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.

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?

The Weaver and the Destroyer

So what is this about?

One moment that can change everything.

Mistakes that could not be avoided.

Memories, some of them not made yet.

If I was to put on the one side of a scale the good humanity has done and on the other side the harm and heartbreak, what would the scale show?

Would it balance?

Or the one side would be so much heavier it would crash down and open a hole in the fabric of the universe?

And why can’t I stop wanting since I know what lies at the end of it?

“The Weaver is always at war with the Destroyer. Some say the Weaver is mad because sooner or later the Destroyer will pull everything apart, so it is useless to even try. But the Weaver can’t help but create, this is the only song She can sing. The Destroyer sings the other song. Together they make the universe. And the universe is beautiful even though one day it will be pulled apart. We need to see the beauty because there is death at the end. Do you understand?”

Everything matters. Just not enough to give me peace. I am the only one who can grant peace to myself. No-one and nothing else.

Officially beat and writing fan-fiction.

 Australian flying foxes (species of bats) . All together now: AAAAAAAWWWWWWW!

Running around like mad today. I am glad I managed to get things done. But, presently I feel that awkward combination of tiredness, being hyper and restless and craving something I can't get my finger on.

Oh, I actually can get my finger on it just fine, I just can't have what I want, thank you very much.

I do wish I had the same unshakable resolve when it came to eating sweets. I wouldn't look the way I do.

This is a combination of all the wrong things creating a nice potent combination of melancholy, arousal, useless passion and low self-esteem. I do like myself, very much in fact. Enough to dislike most people I come across because their moral code is not as strict as mine. I do not judge them. I just do not like them and know I can expect very little from them. At the same time I am perfectly aware of my own faults and the cracks in my own mask of so-called perfection. I am an unlikely combination of a misanthrope joined at the hip with an altruist. Most of the time I want to rebuild this world, and then there are times I just want to destroy it all, crush it under my heel and let nature, gods or chance sort the mess out. I see right through most humans I come across, and I am bored, and sick of them, sick of life, bored of death, simultaneously uncaring and desperate, perpetually thirsty and locked up and unavailable like the goddamn frost maiden, sick of myself and clinging onto myself like a baby at its dead mother's tit.

I am just tired, and nothing will change unless I get off my ass and change it.

The trouble is that I am scared out of my wits, absolutely terrified of what will happen if I even try.

I do try. Baby steps, tiny little baby steps, little by little. Better than no steps at all.

I get discouraged every two to three steps. I think I will never make it, never go anywhere, never reach any safe place. Just remain stuck here.

I write fan fiction to quench my thirst for the unattainable. I have no other solution. I write my own version of marriages made in hell and my insolent fingers play the chords of the wrong characters like they are harps. I toy with them from a safe distance and pretty much write like there are demons on my heels. Twelve thousand words in just three days and I am not done yet. You see, there are indeed demons on my heels. They are called CV, job finding, and the rest of that unhappy lot. Give me villains, serial killers, the cream of lunatics. None of them terrifies me as much as the word 'resume'. Give me man-eating men and monsters, give me sadists, pedophiles, the lowest of the low. Anything you want. I will write it for you and make it rock your world, or even better, write it and rock my world till my titties are salsa-dancing. Just keep the job search and the CV editing away from me. I am absolutely terrified. 

I head back to my fan-fiction. I am writing this for myself, I say, and yet I can't help not share with my best friend. She is the only one who will not call me weak and stupid, will ignore my improvisations and not judge me.

Even monsters need a friend. Even gods of death need a home. Everyone needs to belong somewhere, to a person, place, or the memory of one.

By the way, I have not forgotten you. I still expect a letter from you. Then I remember you are gone. And the God of Death comes and gives to that knife stuck in my gut that charming extra twist.

I have so very, very few friends. The tiniest portion of humans manage to pass the threshold into my heart and every single one of them is not treated as a friend, but as a small miracle.

In your case, someone decided to take the miracle back.

