The parade of bitches

And I was worried that there are not enough women in my novel. Yeah, right. And suddenly, KABOOM! women everywhere. And not just your garden variety woman. No no no. Until now all of them smart, interesting, powerful individuals, the kind of woman that will not mince her words when something annoys her, the kind of woman I would be proud to see around. Fierce ladies, powerful protectors, as dangerous as the male heroes if not more. And very sexual too. I am impressed by myself.

I don't want this novel to be gay erotica. I could target that niche in literature, but it's too narrow. I don't want to limit my scope and audience and first and foremost I don't want to limit my heroes in their choices. There are male/ male couples in there, but also male/ female and female/ female. Why the hell not? Variety is good and life is fantastically unpredictable. Why be a stereotype when you can have it all? Why NOT have it all? If you can handle it, go for the sky and don't stop there either.

I am really curious as to HOW others will react to this book, if I manage to get it published. But that's not something I must worry about it now. Right now I have a plot detail to take care of. Praise and curses will follow at some other point. Work, bitch. Work your ass off and the rest will follow. Work like there is no tomorrow.

Ahhhh... My ass hurts from so much self- flagellation. But oh well. :)

With my nose inside a book

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:

Assassin's Creed 2 Soundtrack

Mass Effect 2 Soundtrack

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.

Oh God no...

I wonder why the so-called alternative sites (see Vampire Freaks) are full of emo teenagers with fringes? I haven't got anything against fringes per se, but when I see cute teenage things with duck faces and fringes I want to slap them. I can't help it. It's a knee-jerk reaction. Just like that. Blame it on my sadistic side. And then I want to get a pair of scissors and hack the damn fringe. And then I want to spank their asses as if they were tambourines. With all the facial piercings they have they will probably jingle like tambourines, too. Argh. Half a kilo of metal on your face and not even doing it right. I mean, what exactly is the purpose of those damn little balls protruding from your nostrils like permanent boogers? I have seen so few people that the piercing actually looks good on them. The rest merely have those eternal metal boogers just outside their noses. I suppose they can always use this excuse to flirt with people of their preferred sex, asking for a handkerchief.

And the drama. Drama drama drama. Nooooooo. I don't want to hear why your life sucks so much. When you're 15, everything sucks and nobody sucks you, which is the basic reason for the drama. With all those hormones having a party in your head and body I can understand why, but shouldn't such sites be strictly over 18? Just saying.

Another fantastic American puritan thing. Calling someone a pedophile for flirting with someone under 18 years of age. A pedophile is a person that is attracted by children, which means, pre-puberty children. Once the teens kick in, the whole "child" notion goes out of the window. Anyone in their teens is not a child anymore. The lowest legal consent age in Europe is 13, in Spain, and I have lost count of how many European countries have 14 as the limit. This is NOT to say that anyone in their teens know what's good for them, or are fully responsible for themselves. This is why we recall our teens with mixed feelings of wonder and terror, about how we made it through alive and sane despite how STUPID we were. But when we use the term 'pedophile', we refer to someone attracted by any child from zero to more or less 12, even 13 years, not older. When the hormones kick in, the teenager is as much of a child as a T-Rex is a lizard. You do catch my drift. I do understand that there are different age limits in countries around the world but my problem has to do with the definition, not the mechanics or the morality. A teenager is JAILBAIT (if you're American). Not a child. So flirting or fucking a teenager does not make you a pedophile. Unless you're a 'lucky' American.

Rant over.

Off I go to write more...

Bye bye wisdom tooth

It was nice knowing you. Right now I feel the left side of my face like one big frozen burger. Oh well, nothing to worry about. And the taste of blood in my mouth together with chocolate milk. What fun.

Now, let's try writing the same text with the keyboard turned to Greek.

Ιτ ςασ νιψε κνοςινγ υοθ. Ριγητ νος Ι φεελ τηε λεφτ σιδε οφ μυ φαψε λικε ονε βιγ φροζεν βθργερ. Οη ςελλ, νοτηινγ το ςορρυ αβοθτ. Ανδ τηε ταστε οφ βλοοδ ιν μυ μοθτη τογετηερ ςιτη ψηοψολατε μιλκ. ΅ηατ φθν.

I hope you're all good!

WRITING.

I am writing.

I am constipated, have discovered an impressive cavity in my (last) wisdom tooth, the floor of my room has absorbed moisture and the wood has expanded and I cannot close the door and the other laptop is dead and I am writing like mad.

