I'll never find the kind of man I dream about. Because the kind of man I dream about is the high maintenance kind of boyfriend. And that kind of boyfriend never falls for my type. They fall for the equally problematic type of high maintenance woman. Or the kind of woman they can relate to whatever issues they have with their mom or dad. And I am neither. I am too straightforward for such. And a part of mine is very, very disappointed and regretful because I know time passes and I must get my act together and look for the kind of companion that will be suitable for me, and not the kind of man I dream about.
If that isn't a contradiction in terms I honestly don't know what is. And I don't want that.
This is the basic reason I don't do relationships. I don't want any more half-hearted relationships with 'good guys'. No matter how lonely I feel, I refuse to do that again. Been there too many times in the past. Not again. Never again.
It's also one of the reasons I write. My longing for things I cannot have.
Well FUCK THIS.
There must be at least ONE person that is attractive enough, smart enough and kind enough to be my match.
Just one. Billions of people on this sorry planet. Just one? Pretty please?
Two would be even better but let's not get greedy now... :P
I have been practicing selective reading. I
finished two books in two days in my usual manner of skipping the boring bits. One
of them was ‘Knowledge of Angels’ by Jill Paton
Walsh. The second was ‘Northern
Lights’ by Philip
Pullman. Both good books. Both
made me sad for different reasons. Then again, all good books make me sad.
There
are days I am so busy I forget. And there are days the darkness is real enough
to touch it. I am surrounded by it from all sides and I try to stop its
advance by lighting candles around me. It’s a tide of darkness, lapping at my fragile
light circle. Ebbing and swelling around the limit of light. Threatening to
engulf everything.
It’s not evil. It’s not even caring,
or uncaring. It’s just darkness. Human soul is as full of it as any other
place. So I am lighting candles one by one. I light them when I hope for a
better future. When I do something for someone I’ve never seen before and will
never see again. When I write one more page of my novel. When I feed the small
army of cats I’ve acquired under my building.
There are so few things that are
really important. None of them is something you can hold in your
hands or own.
The smell of your beloved on the
sheets when you wake in the morning. The kindness in the eyes of a
stranger. A place in your heart to call home. The patience to let go when people refuse to
understand. The patience to hold one’s tongue when the other knows no better. Everything is fragile and fleeting. Like a circle made of candles against a tower
of darkness. Keep walking. Move on. Don’t look back. Don’t
think, lest you lose heart. Breathe and put one foot in front of the other. That’s my girl.
I would not possibly be still alive if it wasn't for my imagination. Whenever I have been depressed, angry or overwhelmed by reality I run in its arms the same way a scared child runs back to their mother's embrace. In a sense, my imagination has been my mother in a lot more ways than my mother ever has.
However, every gift comes with a an equal price: my imagination runs wild. It's natural for me. I never had younger siblings, so I spent long hours on my own. I tend to project my inner world to the outside just like people do. I literally live in there and consequently get very annoyed that I have to drag around my humble mortal body as well. However my inner world overwhelms, overruns and exceeds other people's worlds the way an ocean outweighs a spoonful. Things are so much more interesting, grotesque, humorous, violent, wonderful and versatile in my own world.
One downside of this is I often imagine what people are like and fill in the gaps with my inner
palette of feelings, colours, ideas. I give them my characteristics and
my intentions. I create them anew in my head, dressing them with characteristics they don't possess or imagining that they can't be that bad.
They can.
And now we come to you.
We don't really know each other.
I have never heard you laugh. Never seen you cry. I have not held you in my arms. Never kissed you or sniffed you (as I am so intent on doing whenever we visit each other in dreams.)
Are you sure you know me?
You see, I often think I know others but it turns out I know my fantasy of them. Not the real people. And then I get hurt. And the one thing I do not want to do is hurt you in any way.
I know things about you.
I feel things about you.
Yet the picture of you I have in my head is my creation.
Let me tell you what I think I know.
You're giving. Giving to a fault sometimes if someone gets past your defenses. You're also giving because you're not interested in material things. You're not stupid or gullible, just indifferent to the concept of possession. You like items for what they give you, not for the item per se.