I am patient. I will dig that little bastard out and sooner or later I'll be the one holding the knife.

The pen is mightier than the sword indeed. 

Friends and 'friends'.

It’s been a fun week, and I guess it’s going to be even more fun as the days pass by. I have a sore back, presently on the mend. I found an abandoned kitten and I am trying to find a home for her. I have been called delusional and insane. I have also been accused of disloyalty by the same person who called me delusional and insane. Funny thing being, in the ten years that I know her, that person has never been loyal to me. I could try to explain to her, of course, or tell her my side of the story. However, in my 36 years of life here I’ve noticed that an alarming percentage of humans deny everything when you point out their own mistakes and also become enraged on top of that because they can't be anything less than perfect. Besides, maybe the notion of loyalty for me and for that person means different things. So as per usual I shrugged and let it pass. I wait and see what else will come to knock on my door.

My friend who passed over less than a month ago was very loyal to me. She genuinely cared.  In her case,  she understood loyalty the way I too understand it. She wasn’t antagonistic, didn’t ogle the ones I liked and wanted to see me happy. She did care. She didn’t care because I was doing her any favours. She never asked for favours to begin with. She understood and respected the concept of limited time and energy. My sensitive information was safe with her. She’d never use it to exploit me or gain leverage. And whenever I shared good news with her, it put a smile on her face.

I am writing, and that’s something in itself. It’s slow and a bit scary and it’s happening if I set my mind to it. For good or for ill, who knows. I draw breath too and I am not sure what, if something, comes out of it.

I need to get rid of more books as I have so many of them at the moment. I read two, I still have about 70 unread. Life goes on. Ha ha.

Why did you have to go? I know you loved me, and nowadays there are so few of those who do love me with no strings attached. Why did it have to be you? You really cared, and now that void can’t be filled and won’t be filled by anyone else. 

Why couldn’t I help you? I have helped so many others, and in some cases I didn’t care about them, at least no more than I care about everything that draws breath and has the capability to feel. I should have helped you more than anyone else. However, I couldn’t. And it bothers me.

I miss you so much and I know with the passing of time I am only going to miss you more. My pearl, my dear, my precious Finnigami. You had to go and leave me with all the eejits and the cunts. I miss you like I miss my moments of happiness. I miss your jokes, your moral code, your talents and more than anything, your kindness. People sometimes don’t understand that when I keep my mouth shut and don’t tell them what I really think, that too is a form of kindness.

It just isn’t fair to lose you from all people. It isn’t, or maybe fair means different things to different states of being. I don’t know. What I know is that it hurts.

The boss of this level

The boss is the villain you need to defeat to get to the next level in video games.

I don't really know if there's indeed a boss, levels, or I just have a very vivid imagination. The same kind of imagination that throws (seemingly) teenage boys on all fours and sexy vampire villains on top of them, and then havoc ensues. However, seeing parallels to video games and movies and books helps me make sense of reality.

Isn't that an awfully ambitious aspiration? Making sense of something presupposes that there is some kind of sense to be made. I have lots of doubts whether this reality can indeed make sense.

I have long, complex dreams. Oh, dreams I'm good at, I know how to unravel and interpret. Life, on the other hand, isn't that simple. It has no rules I am aware of.

I have two favourite hours in the day. One is very late at night, after three a.m., where everyone is asleep and I find myself looking at the sky, wishing I could make sense of my life, and the little pinpricks of light over the horizon seem to salute me or mock me, don't know which.

The other is when twilight falls and the entire palette of colours changes frequency and vibrates in altogether different notes. That is a time of endings, and for the past to be put to rest, and death.

I don't think there is one hour of the day I am not thinking about death. I am thinking about it more than I think about sex, which under normal circumstances should be alarming. It's not. Death is always there. Sometimes we hold hands and walk together. Time, on the other hand, isn't there to hold my hand, but to crush me under his heel.

So far I've been very, very resilient. Bits and pieces of me have broken and fallen off. The rest still stands.

Have I made my peace with the world?