I am reading a book and yesterday spent a quarter of an hour yelling comments and observations out loud to no-one in particular. You can read them for your pleasure (?) here:

"I mean what the fuck, fucking hell fuck, I am struggling with every available braincell to make this appear gradual, I am torturing my heads (the one I have on my shoulders, and several others in the refrigerator, I mean obviously, why else use plural here) in order to be smooth, smooth gods god dammit, gradual, you know, not like we've only just met and BOOOM! sex, and this is what gets published, I don't even know why I struggle with my craft, and erase all the repeated words, and bury my fucking nose in two different dictionaries and one thesaurus if I cannot come up with the word I am looking for, and re-write the same chapter again and again and again to make the flow of the story natural and effortless, for the love of holy fuck, put some effort into your writing, hell yes I want to read sex, hell no like this. This is not sex but microwave popcorn, just add microwave. I mean save me a fried Godzilla for later, and if I just wanted to write about sex and no plot I would write the words cock, pussy (or ass), in, out, in out, in out, in, out, boobies jumping up and down, moan, moan moan, sigh, !SUDDENLY! Jizz everywhere! Who cares???"

(I am not sure what people think when they see me during one of those live-comment broadcasts of insanity. I wave my hands dramatically as well and make faces and noises. I am not sure if the best way to do this is radio, camera or a padded cell.)

~~~!!!WRITING< WRITING< WRITING< LALALA< WRITING< WRITING< WRITING!!!~~~

This is the point where the writing starts to take off the ground. Until now I wasn't even sure what was happening. I never use a plot. I have a very general idea of what it is about and then just throw all the characters in and wait to see what will happen. Stephen King does the exact same thing. So I threw everyone in together with everyone else and I kept looking at the progress. (It mostly consisted of characters telling other characters off at first or batting at their faces like annoyed cats. Most of my characters aren't the get along easily/ the more the merrier type.) And for the first time I start realising this is GOING somewhere and I think I have a very vague idea WHERE. The two basic characters are in, the third one must be introduced now. Just after I finish with the chapters with the second character. Vampires with special needs, violent sex, crude language, a masochistic psychic and murderous twins. Not bad. Now everything will start flooding in. It will be something of a shaggathon, vampire novel, suspense/ horror/ romance kind of book. Now, don't you dare tell me there are no such books! I know there aren't! This is why I am writing mine. Silly, silly boys and girls, but of course. I first and foremost write in order to have something to read!!! Silly. It's like masturbation, only with more people watching. BWA HA HAHA HASSSAAAAAN HERE I COME!!! Eat my dust and shit fucking troglodytes of shit books. I am going at almost full speed now. Or to quote Luciphur from Poison Elves,

EAT CROW!!!

I love you all. Smooch!

I go write now. Open your umbrellas, jizz is coming. *O*

Writing again...

It is more than welcome, although it comes out in an unusual way. Old characters are re-introduced in my head and sometimes I am not sure to what direction they mean to go or what they want to say. Aubrey is back, George and William are back (secondary characters, total cutthroats but very interesting) and Sergios is also back. Edward, Aubrey's "father" is also re-introduced. I am trying to listen to what they have to say. It's not always easy. I think I know them but I don't really know them anymore. They have changed since 2003 that I began writing their stories. I still have the old stories but cannot use them, they are not valid anymore. And I had done such a good job back then, at least plot-wise. But I should not fret. The plot will be better now because I am a better writer. And there is total freedom concerning what I can do. That world is mine, the characters are mine, and I can even introduce characters from other stories since they all live in that same world. It's a matter of finding my rhythm again, and getting re-acquainted with the characters.

(I am sure this entry will bore people to tears, but it's OK. I never made the blog for other people to begin with.)

I wonder what will happen to this blog if I ever manage to get my stories published. I will probably have to disassociate it from my name. What joy.

Speaking of names, I am trying to find a pseudonym for me. I like Elizabeth, but Vasilaki is not exactly the easiest surname. Any ideas? I am trying to avoid the too obvious ones like "Desdemona Ravencrow" and "Lucretia Deathrain". (Or as a friend said: "Petronella Deathpanties". xD) I want it to sound like a surname that does exist, but a tiny pun would not be unwelcome. At the same time it needs to be small as Elizabeth is four syllables long. 

If I don't manage to come with any good ideas I'll just keep "V-" as it brings to my mind a lot of pleasant associations (V for Vendetta, vampire, the Latin number 5 -which is my number- and V, as in vampire blood from True Blood).

Right. Off I go to write. Be more interesting than poor ol' me, as I am too busy to do anything more interesting right now.

