...that I do not seem capable of reaching lately. :-) It is okay. "Happiness is a temporary chemical imbalance of the brain." Lusiphur from Poison Elves...
I am waiting. Walking on the thin line between two lives. I belong nowhere. Both lives claim me. I can do nothing but wait. I have fought the fights, I have faced the enemies. More to come. All from inside. Fictional. All reflections.
I am waiting.
For the dreams to pass through the veil and come to me.
Dorian, my darling, hold my hand. From the place of cobwebs and echoes, reach out and hold me.
My friends urge me further down that path by supporting my visions and crazy ideas.
Don't know if I should thank them for that or curse myself for my weakness. I suppose I am lucky to have them anyway.
Beauty feeds me. Like the sweetest nectar down my throat.
It is also addictive like the worst drug. I continually need more and more and more. It never really ends. Perhaps it will end when I draw my last breath. I will finally be free from the craving.
You are so beautiful that you seem otherwordly. Like a legendary creature, or a dream no man can touch. Your beauty is indescribable. Your eyes, the lines of your face, the way you focus. The way you move. Like a dream, a fantasy, a forbidden treasure. Like one of those creatures in literature, or manga, drawn directly from the collective consciousness of humanity. A fabrication of an artist. Not someone real. And in a sense you are not real. If real is what my hands can touch, then you are not real.
I think that the basic reason I feel so out of my depth by the feedback I get is that I will be very sorry if it is not true. And I do not think it is true. And I do not want to let myself believe. Because reality will charge in and crush me like a bug under its heel. And I will hate myself then. So I do not dare believe. But Desire, ah desire knows no rules, no limits, it can consume someone and eat them from the inside, make them bang their heads against the wall till blood comes out, make them scream into the night till they can no longer breathe, desire is poison that kills slowly. And desire enters my system with every eyeful of your beauty that I drink. Every time I lay my eyes on you, I feed. Every time I feed, I become more and more poisoned by desire. It is in a sense a disaster. A sweet torture. But I have promised myself I will not fall for someone I cannot have. No more dramas. No more tragedies. A straight line. Logical expectations. No gods and no fantasies. And I do not want to go back there again. Eight years ago I almost went mad because of desire. Not again. Never again. I promised myself, never again. Didn't I?
And yet, your face; what rapture. The nectar of gods.
...or rather, three professions I would love to try out but two of them seem very unlikely. I will let you guess which one is the most possible.
1) truck driver. Or rather lorry driver. Something BIG anyway. They remind me of giant penises. (The vehicles, I mean. But the drivers also, sometimes they are total dickheads...) At least I already swear like them.
2) Barwoman. Boring, I know.
3) Dominatrix. But on the condition that no-one touches me. I do all the touching...
Then one day I realised that I have books for bookcrossing everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I am not kidding. And I have been keeping them for something a bit less than forever. (For those of you who do not know, bookcrossing is about reading a book, then tagging it with a unique number at bookcrossing.com, writing your comments and leaving the book to be found by someone, or giving it to a friend to read it and pass it on. The next person can also leave comments in the bookcrossing site, even anonymously, and also pass the book on. Right now there are roughly 640,000 bookcrossers and about 4,500,000 books globetrotting happily.) So being mighty and cunning and diabolical, I took out my pendulum and started asking. Should I read this book? yes. That one? no. And so on. The ones that I got a "no" for, will be leaving within the next days. I already have released 15. And there are more on the way.
That guy on top is added because he looks absolutely adorable. Or at least my kind of adorable guy. A self sarcastic goth. Excellent stuff. More excellent gothic and fetish photos of this type can be found here. Thank you, Lina, for the lovely CD with deviantart pics. That site is a disaster; I can spend days downloading images. And I don't have days to spend. In fact, I have the feeling I will leave for abroad very soon. So I am trying to tie loose ends. And it feels there are more loose ends in my life than what there are in a carpet factory in Persia. Or something.
Nope, I am not going to get deep in this post. I need my fix. Images from deviantart.com. So piss off. I am busy.