Have I made my peace?

No.

I can't.

Fuck me

Art by Xiao Bai

Fuck me. Fuck me standing, sitting, lying, in any position possible, fuck me like you mean it, like we won't live to see another day. Fuck me hard, fuck me gently, fuck my brain for weeks before you seduce me out of my clothes. Fuck me by the way you touch your glass, fuck me by the way you play with your cufflinks while talking about your life. Fuck me with my clothes on because you smile that evil smile of yours and I melt to see it addressed to me only. Fuck me by getting up and moving into my space, asking me to dance with you, while your clean body’s scent makes my knees turn into jelly. Fuck me anywhere you want. Fuck me till I beg, fuck me till neither of us can move, fuck me until even fetching a glass of water means one of us crawling on all fours because walking is impossible. Fuck me until reality breaks down into pixels and colours explode inside our heads and when we try to talk we speak in tongues and all we can do is cry in each other's arms. Bite me, suck me, lick me, kiss me, eat me, tell me how good I taste, look at me with irrational wanting, like I’m the only person left on earth. Let me worship every square inch of your body with my mouth and my fingers. Let me hear you yell until the neighbours jump out of their beds in fright. Let me feel your fingers in my hair, hear your sharp gasp as you orgasm. Let me hear your breath catch in your throat as I lower your zipper with my eyes full of murder, feel your pulse race under my fingertips. Fuck me raw. Fuck me on all fours while strangling me and biting my back, fuck me slowly as I lower myself on you again and again, taking you in, keeping you my willing prisoner. Fuck me in bed, in the kitchen, in a public library, in the bar's toilet, in a back alley. Fuck me because you can second-guess me accurately enough to be frightening. Fuck me and let me drink from your sweet blood and seed and saliva like I am having communion from the living body of my personal Christ and saviour.

Be mine, be mine, be mine. 
STID:K

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

Birthdays and namedays and keepsakes

So many people have lost me and they haven't realised I am not there anymore.

They 've lost me because they are petty and jealous and ungrateful. They are worse than ungrateful actually; they try to harm me while I have only done them good. But that's humans for you.

Most of the time that I press on I have no idea why.

I've settled in a life of quiet desperation and all I do is count my blessings.

I still love. I still care. Or I pretend I do. When I caress my cats, half of the time I do it because I know they need it and I don't want to let them down.

But I am so tired.

Tired to my bones. Tired to my very soul.

Tiredness is combined with bouts of mania and desire, where I do one million things to avoid thinking. Or I download pictures from the internet and look at the things, places, people I cannot have and get more depressed.

There are days I can see the world in all its ugliness, destruction and decomposition.

I see me for the disgusting sack of meat that I am, for the death waiting to happen, for the old age setting in, for wasted chances and potential and absolute lack of anything noteworthy. I think that if I was to die tomorrow, on my tombstone would be written, "she tried".  

Of course, we live in a society that success is not measured by effort, but achievement.

And there are days I look inside and it's so beautiful. Everything makes much more sense in there. Just next to the tower of abyss where my dark side is having one of her usual parties, there is so much beauty. I feel like a person deprived of speech that hosts paradise, and so I write, and write, and write, and pretty much nothing changes.

I just write. And then I read what I've written. And it's good, or I think it's good. And I pat myself on the back for it. Well done.

And I go back to my life of quiet desperation.

I wish I wasn't as strong and I had given up already.

I wish I was already dead.

And then my friend's words come to my mind, and she said to me, in one of her letters, we've crawled through every road in hell, and we never gave up.

And she said to me that all she has stayed back for are her rabbits, because she doesn't trust a single soul to take care of them. Don't laugh, that's as valid a reason as any.

I just wish I had given up already.

That's all.

But there are so many out there with less than I have.

And so I count my blessings and press on.

