Crowded in here.

Where is everybody?

Nuare smirks knowingly and lets some belladonna cherries fall into his chalice, then adds more wine. His nose is bleeding slowly, and he absentmindedly wipes it with the back of his gloved hand. He's really drunk, and yet he knows that if anyone in the inn gets any strange ideas about mugging him, he can break them in two in less than a second. This irritates him.

Seraph is too busy sword practicing with his teacher to notice the bleeding cuts on his body.

Dorian removes the last blood from under his nails and then dries the sink.

Filigree and Catkin juggle with knives that they throw to each other rapidly, taunting each other in a language no-one has heard in a very long time.

Lash removes his top hat while offering a single white rose to the girl with the violin. Its thorns are vicious enough to prick him through his white glove. Reality pulls apart gently in order for him to manifest in our age, like a curtain made of whispers.

Arunas tiptoes centimeters away from the edge of the roof, while humming to himself a traditional Lithuanian song. Should he lose his balance, the fall will be very, very long. He smiles quietly. He tried it just before.

Etielle finds himself over a torn corpse with no memory of what took place. Again.

Elizabeth listens to them all.

Blood and pain unite them all.

One homeland for all.

Myself.

Not again...

Feeling very low again. Not in the mood for anything. Need out.

But the way does not open yet. Don't know what to do. Feel that I have been condemned to eternal hell by the kind of life that I live. A hell specially designed to contain me, fetter me, kill my creativity and break me to pieces so small that nothing can stick them together again. Feel that this will go on forever and ever, till I am eighty years old, and I will still be waiting.

I want to break everything. Tear the house down. Break my head against the wall.

Freedom. Why is it so hard to have a normal life? Why is it so hard to do what I want? Why can't I ever be free? Why can't I have the things other people take for granted? Like, at least one day free per week? Or eight hours of work every day, not twelve, thirteen or fourteen hours every single day of every week?

Why can't I have the basics?

What the hell have I done to find myself in this position?

Why do choices, why does sticking to your beliefs has to be so difficult?

Why even now, even after all this time, the way still does not open? What do I have to do? I cannot wait any longer, I have absolutely no patience left, no strength, I have lost the will to go on, lost my sanity, lost everything, and the pressure increases instead of decreasing. I set both feet firmly down and do what I have to do, every hour of every day, I am surpassing myself in all aspects, I am doing things three months ago I considered impossible and yet I am still locked in my cell and feel like my wardens come and pierce me with their spears just to make it more enjoyable. What else is there to do goddammit? What? Change personality? Go stark mad? Kill someone? Kill myself? Start cutting myself up? At this age? Wouldn't that be pathetic? I am not pathetic. I am not sad. Fucking hell, I am not.

I don't need pity. Don't need sympathy. I need my freedom.

Give it to me before I come up there late at night, when I am asleep, and pluck your stupid feathers out like we do with hens. And then come down there and open you a dozen new assholes.

Gods dammit. I have a job to do and you won't let me.

Fucking hell.

Cat gone wild...

I think Mr. Adolf, one of my oldest male cats, has gone stone deaf. Every time he sees someone entering the room, he makes the mewing equivalent of an obese person accidentally landing on a bagpipe.

From zero to bitch in three seconds.

My feet are hurting because I have been walking for the past two and a half hours. I had a fight with my mother and I went walking with no destination in mind. I just did not want to see her for the rest of the night. Not very hard to do as it is Easter and she will go to church, while I will go home and get a nice restful nap till tomorrow. And hopefully tomorrow I will find a way to go the fuck away again. Anywhere sounds a fine destination. Fine indeed.

Unless I move soon, I will go more bananas than the whole of fucking Africa.