You're loyal for life. Unless something changes in the relationship, you'll be the last person to leave the boat. Even if it sinks and there are sharks around it, you'll stay. You're in for the long haul.
You're extremely intelligent, both emotionally and mentally. Your mind is restless and always quick to jump from one thing to the next. If you get bored of something or someone, you'll get rid of them, even if you change your mind afterwards. But the way you have grown up has left you very little space for long-lasting regrets.
You're headstrong and volatile. If something annoys you, you won't suffer it for a second longer than you have to. And it takes you a lot of time to admit to yourself that you need to make or embrace changes, because that same characteristic that makes you headstrong is what has kept you alive and sane. Your adamant core refuses to break and also makes you respond more slowly to change. However, once you are certain that it is for good, you're one of the people that will let go immediately and jump to the next phase. From that aspect, you're one of the most kamikaze and rush forward individuals I know. You don't rush because you're foolhardy but because you're certain.
You are one of the most talented people I have come across. You have a unique sense of colour and texture and know how to combine elements in a way that is ingenious, balanced, elegant and beautiful. Your hands make music out of anything they touch, whether it's paper, colour, cloth or a musical instrument. Your 'melodies' are at the same time deep like ancient waters and delicate like lace. And I have seen you creating music with so many different items that most people view as surfaces.
You make reality sing songs of haunting beauty and feelings so intense the majority can't even suspect they exist.
You make others laugh. Your friends me tell how playful you are and I believe them. You're like a little teasing bee. I can see you sometimes, always restless, busy with something or other. You need to drop dead with exhaustion to stop.
You're beautiful. I do not refer to your good looks only. You're beautiful as a bird or an animal is beautiful. Natural and not self apologetic.
Your kindness springs from the well of pain. It is not sugar coated with ignorance but has a coppery taste instead. Like blood and water coming from the deepest core of the earth. Coming out to bless this world, reality, the whole of existence. You make flowers grow in people's hearts and gardens.
You hide under a million guises and half-spoken phrases. You hide behind cautious glances, you hide behind thoughts, silences, words, smoke screens, doubts, and the secret pleasure that it's a game played at your own time. And you're safe. If you choose the timing and the amount of information you'll disclose you're safe.
I wish, I wish, I wish I could have kept us both safe back then. I wish I could have opened a door and guided you the center of my heart, inside my secret garden. You and your brother and your two sisters. But I could not. I cannot. No matter how much I wish, no matter how much I try. Even if I knock my fists against the wall of reality till my knuckles are reduced to bloody shreds I can't. We only have today and tomorrow and the next day.
But we can build a garden together.
I promise you it will be safe. I promise that even the roses in there will have no thorns.
If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft, And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left, Sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.
- Muslih al-Din Sa'di (Saadi)
Gulistan (Garden of Roses), 1258
It's never enough.
Once you had told me that my way of thinking is too narrow. Perhaps it is, but I will repeat it. This world is a fallen place. This world is a sad place. I don't really care what you think. You perceive the world through your eyes. I perceive it through mine. And I see a fallen place. A sad place to be.
It's not only the people that are sad. It's everything. The tastes, smells, sounds, colours, everything is reduced to a flat minimum. I see ghosts and shadows instead of people and colours. I see the hidden flaw. I was created to see flaws in the continuity, and put them right. I cannot do that anymore but strangely enough I still see them. This place is a sad place to be. Purgatory, not hell, and the kind of purgatory that never redeems one of anything. It's like sticky shit that just won't wash off no matter how much you wash it. The stink of it stays with you for what seems an eternity.
Entry level copycats that try to pass for beings with consciousness populate this sad imitation of a place to be. I would love to know who is responsible for this mess to execute them in the slowest way possible, or even better, trap them here and let them live the rest of eternity on this plane. EVERYTHING is not enough and I have much, much less than everything.