Dominic

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

Seraph

Today is the first day my face in the mirror looks familiar again. I haven't a clue why.

I saw you in my sleep last night. 

It's funny how I see you in my sleep while we don't talk in real life. You were wearing a light blue suit that shined at parts with an almost satin sheen. I am guessing that it was the tie, or the shirt that shined. This time you looked like your usual self. And blue looked good on you, although I have never seen you wearing it. 

Damned fairies. Damned race of alcoholic, sex addicted, heartless, whimsical nutters. Nothing but trouble and heartache. It's all about your glamour and conquests. I am guessing most of you die of liver failure or drug overdose, and those who don't just carry some kind of STD to their dying day. But I forgot; you're a lucky bunch of arseholes. You manage to avoid disease most of the time even if you're not particularly careful.

I would so spank them collectively. Using planks. Or better big clubs and flattening their stupid heads.

Talking about fairies, the character I would mostly like to BE (from my own ones) is Seraph. Seraph has a fairy soul, but not the "drink and make merry" type, but rather the "kill and fuck mercilessly" type. He's Irish, 6'3'' (1, 93m), long coal black hair, gray blue, almost silvery eyes, very pale skin, lots of blue black tattoos, and also a real piece of work. A brooding, misanthropic, nearly growling young man, presently in University, who's about as amused with humanity as I am, but not really interested in censoring his mouth if you aggravate him. What are you going to do, hit him? You can try. He's been trained to kill vampires since he was practically a child. He has even killed a few. Come on, try. Give it your best shot. The doctors will have such a good time re-arranging your bones afterwards. Like playing Tetris but with no visible bricks. Thankfully Seraph looks like someone that it's NOT in your best interests to annoy. Most people instinctively know he can break them in two. Even bullies shrink away from him, and those who don't are usually used as an example for others, and offer quality time to doctors and physiotherapists (practicing the medical Tetris I described just now).

What I admire about Seraph is his willpower and self-discipline. He has been exercising since he was very little, partly because he needs to be in perfect physical condition for hunting and partly because regular exercise keeps his murderous and restless nature in check. He never questions what he is, never doubts what his responsibility is. He's quite content with his share. He's been brought up to kill vampires, period. Not all vampires. The ones that kill humans. You'd be surprised to know, perhaps, that most modern day vampires would rather not. You can't magic away a corpse, and leaving a trail of corpses behind you is guaranteed to attract the wrong kind of attention. Seraph takes care of those stupid enough or uncaring enough to do so.

Clichés I have tried to avoid: 

He's not a vampire. I mean, give me a break. Jesus wept.

He's not a loner because he has been heartbroken. He just happens to enjoy the company of his own self a lot more than that of other people. He never invests a lot in order to be heartbroken.

He's not misanthropic because he's old and disappointed. He is merely disillusioned. Has seen through the lies and appearances and social conventions and knows how petty and ugly most people are on the inside.

He does not kill vampires to protect humans. He doesn't like humans very much to begin with. No, his mind is far too complicated and different to see humans as 'good' and 'vampires' as bad. He strives to preserve the balance, because a vampire that habitually kills is a chaotic, disruptive, unchecked power. Still he's not obsessive. He's aware he cannot kill ALL wild vampires out there. He, too, is only human after all. At least his body is.

He does not kill for revenge. Another cliché. He never had any of his relatives or friends killed by a vampire. Hell, I am not sure if he even has any friends. He's pretty dispassionate about it all. Vampire hunting just happens to be his calling, and he enjoys doing it because he’s what he’s best at. 

In addition to the above, he can also kick seven shades of blue out of most people, armed with nothing but his stunning body and a grin. xD

I would love to be Seraph. Don't get me wrong, I love vampires. But give me a good body and many years of training to kill and a few bullies to practice on. Oh god yes. This would be orgasmic.

I go do something else now, before I soak my pants so thoroughly that my socks get wet too.

Everything about you.

Ugh, perhaps I should have slept earlier yesterday... But I was busy re-reading America Gods, which is both brilliant and boring, Watchmen, which is one of the most detailed, amazing and multi-layered graphic novels I have read in my life, and thinking about a million things- and one.

You know, there is a saying. If you want to leave, go. If you don't want to leave, stay. But for the love of  God(s), sugar, or anything you hold holy, near and dear to your heart. DON'T. NAG.

Don't nag about how your life is. You are the one who chose it down to the last detail, either by choice or by lack of it. That, too, is choice, letting things happen to you. So please don't nag. If you don't like it, you're free to do something else.