Autumn is all about making tea and lighting candles

Autumn came very suddenly. I love this season. I can light candles again without sweating like a pig and wanting to exit the room. I make tea! I read books. I do read books all year long, but drinking tea while reading a book makes both taste better. :)

Once more I am digging out useless things from the four corners of my room. Yes, unbelievable, but there's more. I am going through cds now. It's actually fun! There's also a pad of recycled paper I have had in my possession since I was 18 or 19 years old. That, too, needs to go. Don't ask me why it hasn't gone already. I forgot it was there. It had become part of my mental wall paper/ room furniture.

I am reading free e-books I download from amazon.com. They are awful, and as a result I write stinging reviews in Amazon. One of them was short stories by Oscar Wilde. Wilde is anything but awful. He makes me cry every damn time. I may know what the story is about, I may have read it before, and there I am, crying again. Same with Andersen and his blasted mermaids. I hate these two writers. They don't just tug at the strings of my heart, they use them as a trampoline. :( It's unfair.

I can't write. Other things are going on. I hope to go back to writing soon. :) At least I read and recycle/ pass on stuff. And make friendship books. And feel sleepy. :P

Dreams of heaven, dreams of hell.

More of the second variety actually. Long, confusing, tiresome dreams full of ill omens.

I have started writing again. Late at night, when I can hear my inner voice clearly. It's not easy, yet unless I write, it won't be written. And I cannot have that.

It's a game, and therefore I decide what to be. I choose the mask. I call the shots. Then luck and life and death throw the dice and laugh at me and each other. 

Second time I am finishing a book.

Second time I am finishing a game.

Two different games have been paused, or finished. The trio of above players will decide. 

Twos are good. Everything is good. As I said, it's a game. I need the harlequin mentality more than ever. Time to call upon my dearest Lash. Lash is a fictional character. Lash is I. Lash is a harlequin. Lash exists outside time. And time is out there to get me.

I need to speak with that barbarian friend of mine concerning blood and entrails. He can help me. He always does help me. I cannot complain. His help is invaluable. His love is also invaluable. I never take people's devotion for granted. I have seen the opposite too, far too often. And more often than not, from so-called friends. :) That's people for you.

I love being me, I just wish I had intelligent company more often.

All good things come to an end, all good things are given to me in small amounts.

I will work on that.

Promise.

It's amazing.

If my life was a comic, there would be no background in the panels. Every single frame would be filled to the brim with brain flotsam and jetsam and random whatnots. That's what I do. I manage to squeeze in humble everyday life insane amounts of tasks in order to avoid thinking. Thinking makes me depressed and depressed is not good. 

I think it's time to start threatening deities again. I am good at it. The deities can testify it. If something happens to me you should all know that the usual suspects are Jehova, Raphael and some asslicks of similar magnitude. Now that I said "asslicks", I just remembered popular Supernatural (the series) swearwords. Bobby uses "eejits" but the medal goes to angel Castiel for his ingenious "assbutt". A man after my heart, Castiel. I love you for managing to fit the word ass twice in one swearword. Four ass-cheeks in one go. And there's always Alistair, a demon, referring to angels as, "you righteous dicks!" Oh indeed. With exceptions, of course.

I got my short stories back, corrected by an editor. I opened one of them, saw countless red lines. Closed the document again and went away to clip my nails. The next day I opened another. Another red sea there. I closed it and went to feed the geese. (I have no geese but I am sure you know what I mean.) It was the same with essays in my university years. I would go home, clean everything, re-arrange furniture, fold all my clothes in the closets (because if your closet is in disarray, you obviously cannot write an essay. It's self-explanatory. Closets are vital to essay writing) and then I'd go grocery shopping. In the supermarket, I would put goods back on their right place on the shelves, making exasperated remarks on the irresponsibility of people. When I went back home, I'd spend copious amounts of time re-arranging everything on my desk. Doing the laundry. Taking a shower. Anything to delay writing the damn essay. I'd enlist for an astronaut if it was possible. Same with the short stories now. I only started going through them after a month and a half. And now, instead of checking them I write in my blog. Procrastinating? No way!

I go now. I need to feed the bears. The polar bears. :) See you later.