I see a work of art. I hear a song. I see a beautiful, truly beautiful person. And my heart stops and I remember divinity. I remember for a split second what it was like to live in a state of being where the four elements were united in a fifth, where the ecstasy of fire, the bliss of water, the enlightenment of air and vitality of earth were united in Ether, and I lived immersed in it. I hate this place, I hate this pathetic imitation of a world where mediocre is considered worth of praise and unoriginality is the norm. I hate this portion of universe and everything it contains, because I still can feel with my heart what it was like to be whole. This world is not enough for me, and the time I have is not enough to do what needs be done. This too is a trap. There is no time, but how conveniently this place is designed to deprive us of it.
I have been waging war against reality and normality for as long as I remember myself. It must be the way I am made. I cannot rest, I cannot stop seeing, I cannot ignore. I am not happy with my share. Yes, I appreciate everything I have. It is not enough. I need to become better. I need to become the best I can be or go mad. This place refuses to host me and I refuse to integrate. This reality doesn't like me and I don't like it either. I will somehow manage to make it bend to my will or I'll destroy myself trying. I don't care one way or the other. This existence makes me deeply unhappy. I will either create a haven in it and transform the whole of reality or nuke the fucking thing. I will either succeed or die trying. I want to see people that sparkle with intelligence, creativity and beauty from within. I want to converse with equals or shut my mouth and concentrate on my task. The rest don't concern me on any level. Yes, I care about humanity, but at the same time if 90% of the human population was gone tomorrow I would sigh with relief. They take up space. Nothing more, nothing less. And they take up space due to their choices, their beliefs and way of being. Not because anyone forced them to be wallpaper. So let them go fuck themselves. I don't have a minute to spare for those who perpetuate this condition of irresponsibility and not thinking and avoiding pain. They have their own thing to do and I have my own thing to do. Let me be. I am busy.
Fuck you all, and your convenient ideals and fashionable cars and empty insides.
Fuck off and die a quiet death and leave us all alone.
I finished with chapters ten and eleven. I feel exhausted. I have been working on them for the past two weeks or so. I tend to treat every chapter like it is a short story. There is a beginning, a middle and an end. Every chapter is a scene, full and separate than the rest, each scene following the previous and preparing the next, but at the same time as complete and independent as possible. At least to the best of my ability.
Internet is so slow that I find myself barking with rage every time I try to watch a youtube video. There are so many things that go wrong, but I must not focus on what is wrong but on what is right. If I focus on what's wrong I am fucked. There are always occurrences and conditions that are not to my liking. No need to make them my exclusive reality and constantly feed them with my attention. I should just focus on my job, and my present job is writing.
I am listening to game soundtracks from youtube. Perfect music for writing. It is one of the reasons I am angry with how slow internet is. Two examples:
I am also reading Lunatic Cafe by Laurell K. Hamilton. I don't know if 'reading' is the right characterisation for this combination of sighing, cursing, suppressing my impulse to throw the book out of the window as well as reading it. The protagonist is a perfect example of the bad stereotype of a young American woman. If she was blonde and stupid as well she would be THE example of a young American woman. Prudish (no sex before marriage), self-righteous, stubborn, uncaring as to how her actions affect others as long as she feels that things go her way, and above all a "good girl". I want to slap her silly and kick her senseless. Character development? What's that then? Is it really necessary? And it's a pity because the writing style is effortless, but it remains to just that. It never takes off.
I am not joking when I said that I write in order to have a book to read. I cannot find good books to read on the vampire genre anymore. I am bored. I want something different. I am sick of cliches, sick of all the stereotypes. I want to explore the sensual and sexual side of the vampire in more than the bad male vampire/ innocent female victim relationship. I want all kinds of sex in there. Gay, straight and bisexual, vanilla, kinky and bloodbath. I want characters with motivations and fears. I am sick of the books I find. And with extra pride I want to refer to the fact a friend of mine who's a homophobic read a chapter with violent gay sex and he did not even realise until it was too late. This means I managed to achieve my target, which is, STORYTELLING. Sucking you into the story, not letting you realise what's going on, rendering you incapable to stop until you have read it. And even after reading it, be just too absorbed to care. I patted myself on the back for that. Well done. All this bleeding my head over a computer screen and a keyboard has paid off. Thank you, Elizabeth. Well done.