Don't complain about your parents, friends, or boyfriend/ girlfriend (or lack of). Do not expect others to change to cater for your needs on any level. It is fascistic, illogical and a handy excuse to avoid any responsibility. You hate it when others expect you to change, yet with what ease you expect it from others. Do not expect others to show common sense when you first and foremost don't. It's about as effective as expecting rain to stop because you close your eyes. Stop the wishful thinking and get out of the rain. 

"Oh, I can't." Why can't you? "Because doing this will upset so and so, or I will have to displease so and so. Or even worse, I will have to face my own fears about upsetting them, displeasing them, and being an entity separate from my parents/ friends/ boyfriend or girlfriend." In that case, seek out professional assistance. You need a therapist or psychologist to help you develop social skills and a personality that is not some other person(s) conjoined twin. I am not being ironic here. In fact I am very serious. I can give you phone numbers if you ask. I care about you otherwise I would not be writing this. I cannot solve your problem though. And I don't want to hear about your problem if you don't want to solve it either.

If you see your life until this point and it displeases you, don't expect it to change without you participating in that change. You should try to get used to it instead because this is how your life will be for the next fifty years or so. It's very sad, but it's what you want, and what you choose is not negotiable. You'll get it.

If you don't like it, remember: you're free to choose again any time you're ready. This is not negotiable either. Your pace is your own. Your rhythms are your own. Your problems are as big as you feel them to be and I am not going to compare them with mine or anyone else's. But take your time because you really want to change, not because you want to procrastinate. And if you want to procrastinate, that too is fine. But please. DON'T. NAG. Let me be. I have my own problems and I am not going to spend a single second telling you what to do or pat you on the head making "poor you" sounds. You are not in need of pity. There is nothing pitiful about you and I am not going to feed you your drug of choice. You know perfectly well what you need to do. If you don't want to do it I cannot help you, no matter how much I care about you. End of the story.

Pffffffffffffff (sound of kettle boiling... inside my head.)

(I have no opinion on Nickelback... But the review is just hilarious.)

It is official.

It is indeed. I understand nothing.

I have an authority problem.

I have issues.

I also have many cats.

I want to go and hide somewhere so that I don't have to talk to people anymore.

I want to shave my head and wear on it a pot with flowers.

I want to fuck half a million people.

I don't want to fuck anyone ever again. Safe, my head screams. You're safe. You must be crazy to want to get in trouble again. Think of what can go wrong. Pregnancy, disease, falling in love and losing control, getting hurt. You're safe in this place of non- action. And all this danger, all this risk, for what? Getting sex that you don't even enjoy? You must be mad.

Indeed. But I may change my mind in a month or ten minutes from now. And I probably will.

All this thinking gets me tired and depressed and gets nothing done.

If you ask me what I want to do, the answer is never again get involved with anyone on any level.

If pigs had wings they would fly. Naturally.

It's almost hilarious.

I am running away again. At maximum speed.

I wish I was more consistent in the way I feel.

I wish I was uncaring.

I must discover a different way of being and feeling.

I am a member in thealterium.com, an alternative social network. Like Facebook but with no censorship. Nudity is allowed, in fact encouraged. They are pretty much nice guys and girls there. But the roles I can play are limited. Yes, yes, yes, I can put pictures of my ass and get many flattering comments. But I am not an ass, or a pair of boobs, or my vagina. I am a human being. There is so much more to a human being than just body parts.

The game is played with flawed rules.

I refuse to play the game with such rules.

And then I wonder why I feel I lack something and what am I doing wrong, as the game can only be played with the aforesaid rules.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. And so tired I feel someone turned me upside down and emptied my very soul out of my body.

It's your fault.

I can think of three people I can accuse for my present state of being. But accusing others for where you stand is just silly. If you don't like it go somewhere else.

I need to get more tattoos done on me. They won't help me resolve my confusion, but they may prevent me from getting laid, or even help me get laid. I am not sure what would be worse at this point.

[All the above can be concentrated in ONE word: scared.]

I mostly believe

Ha, ha, ha. I have been looking for this everywhere.

by Neil Gaiman (from  the book American Gods)

