I miss you.

It appears that this is the year I lost two of my most beloved beings; Virve and my fluffy ginger cloud of a cat. 

Damn it.

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?

Love

What do you do to deal with the inadequacy of every day life?

What can you do to deal with the fact you are isolated inside a body and will be so for the rest of your life?

I thought I saved myself from danger and my own temperament that loves tragedy and impossible loves but in reality I opened the door and stepped out of life. I left everything behind, and as the piano pours out one melody after the next, I watch life from behind the window like a beggar outside a busy restaurant. I watch everyone else eat and have a good time. I cannot enter because I don't fit. I never did. Or so I used to think.

The line that 'killed' me came from an excellent TV series called True Detective. It was about how each of us considers ourselves to be something more than a collection of biological urges. Each of us considers ourselves to be more real than the rest, each of us thinks that our perception and life is more real than other people's. And we are all the same, a pitiful bundle of flesh and urges wanting to go on and condemned to die. We crave reproduction and power even when we claim that our causes are noble, even when we dress our desires with a higher meaning.

I crave the sky. I crave death. I crave freedom. I crave life. I crave godhood like the protagonist of 'Perfume'.

I am a bloody idiot.

I am no different than anyone else, just better at deceiving myself. Smarter than most, enough to muddle my thinking with my own mind games. I have exiled love from my life and feel comfortably numb, empty and safe, unfulfilled and manic. Yet I go on. I despise my own biology for condemning me to these urges because I have glimpsed something else, bigger, better, different. And at the same time I realise just how silly I am to despise something that is perfectly innocent, my body. And also because what I have glimpsed may be nothing else but Love. Love as in everlasting Love, that we try to bring down to our human size and try to live it as best as we could, reducing it and twisting it to something we can understand.

When the protagonist of True Detective briefly crossed over what he found was Love.

I am almost there. Almost at the point of understanding.

Almost at breaking point, where everything will make sense once more.

All I need is to take one more step, even if I have to crawl.

Open the door again, even if my hands are shaking and I am absolutely terrified.

Welcome back to the game.

Welcome back now that you know how everything is connected.

Breathe. You are safe.

Just breathe. The rest will follow.

Turning point

When I had gone to bed at 03.00 am the heat was stifling. Then I woke up at four, because a window was banging from the air. I sat up, groggy and disoriented, and tried to understand where the sound was coming from. I deducted that it was from the rooftop and decided to get up and close it. I was in my knickers, and in spite of my sleepiness thought it would be a good idea to put on something, like a t-shirt. I doubted anyone would see this bare-breasted woman on top of a building at four in the morning, but you know what they say... Better safe than sorry. Barefoot and sleepy I went up the single flight of marble stairs that leads to the rooftop, opened the metallic door with the misspelled sticker advertisement and stepped out.

The cement under my bare heels was still pleasantly warm from the scorching heat of the day. The wind was blowing on my face, rather warm but very strong, and my hair was flying everywhere at once. I walked to the window of the elevator shaft and closed it, then looked around. It was late and except for the wind, everything was quiet. Almost all windows were dark. The cypress trees in the garden were bending with the currents of air, the branches of the large pine trees shaking and moving in disquiet. I looked at the distant stars, glittering their eternal, monotonous song, and felt utterly alone. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling. It was like I was the only living soul on another world that night; maybe on the surface of the moon, or in an alien vista, on my own, scantily dressed, not a worry in the world. I was feeling alone, yes, but in a safe and exhilarating way. Those are the moments I am at perfect peace and I don't need someone to share them in order to validate them. My feet registered the uneven cement and the pieces of glass and small stones under them, the gale was ruffling my t-shirt and hair and caressing my entire body, and it felt like it carried something with it, like something had arrived together with the change in weather, riding the very currents of air that kissed me.

I stood there for a while, absorbing everything I could. My only regret was that my wings are not capable of carrying me into the night. Only in my fantasy and dreams. I would have given anything to be able to ride with the spirits that night, putting all thoughts of sleep and normality behind me. But I couldn't, and eventually I closed the door behind me and marched back into my room, where I landed in bed and slept again.

Maybe in my dreams I did ride with you.

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. 

This one is for you.

An 800 year old Icelandic hymn sung in a German train station. Ancient married to modern. Circumstance married to providence. An amalgam of contradictions like you were.

I hope you can hear it through me.

Taken from here.

http://whatever.scalzi.com/

Some nice videos...

Trying to be positive. So here are some nice videos. The first one reminds me that sometimes what people need is someone to believe in them.

And a follow up video to that:

Then there is this, all about age and appropriateness:

Old but still good:

Αhhhhh, let's try to be positive, shall we?

Example of a conversation at my job.

Customer, man in his thirties: Hello, uh,  do you have any single wet hankies?

Me: Yes, I do. How many would you like?

Customer: Dunno. 3-4 I guess. They are women's stuff.