Your father never allowed you to learn the violin. "You will not," he had said, his voice dripping scorn, "learn to play that thing. My son will not play that which amuses drunkards and lowlifes in village fairs." And you had to obey, because when you didn't, he wasn't shy about making you hurt in dozens of places with his hands or his belt. So you, the marquis's son, never learned it. You never touched the instrument the relatives on your gypsy mother's side played with such skill that made it sound like a weeping human heart, or a banshee, or a storm over the distant mountains. You learned to play the piano instead. And you also learned to drive your father crazy, to laugh at his face, and weave magic with nothing but spit and a mumbled curse, while your father pored over heavy tomes written in obscure Latin and badly copied Greek.
And you grew up to become fearsome.
And you grew old, much older than any human possibly could, though your visage did not reveal it, and still you never learned to play the violin.
And one day she came into your life.
And for the first time in your very long years you found yourself yelling just like your father had. Setting rules that she broke with a laugh and ample defiance. Chasing her inside your mansion of a house swearing to God you'd strangle that brat even if it was the last thing you'd ever do. You found yourself angry again, your temper flaring. You remembered what it was like to drive someone crazy, but this time you were at the receiving end. You found yourself ambushed, surprised, made fun of.
I think this is when you actually understood and forgave your father.
And it must have been then that you realised for the first time that you never did learn the violin, not even when your father was gone. Because she had the guts to pose the question.
Will you learn it now? Or you think you're too old and tired for that, for learning to touch a new beloved when your fingers run the piano keys with such skill that make it sound like a weeping human heart, or a banshee, or a storm over the distant mountains?
I love you so much.
All those people that came to inhabit my head over the years and tell me their stories, or allowed me to see fragments.
I love you so much.
You are what will be left of me when my time comes.
“The blazing fire makes flames and brightness out of everything thrown into it.”
―
Marcus Aurelius
It's amazing how someone can make me change my mind from one moment to the next. I am moody, it's true, but there are times I suddenly just get sick of a situation. And this takes place in the blink of an eye. And I feel the exact opposite of what I was feeling till then. Just like that.
I am just so tired. Tired, tired, tired. All these years have been nothing but battles. I feel I should just retire now. I should just go to a quiet place and rest my weary bones. I want nothing. I can feel connection to nothing save for art anyway. I don't know if I can connect to people and to what cost. More often than not the cost is so much more than the gain. I should find a quiet place, preferably next to a tiny waterfall and spend the rest of my life touching one of the rocks there and talking to it. I should be one with the rock until the day there will be nothing left of me, till my body vanishes and my voice echoes no longer. Till the land takes me in and holds me in its warm embrace. How many things can I observe as a humble rock? How many animals would come and nest or stay for a moment? And humans, would they come to sit on me and kiss? Would children use me as a fortress? Would someone spill blood on me? Would someone come to lie on me and curl and cry their troubles away?
Would someone come and talk to me?
Forever and ever caught in a circle of incarnations that cause us nothing but pain, and give us no reward we can use on this world, forever caught in a maelstrom of sadness, betrayal and disappointment. I want out. I want back home, I want to tread the empty halls of my true origin again. I want out. I want my wings back. I want back to the time being was delight, and I could sleep in the heart of newborn suns, and I could bring music into existence by smiling. I want out and away. I want back and I cannot. Even if I die, I cannot go back.
What manner of existence is this? Why am I punished so? What did I do wrong to end up here in this sad place of being that most of the time feels like a cruel joke, like a half-finished attempt of a world in which nothing goes right? There is so much pain and not nearly enough truth and ecstasy to overcome it. There is so little to gain and so much to suffer for. Innocence is a guarantee you'll get trampled underfoot and made to bleed. Only robots survive here. Only robots, liars and deceivers. People who's way of being is synonym to cruelty and indifference.
I am listening to Iron Maiden's "Caught Somewhere in Time". Oldies but goodies. Music that accompanied my teens. And I am thinking, thinking, thinking. The wheels inside my head turn so fast that I can smell something burning. Hopefully it's not my laptop that has a busted fan.