I am sad, angry, bored, ready to burst, horny and exhausted, all at once. If I watch one more Tokio Hotel video in youtube, I will start humping the screen, and I am at a public place, so this will not really help me with my reputation. The fight with my mother was really really nasty and I hate hurting her but she doesn't understand and no matter what I do she gets hurt all the same, and if I don't bite her verbally fast enough she will bite me first, plus it is Easter, which I hate, I hate all family and religion related holidays and celebrations because I never had anything happy to look forward to in these celebrations, still haven't, don't know if I ever will, I am really pissed off, I should go home but I do not want to talk to my mom if she is at home right now, I hate myself for believing everything my pendulum tells me (*though I have found out that most things turn out true, and if they don't, it's me asking the wrong questions*), I feel like kicking myself in the butt but I am not THAT flexible, and generally all is fine and dandy. I have fucked reality and linear time because presently I have a relationship with a guy who's not here, I have fucked up everything, this chaos magick stuff is messing me up bad, who needs drugs when you can do the impossible just by focusing hard enough and wishing for it to happen, the men of my life are not here yet and when they finally come they will not be any less fucked in the head and nothing makes any sense, I CAN'T WAIT ANY LONGER FOR THINGS TO HAPPEN I WILL HONESTLY EXPLODE AND THE UPPER PART OF MY HEAD WILL TURN INTO A GODDAMN PINK BLOODY BRAIN HELICOPTER LIKE A WINGED PANTY LINER GONE WRONG@@@ FUCKKKKKAAAAAAAAARGHHHHHH!!!!! HEEEEELP!!!

One of those goddamn nights you wish you were brain dead.

Seriously trying.

I am seriously trying not to pay any attention to the stupidity of people anymore. Seriously trying. But I fail spectacularly.

First of all, my lower back is killing me. I have been doing all the wrong things, not physically, but there are quite a few things that can cause physical pain although they are not causing any physical strain. And believe me, I am not referring to sex. :-)

Secondly, I am the first to admit I am opinionated. Opinionated as fuck, to be more precise. This is why I do not converse with strangers most of the time, because when they start blurting out racistic, homophobic or just plainly stupid opinions that they label "arguments" I want to kick them hard enough to make them spit their balls out. I do not have the patience to explain to them WHY they are stupid. I just want them gone from my view ASAP, and usually to make this happen I just start screaming obscenities. This happened a couple of days ago. Again.

Someone came to my work and unfortunately, we started a conversation related to gay people. He said, "I do not have a problem with them", which is the usual openminded-my-arse cover everyone uses to avoid being called a homophobe, "but one of them is staying in my building. And if I have a kid, what then? If he or she sees two men kissing, what then?"

Right you are, fella. If he or she sees that sight unfolding in front of them, the gay virus will immediately enter them through their innocent eyes. Those two men will get their gayness all over your poor kid and then it will be the end. You kid will become immediately gay. Next step will be to shave her head if it is a girl, let her armpits unshaved till they look like the hairstyle of the singer from Tokio Hotel, and buy herself a tank and a box of multicoloured strap-ons. Or if it is a boy, he will shave his legs, wear one of his mother's dresses (preferably a fuscia red one), pierce his ding dong and go out to satisfy his endless craving for you-know-what kind of meat. Nice, isn't it? Going through all the trouble and expences of reproducing because you need an empty canvas to fill with your complexes and stupidity, and that kid *squeeeeal!* turning out gay. Oh, the horror! Oh, the disappointment! I suppose that when you fuck your wife in missionary position a little voice tells you that you have signed a contract with God and your child will be "normal". Perhaps gay people come out when you fuck doggy style. You should check that too. One can never be too careful with these things.

Question number one: If your son sees two women kissing, is that okay? Because I have noticed that I see a lot of -supposed- lesbian couples in those magazines you buy because you are such a hard, uncompromised, manly man. I suppose this doesn't count. Forgive me. How stupid of me...

Question number two: If your kid never sees two men kissing and he or she still turns out gay, what then? Who's to blame? Who's to burn on that stake you have prepared already? Maybe your kid?

Needless to say, I told him that I hope a meteorite lands in Greece and eradicates the population, because they (Greek men) are homophobic, racist, religion-obsessed fuckwits. :-) Now go on and blame me for that.

Writing poetry

I write poetry all the time. This alone shows my state of mind. I feel like shit. And the more I search, the more I unearth stories from the past that have no happy endings, only blood, violence and death.

Goody. :-/

I suppose I should give it a rest. I feel very lonely though. The kind of lonely that makes me suffocate. The scary kind of lonely that seizes me by the neck late at night. That kind of lonely.

Goody...

Happiness is a state of mind

...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.

Where chalices are filled with red.

Red is fast. And furious.

The tide is turning. Listen.

There.

Rapture

Sometimes I doubt my own sanity.

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.

If not for rapture, why live? Why?

I have no answers. Only the wisdom of pain.

Let this drama begin.

Three new career choices

...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...

Now guess.

Bookcrossing

Photo taken from here.

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.

Not funny.

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.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Music: System of a Down: Toxicity.

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.

Olivier Theyskens.

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?