Me: Keeping your hands clean is women's stuff?

Customer: No, I mean the hankies. I wash my hands.

Me: Oh, I get it. You have a portable sink. Well done. The rest of us will just have to use hankies, I guess.

Prayer: Please Satan, Buddha, Christ, and Spaghetti  Monster, I want my next job to involve the general public as little as possible. Lighthouse keeper sounds ideal. Thank you.

Empaths suck a donkey's ass.

There are days that I seriously wonder why the hell I keep trying.

It’s one of those days.

For the good things that will come in the future?

Yeah, right. Judging by how many good things have come my way already, I should have thrown in my towel years ago.

Come on then. Bring on the good stuff. I am already out of here mentally. I might be out of here literally unless something good happens. I am not referring to dreams or swaps or reading books or meeting with friends. I am talking about something tangible, practical, happening in real life. I am one step before I collapse and decide I don’t want to get out of bed anymore, because there is no point whatsoever.

Do something. There has to be something more to life than eating, bathing and dragging myself from one meaningless chore to another.

I am sick of this so-called life.

I am sick of everyone and everything.

There must be something I am doing wrong.

Some clue I have missed.

This can’t be real.

I feel dead,

cheated,

used up,

gone.

And even as I write this I know nothing is going to change. It's personal, isn't it?

Yes it is.

Hm.

Here is some Ian Somerhalder because it's a better option than taking pills and slitting my wrists or something equally melodramatic and stupid.

 

Brain not working, hence employing soft porn.

As I said in another site, a man who dresses like that has some balls I'd like to handle. Oh, and if you have any funny comments to make concerning gayness, please refer to the previous post's picture. Thank you.

Pictures taken from here:

 https://www.facebook.com/perish.dignamiii?fref=ts 

Burning down the Heavens

Life is degrees of hard and absurd. Maybe it’s the planets. I can rephrase a famous poet’s last words and say I had a lover’s quarrel with God, not the world. 

These aren’t good days. These are days to stay indoors and avoid all electrical appliances. Psst. Wear a helmet too, just to be sure.

Life is also degrees of unfair, and the only actual source of solace and comfort are friends. You can pray all you want, light all the candles that you want, but there will be no answer. Or maybe I am persona non-grata, and the rest of you are fine with the Almighty Asshole, so don’t listen to me. Pray on. See if He gives a fuck.

I scratch my head as I am considering ways of burning down the heavens. So far I’ve disregarded three plans and I am looking for possible flaws in a fourth.

I am also considering having more tattoos and blowing my brains out, but those are just silly thoughts, the exasperation of the slave that has been a punching bag, a toilet girl, and ashtray and a mule for her entire life. Oh, did I mention free therapist/ healer as well? Write that down under everything else. Now look at the title, it has my name, my photo, and the 'mysterious' inscription ‘idiot-sucker-moron’ next to it. In impressive big red letters. With the additional information/clarification “desperate to please” noted just under that. What a CV.

I valiantly offer my middle finger and piss on the shadow of every power hungry pantheon of the planet. I am so sick of you, you fucking pushers, pimps and bullies of human despair. I shit on you. I defy you. I deny you. I’ll make you pay, Spider Jerusalem style. I swear I will, even if it takes away everything I have. I haven’t got much left to begin with, since you took it all away. Sanity isn’t compatible with the kind of life I am left with.

I refuse to live here. I want to pack my stuff and leave, go away to some plane that isn’t governed by deities with a small dick and a big opinion on themselves and their equally small-minded Renfield-like followers. Those sad idiots do the dirty work for free, they are so narrow-minded and easy to control that they create a living hell in a place that was supposed to be neutral ground aspiring to heaven. And I see these humans everywhere. Everywhere. They are the threshold keepers, always knowing better and deciding whether you are to be allowed in the ‘elite’ or not. They are the priests, or the defenders of normality in various positions, telling you what is normal and what isn’t natural and God looks down upon you and will burn you for it. They are politicians, licking the asses of each other and the asses of multinational corporations and banks and stepping on the backs of everyone else. They are even the rude person who steals your place in a queue, the neighbour that minds your business instead of theirs, the parent who raised you to be unhappy for the rest of your life.

By the curses of my grandmother, I fart in their weddings and shit on their properly mowed grass. They can go suck my fuck.

I want an exploding vagina. I want big fucking guns and ammunition. I want lethal boobs. I want to rid humanity of a few dozen deities who drink the blood of the innocents and revel in our pain and entrapment. I want to squash these bloated leeches who are feasting on our dreams, our happiness and our good fortune. I want to stomp and dance on their corpses. I want to find a way to bring down the veil and release the planet of this tyranny. First and foremost I want to release myself from their tyranny. 

They say if you want something, really want something, you might get it. I won’t leave this to chance. I'll work towards it. We’ll see. You’ll see. You have been warned.