There are things I want to write but cannot write about them here.
I often feel like an alien. My personality makes others react in a very odd way. This baffles me and hurts me and makes me consider dozens of "what ifs". "Perhaps if I did that, they would react differently." "Perhaps if I did the other thing, they would do that other thing." But the thing is, I don't want to change myself and the way I think/ feel/ behave. I don't want to regulate my behaviour in order to achieve "results" because those results will be fake. It is important to show others your true self, to not deceive them or misguide them about who you are and what you want. If I tell lies or hide things sooner or later truth will out and then I'll be the one who's in trouble. Therefore I try to make sure what they see is what they get. Sure, I don't talk about my full list of interests to strangers. For example, my interest in the supernatural, my fascination with serial killers and horror and my beliefs on various social subjects are strictly personal. But other than that, I don't pretend something I am not. Some examples are:
I am introverted and don't like meeting people very much. For me quality is a million times more important than quantity. Because of that I make sure not to find myself in situations that include a crowd I don't know. I am aware I am the one who's going to suffer if I do this and therefore I don't pretend I am social, or a party animal. I hate noise. I hate smoke, I hate drunken people. Can't be more clear than this.
I am opinionated and headstrong about lots of matters. I don't try to hide it. I don't care about being easy-going. I'm not. I don't mind what other people believe in as long as they don't lecture or try to shove it down my throat. But I am not going to pretend I agree with something I consider stupid. I'll keep my mouth shut and wait till the subject changes.
When it comes to liking others, I don't like most. This does not mean I'll disrespect them. I can put up with civil everyday contact but if I don't like someone I am not going to pretend we're best friends. I will not be insulting, I will not attack them verbally or despise them but as soon as there is nothing more to say I'll vanish.
When I do like someone, as a possible new friend or lover, I let them know I do. I seek them out. I try to meet them again. I show and tell them I am interested. Usually the erotic arena is where the real trouble begins, because I don't like to feign indifference or play hard to get. My feelings, when they occur, are deep and genuine. However, the majority of people feel great discomfort, alarm and confusion when they encounter such a straightforward behaviour. They are used to games, fake indifference, people that approach them in order to take from them. Most erotic relationships have only sex as an exchange coin and no communication. If I was interested in that, I would not have this blog. I would be someone else. But I am not. Well, this pretty much scares off and freaks out everyone. And this in turn hurts and pisses me off. But as for how this can be resolved, the answer is not to my liking. I just have to wait for that one person that won't freak out.
Great. Just great.
My mind is OK with it most of the time. But try explaining that to feelings. Oh boy, you're in trouble.
So what do you do?
Personally, I love crafting and blogging. I have also found masturbation to be soothing. Actually anything that does not cause permanent liver damage or reduced brain function is fine. Especially if the reduced brain function in question is because I got so mad that I bashed their head in with a metallic ashtray or strangled them with one of their luscious cravats. No oxygen supply to the brain due to strangulation can cause permanent damage and it's such a pity when the brain in question is so quick and witty and talented. Just saying.
Oh well. When I become a rich and famous author they will all regret the error of their ways. Till then, crafting, blogging and masturbation seem like an excellent alternative.
you are the genuine article of strangeness. Sometimes, I cannot understand you at all.
Your feelings live a separate existence from you, pretty much like your personality does. You observe what is happening but very often you don't really identify it as your own. I doubt there is a single thing you identify as your life or you. Most of the time, you are trying to scrape an existence by mimicking behaviours considered acceptable. Like a person who has never learned acting does when they suddenly find themselves on stage. You keep glancing at what the other actors say and do and try to understand what is expected from you. You are too intelligent for your own sake and have managed to blend in so well that no-one has a clue that you are not an actor, or part of the show. They even find your moments of awkwardness or puzzlement endearing. You are doing such a good job you have almost believed it yourself. And day after day you go to the same place and do what is expected from you, but deep in your heart you hide the same panic of that first time you found yourself on stage. That sooner or later, someone will look at you and understand you're a stranger, an imposter that has no right to be there. You're not an actor. You're not part of all that. How come you're playing this role, you'll never understand. You're no part of it and you'll never be.