The DVD in which I saved all my data before my laptop died cannot be read by any PC. I still have some of those things in other CDs, but unless I manage to somehow retrieve the data from the DVD, a lot of things are lost forever. Perhaps I should leave my past behind. A pity.
If I was my character, Dorian, I would have gone out hunting. The night is deliciously cold and crisp and it smells like winter. The air has a razor quality that cuts through clothes and freezes the face, but in a pleasant way. And the sky is such a dark blue that puts any fabric to shame.
If I were Dorian I would be walking out nearly invisible, looking for the one to kill, the one to quench my thirst. Not for blood. For sky. Killing is one more way of deifying one's self. However Dorian is a vampire, and that's a handy excuse for killing. A vampire is no longer human. It does not obey to the same laws a human does. A wolf is only expected to kill, after all. And we have lost the archetype of the hunter long ago. Or perhaps upon returning to the collective and diving back inside, it emerged as the vampire this time. The urban figure of the dangerous, alluring stranger. But I am straying from my original thought. And my original thought is related to killing.
My dark side is having a party. It is okay. I invited all my demons out to get to know them better. They talk to me, and the things they say are more than just tempting... They are delicious. That's probably the reason I will never understand vegans. Killing is a sacred act. Killing is not alien to our nature. I suspect that people would have a much better relationship with death and loss if we still had to catch and kill our own food. And as for all those people freaking out at the mere thought of taking advantage of someone innocent, there is nothing more tempting than the destruction of innocence. That's natural to us too, and only cowards would deny its pull.
I need to voice out my darkest callings. I need to let them roam free inside my head, or else I will burst. If thoughts were a crime, we would all be behind bars or in padded cells. Yes, I would love to kill, or scare someone witless. Yes, I would love to take something beautiful and destroy it utterly. And I would certainly pick the most beautiful and charismatic I could find from the human crowds, and also find them at an age I would be able to work on them as if they were clay. No, I would not kill them. I would turn their world view upside down and make them like me. I would make them worship their egos as the only god that exists in this sad age. I would create little viruses like myself and I would unleash them. And through the opposition I would only serve my part of the plan. Sad, isn't it? In all our glory and creativity, and though possessing the strongest weapon that exists -the human mind- we can only serve one of the two basic urges: love and death. Sex and power. We cannot escape our glands and genitals. We cannot think of something beyond that, and even if we can, human language cannot pinpoint it or describe it. Lovecraft tried to second guess alien gods. Arthur Miller and Arthur Machen tried to hint of Iago, to describe pure evil. The anti-saint. And all the average human can think of is money and pleasure. Sad.
At nights like this one I am happy. Content with the taste of winter on my lips and the sense of wild joy in my heart. As if I am the one leading the hunt, and there is a strong horse between my thighs and miles of snow-covered forest ahead of me, with no sign of humans anywhere, with no human city to be encountered ahead of me. Because they don't exist yet. I am happy to look at the night sky and watch my breath crystallise. I am fulfilled.
Scraping the bottom of the barrel. That's what it feels
like anyway. But the barrel is situated in the middle of hell, godsdammit. And
it just gets worse with every passing day. I need to blow off some steam, but
whenever I try to think of a suitable way, suddenly the possibility of jumping
off the rooftop seems to fit the description perfectly. NOT the best way, I try
to convince myself. Who's going to amaze the rest of the world with vampire
soap operas if you jump off now? C'mon, you didn't do it when things were at
the worst, you won't do it now, will you? Please my girl, don't think about it.
Yeah, right.
Myself: Magic words: Olivier Theyskens, Olivier
Theyskens, Olivier Theyskens. Think of Olivier Theyskens. Think of sweet
Olivier, feminine Olivier, talented, sensitive, intelligent, probably gay as
pink hell Olivier.
Me: Yeah,OK. I am thinking of him. If I were a guy I
would have an erection the size of Eiffel Tower. What now?
Myself: Are your nipples hard?
Me: Yes, they... HEY! What the hell is your fucking
problem? What is it to you?
Myself: See? you are not REALLY suicidal. Otherwise you
would not get wet, would you now?
Me: I have the terrible suspicion that the real reason I
like him so much is that he looks like a bearded woman. And me, in particular.
He looks like a bearded me. Unsettling.