“I can believe that things are true and I can believe things that aren’t true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they’re true or not. I can believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and Marilyn Monroe and the Beatles and Elvis and Mister Ed. Listen – I believe that people are perfectible, that knowledge is infinite, that the world is run by secret banking cartels and is visited by aliens on a regular basis, nice ones that look like wrinkledy lemurs and bad ones who mutilate cattle and want our water and our women. I believe that the future sucks and I believe that future rocks and I believe that one day White Buffalo Woman is going to come back and kick everyone’s ass. I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating and that the decline in good sex in America is coincident with the decline in drive-in movie theaters from state to state. I believe that all politicians are unprincipled crooks and I still believe that they are better than the alternative. I believe that California is going to sink into the sea when the big one comes, while Florida is going to dissolve into madness and alligators and toxic waste. I believe that antibacterial soap is destroying our resistance to dirt and disease so that one day we’ll all be wiped out by the common cold like the Martians in War of the Worlds. I believe that the greatest poets of the last century were Edith Sitwell and Don Marquis, that jade is dried dragon sperm, and that thousands of years ago in a former life I was a one-armed Siberian shaman. I believe that mankind’s destiny lies in the stars. I believe that candy really did taste better when I was a kid, that it’s aerodynamically impossible for a bumblebee to fly, that light is a wave and a particle, that there’s a cat in a box somewhere who’s alive and dead at the same time (although if they don’t ever open the box to feed it it’ll eventually just be two different kinds of dead), and that there are stars in the universe billions of years older than the universe itself. I believe in a personal god who cares about me and worries and oversees everything I do. I believe in an impersonal god who set the universe in motion and went off to hang with her girlfriends and doesn’t even know that I’m alive. I believe in an empty and godless universe of casual chaos, background noise, and sheer blind luck. I believe that anyone who says that sex is overrated just hasn’t done it properly. I believe that anyone claims to know what’s going on will lie about the little things too. I believe in absolute honesty and sensible social lies. I believe in a woman’s right to choose, a baby’s right to live, that while all human life is sacred there’s nothing wrong with the death penalty if you can trust the legal system implicitly, and that no one but a moron would ever trust the legal system. I believe life is a game, that life is a cruel joke, and that life is what happens when you’re alive and that you might as well lie back and enjoy it.”

- Samantha Black Crow I agree with about 98% of this. He, he, he.

Practicing curses.

[This is the only living being I would take orders from. Them, and their bigger cousins.]

I want to be terribly violent on someone tonight. Thankfully no-one is here.

I got seven kinds of furious today. I got harassed by a cop. The majority of cops here in Greece think they are the second power after God Almighty and even the Almighty is scared of them. So it's not unusual for them to talk to citizens in the manner a 18th century plantation owner talked to their slaves. Threatening me and arousing me and fiddling with my temper is not good for a variety of reasons, but let's run our options here and go back to the basics.

1) I don't own a Jaguar, yacht, a bank account in Switzerland, an offshore company or anything of that kind. In fact, if I owned any of those I would be living the quiet easy life those same cops are so intent on protecting.

2) I don't own whores, drugs, weapons (unless we count my farts) or sell any of those. If I did, I would also own several of #1 so these people would once more be interested in protecting me.

3) I don't have a rich father, mafioso boyfriend or girlfriend or pimp. Nor am I employed by them. Again, if I had any relation to any of them we'd go back to option #1.

How about talking to citizens in a more respectful manner, goddammit? I did not have the permit you asked for. I didn't rape your or someone else's grandmother, OK? Although your grandmother being raped by a cooties infested gorilla and you calling the offspring "dad" would explain a lot of things concerning your behaviour today.

Honestly, don't those people have something more productive to do? Like catch criminals? Then again, I live in Greece, the land of the gods and myths and logic. We don't catch criminals here. We offer them our vote and make them members of the parliament and Prime Ministers. Right...

So I'll swallow a ...

... and continue with my life. Mind you, I spent many hours fuming and a good half hour cursing in the old, traditional way, that includes grinding of teeth, shaking my fist to the heavens and colourful descriptions of rare and exotic incurable diseases that make people's flesh rot and fall off. I don't know if that works anymore or you have to be the genuine article to do it, which means living in a secluded hut and communing with spirits. But my grandmother did not live in a hut and her curses worked presto.

Mwahaha.

Godless

I never stop surprising myself.

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.

Why have you abandoned us so?

In a godless world, who can help me?

Why have you thrown me to the wolves?

Why?

When will this end?

When?