You form friendships and manage to make yourself irreplaceable. You know what to say and when. You manage to worm your way into their deepest secrets and the inner chambers of their hearts, and when you find yourself there, you don't know what you're supposed to do. You say to yourself that you care, and perhaps you do care after a fashion. But at the same time you know it's going to last as much as it is going to last and then game over. Nothing is forever, nothing is really important. Life is about change and endings and new beginnings, all of them as important and as trivial as the ones before them. You know it's all dust in the end. And you're not even certain you care about it.
You fall in love and the chemicals of your brain have a party with your glands and the rest of you. You desire, you crave, you want the other person's attention, you want to be one with them. You say to yourself that you want them, but lately I have the strong suspicion that you merely want to use them as anchors to this nonsensical reality. You know they're not really important, just what you need right now to advance in your learning, and afterwards... afterwards you'll get over them. The fast way or the slow painful way, you'll get over them. They are anchors, they're things to be used or to use you for as long as necessary. Necessary for what? Probably to feel that you're no different than the rest of the people you see around you. You have a life, friends, a love interest. Therefore, you belong somewhere. You are safe, and other such bullshit you don't really believe for one moment. You just need it for your disguise as a human.
You look at yourself in the mirror and you see your face and body change and really wonder who that person is. Yes, you feel familiar with your body in the same way someone would have felt familiar with a T-shirt they wear every day, but at the same time you often stare at it in bewilderment, in wonder, and with genuine restlessness. You wonder when you'll be allowed to finally shed it because it's faulty and uncomfortable and it cannot do half of the things you were used to. You don't hate it, just wear it in the same way an actor has to wear a really uncomfortable article of clothing for as long as the show lasts. And you wonder when the day will come that someone will come and smile and caress your hair and say to you, "it's over now. You don't have to do this anymore. We can go home." And you'll cry in their arms, and those will be the first genuine tears in your entire life.
You know Elizabeth, you truly make very little sense. But still love you so much that I'd kill anyone who dared look at you the wrong way...
... but I am groping about inside my skull and have had no success in capturing it as of yet. Eventually, if I keep writing, my fingers will get a hold of it. I hope. Or I'll bore myself to tears and scrap this entry. And perhaps use it to wipe my ass, or turn it into a tablecloth to celebrate a meal for one. Heh. And so I try and try, I push my hand inside the currents of my mind and try to capture one of the many writhing beasts in there. I am not sure if they are fish, dragons, nameless monsters or corpses of drowned teenagers. Perfect in their moment of death, preserved in the most glorious period of their lives. But dead nonetheless.
I have a new kitten in the house. She is totally black, sleek and tiny. She loves to be kissed on the tummy. Strange for a cat. Smells like a cat should, her tummy hairs soft and clean and deliciously cat-like in their scent and feel under my nose. (All cats smell differently, did you know that? My orange one smells like cotton candy, she smells like chocolaty cat fluff, my Persian has a stronger smell, a little tangy.) I see her playing about and she is adorable. Many years from now, she'll probably be a fat sick smelly animal on the way out, as I have seen so many of my pets becoming after countless years of being a pet owner. And it mysteriously never ceases to hurt me. It never stops me from wondering how the hell did I miss the in-between years and how come I don't want to touch that sick smelly thing that used to be my cat but don't recognise anymore. I never manage to avoid feeling guilty about it either.
Impermanence. The source of all our sorrows. Is it really? Why should anything last forever? Why should we? We are faulty in our making, so why make this last?
Am I the only one who's so conscious of the passing of time?
Am I paranoid? Obsessive?
I don't want to leave but don't want to stay to watch myself become a fat smelly thing on the way out. If I shy away from touching my own cat, who will want to touch me?
So where does this leave me?
Nowhere.
"Make good art" Mr. Gaiman says. "No matter what's happening, make good art."
Can I do that?