Myself: NO, the really unsettling thing is that your
actual problem is that you are not a guy so that you can have hot gay sex. With
teenage elves. And that you secretly desire black panthers and imagine yourself
in a perfect world where men would be humanoid felines. And you would have a
harem of them, one of each feline species. Or that's the idea anyway.
Me: We all have our vices. Mmm... Olivier... I think I
see what you are talking about. Yes. Tied up. And gagged. Certainly. I won't be
able to maintain my state of mind if he starts calling me names in French. I
will giggle non-stop. There goes my formidable dominatrix attitude. And my
appetite.
Myself: And if he likes men?
Me: Not a problem. I will hire some help. As long as I
can watch.
Myself: You need help.
Me: Yes, I know. I am crap at organising kidnappings.
Anyone knows how to do that?
Once there was a wisdom tooth that like most teeth resided inside a mouth. That mouth happened to be a dirty mouth accompanying a mind just as dirty; my own. Then the poor tooth died and the good dentist plucked it out. Now there is a hole at the back of the dirty mouth, and I am irritated as fuck. This has not stopped me from taking my regular amount of chocolate; about two per day. I need to sniff one of my cats sooon. It helps.
A recent party at Bios. Cosplay (or costume-play, for those not really accustomed with the term) is the ideal chance to wear outrageous articles of clothing without having to apologise. I was dressed at the party. For more people and pictures, check http://easysubjugation.blogspot.gr/2007/11/cosplay-pictures-round-2.html. I tried my own version of madame Batolli from the manga Under The Glass Moon. A widow and a witch, heheheh...
What bugs me lately is that in order to decipher, unravel, make sense of something one must be a dispassionate observer. BUT. That's exactly my problem as of late. I feel too much of an observer. I feel totally disengaged with life. Things are happening and I don't give a damn. People die, animals die, and I am blissfullydetached. On the contrary, I read about a character in a comic book suffering and I cry. It's fucking tragic, crying for paper people and not crying about my father who died. It's tragic cause he turned himself into a total stranger, and I had to build a fortress to keep him out and never let him hurt me again, and I don't have a single happy memory from him. Even now, in his last days, I stood by his side and let him feel loved and safe, but I never opened the door of my heart to him again. The door does not open anymore, a wall has sealed it off, and I can't pull the wall down for anyone, anymore. It's tragic cause I am turning into a total wacko and feel pity for those people and things inside my head (and other people's heads) and not those around me. It truly makes me worry. Perhaps I should not worry, but I feel I am turning into a walking statue. I feel I am losing my connection to real life. And what is real life, exactly? That sanitised, joyless version of working like a slave and your every surprise being predetermined, your every choice and encounter controlled? Is it any wonder that I sympathise more with heroes from books and comics?
I want to give a few kicks to a few asses, but haven't discovered the people these asses belong to. YET.
My father is in a very weird condition. He tries to prove to us that he is still fine and perfectly capable of going around without any problems, so keeps getting up (and falling down). We tried everything, from sweet talking to reasoning and even treats. He just won’t listen. Every now and then I can hear him getting up, then after a few moments the tell tale sound of him falling down. He is covered in bruises and abrasions, but won’t listen to reason. So I let him get up and then fall down again, since my lower back is killing me and the only alternative I have is tying him up to bed somehow. I am nearly thirty, a bit late now to start BDSM/ incest sessions with my father. However, there are moments I want to throttle him, I swear. In such a case I leave the room fuming, or God/dess knows what I’ll do.
On a happier note, I am not working for these past days, and I have been constantly filling envelopes with things and posting them. The pile keeps getting smaller. Earlier on my father was asking me for his scales, and he meant his cane. Another day he wanted something else, I think the TV remote and he kept pestering me to give him the electric heater. It takes a lot of patience not to smack him unconscious sometimes… He is honestly THE most stubborn person I know, and needless to say, he still pisses himself, and the washing machine is working night and day. My mother is a heroine, but I don’t want heroic status. I want my quiet. Unless there is some sort of payback soon, I’ll kill him and spend the rest of my time behind bars. Now he is asking me to buy him a bicycle.