Sometimes when I walk in a gallery and see a heart-stopping painting I know the person that painted it managed to capture one of the things that writhed inside their heads. And suddenly I know what that thing was. No dragon, no fish, no corpse, but a devious, sly monster very few brave people have managed to capture.
It was a moment in time...
[Both gorgeous paintings by John William Waterhouse.]
You like writing letters so much. Letters, lists, memos, diaries, digital letters, gods help you, you live immersed in the written word like it’s the air you breathe. And it is. It’s both what you breathe and what you choke on. Because that’s what you end up doing. Choking on papers and unspoken conversations with people who are absent, or dead, or not real.
You listen to love songs and murmur the song along with the singer. And you wonder, when the time comes for you to leave, what of that gift? Who will get the uniqueness of your voice save for the crows that don’t feast on the flesh of the dead anymore, and what will they do with this ill-begotten loot?
Perhaps sing love songs to themselves after midnight, sing love songs with a human voice when no-one is there to hear them. Scare the dead.
Your imagination tortures you like you share your mind with an evil twin. You are the crippled twin of the two, left to watch while the other mocks you for everything you (cannot) do. For every wall and barrier that shuts you off and surrounds you the other twin sees only sky, an open sky you are forever doomed to watch without the ability to soar. You look at rooftops and trees and you can almost see yourself there, perched lazily and looking at passers by with the audacity of a cat or a winged creature. You see yourself dancing on rooftops and dangling from windowsills and laughing wildly as you somersault from one impossible feat to the next and then gravity lands on your chest like a tombstone and reality slaps you. And the evil twin of your imagination laughs at you and gives you and them the finger. And with something akin to fever you wish you were shallow and boring and you could only think about your mundane job and what to cook for supper and to buy some milk on the way home. Not about dancing on rooftops and singing from trees, not about the open sky that laughs at your face every time you look up.
The night is so beautiful, a velvet curtain of negative light. Pull the curtain aside and you’ll find a hidden door of endless possibilities. Life and death kiss each other and laugh, laugh, laugh.
The earth is so beautiful, a living jewel sparkling and breathing. You are so afraid that She’s breathing Her last that you want to scream.
You miss flying so much.
You miss killing so much.
You’ve done neither in this lifetime but you remember them so vividly that your heart breaks.
Words, words, words are so cheap. They are a penny a bucketful. Aren’t you bored?
Shut up and get out.
The night is so beautiful.
Like killing. Like flying.
Out.
[Bartek Borowiec the male model in both beautiful photos]
I've just finished re-reading 1602, a graphic novel by Neil Gaiman.
Yesterday I re-read the first Books of Magic graphic novel.
Three days ago I saw one of the First in my sleep. His back was turned and he was walking away. "Talk to me" I pleaded. "I'm busy now" he replied and left.
A week ago I found out about a health problem I have. Not very serious. Not simple either.
Two weeks ago I finished another short story.
Three months ago in my sleep I talked to the one who tries to destroy me in any and every way possible. I hugged and told her, "You can still stop it. You can ask for forgiveness". She pushed me away, furious. "I won't!" she said.
Six months ago I started talking with someone who will probably be important for my future in a foreign country. She is important to me already.
Two and a half years ago I found out who you are. Are you?
Three years ago I accidentally linked with a photo and discovered that someone, an eighteen year old someone had been murdered and his parents still expect him to return home. I cried so much that night I though I would die.
Three and a half years ago I tried to help the one who had killed me in the past. I accidentally connected to the Source. Have not been able to disconnect ever since.
Almost four years ago my father died.
Six and a half years ago I broke up with the last relationship I had.
Eleven years ago I was in love.
Eleven and a half years ago I came back to Greece from United Kingdom.
Thirteen and a half years ago I left for United Kingdom for my studies.
Fifteen years ago I was still drawing. Not anymore.
Sixteen years ago my father left home.
Sixteen and a half years ago I fell in love for the first time in my life.
Nineteen years ago my mother was still hitting me.
Thirty years ago I was victimized.
Thirty three and a half years ago I was born.
How come I feel one hundred and fifty years tired?
