Love letter

I have been watching pictures of you for the past half hour. The only question that makes some sense is, ‘how can you be so beautiful?’ How can anyone, for that matter, be so beautiful?

I have no answer to this question. Lately I seem to be collecting this type of questions in particular. It is a new bizarre hobby of mine. 

Someone may ask me who you are. It is irrelevant. I am not going to give any details because details don’t really matter. I want to focus on how you make me feel. I am sure all people with some light in their souls have at some point seen someone that made them shiver with awe, that near-terror feeling, so name, sex and occupation of the target of their desire is of no importance. I am referring to the feeling itself and how it touches me in a way I can barely grasp or describe in an understandable manner. 

You are so close to perfection that it is scary. The lines of your face almost form perfection. The smooth folds over those tight almonds of your eyes. The way those lips seem like little puffy pillows, soft and juicy at the same time, inviting me. Their light cherry colour signifies something edible. You make me want to extend my hand and press them lightly, test to see if they are real. If you exist. 

Kissing is a forgotten art and for me an advanced part of the foreplay; first I eat the other person with my eyes and try to capture their smell without them realising I do so. I often steal the smell of passers by, follow their trail as they walk fast, not knowing someone is following them. It is very erotic. Then, after I have had a first taste through eyes and smell, I start to chart someone with my fingers. Long after I have satisfied my eyes and nostrils and hands and also my ears through their little sounds, their shivers and whispers, it is inevitable that taste will follow. My mouth would open to taste you, not necessarily your lips, but the soft flesh on your neck and cheek and jaw. People have forgotten how to touch others, how they can use more parts of themselves than just the fingers. I can touch you using my face, my hips and hipbones, my breasts. I can touch you with every part of me save for fingers if needs must. And for such an exquisite being I certainly must.

What makes us desire? Is it just our glands and hormones, screaming for reproduction? I do have a body, I am trapped in flesh. I desire. But I do not desire flesh. I desire form. I desire the little wrinkles you make when you smile, next to your delicious lips. I need to eat you, not fuck you. I want to capture the essence of your beauty, the alchemical equivalent of your smell, the sum of lines, forms and matter that creates you as a result. I want to devour that which makes me want you. I want to capture the little wisps of air that brush against your face when you raise your eyebrows or momentarily blink. I hunger for your soul, not your reproductive organs. I lick my lips at the possibilities of what your life might have been like, of what moments had been like before we met. Were they longer, shorter, more or less interesting? Do you toss in your sleep? Do you just stare out of the window when bored? Do you, perhaps, make little sounds of confusion when you drop something? Those are the questions that keep me busy when I stare at such a face as yours. That, and the gut wrenching realisation that I will probably never find out.

It is the time of falling leaves

The moon tonight looks like a crescent night light that someone stuck onto a huge canvas- a canvas painted in various shades of grey.

It is the time of falling leaves.

I am falling. Everyone leaves.

It does not matter.

The city calls me at night.

It has a tiny voice, disguised as static.

Sometimes the city answers my questions in the form of a passing car with a particular song booming out of its open windows. When I wallow in my melancholy, there is a gentle night bird urging me on through its soft, repeated song. The disconnected, shattered phrases I catch from strangers, while passing by outside their windows or conversations. There are nights I hear the stars themselves tingling as they pour out of the womb of the universe and adorn the fabric of the galaxy. Other nights I only hear my own songs, or sobs. But those too form the voice of the city.

If someone was to pull the fabric, what then?

Isis unveiled.

If I was to reach out and get hold of one corner of the fabric of existence and then try to pull, what then?

Would I discover I am pulling at the flesh of my own face?

I think of Dorian, my vampire serial killer, and of how he understands the night in the city. The songs he hears and I can only imagine. Human voices forming a huge tapestry of sounds, spread thinly over a greater, thicker weave of noises, man-made or otherwise. Animals must stand out in this tapestry like altogether different threads. Different colour and thickness. And there are also sounds that do not belong to any man or animal, sounds that come from very different sources. Can anyone possibly imagine how someone like him perceives this huge, collective creation? If it was indeed a carpet or tapestry one would be amazed; all manners of materials crisscrossing and drowning each other, from the most expensive silk and gold thread to artificial wire and humble straw. Patterns created from a spider on drugs moments before it collapses dead; holes, missing and broken threads, tightly woven parts, parts the whole thing seems on the verge of spreading open, held together only by breaths and times gone; parts thick and oily and grimy with the stench of human toil and despair. What kind of museum will ever hold this tapestry? Are vampires, in this sense, our lore keepers? Is this their true punishment?

When you step out, my predator, does the human smell attract you and disgust you at the same time, the way certain bodily odours do it for us humans? Do you stop by windows, listening to the same dramas being re-played a million times from the dawn of of humanity onwards? Betrayals and promises of forever, pain and ecstasy, first and last breaths, do you listen to them? Your ears are sharp enough to hear the sound of hair, sharply whipped to the side by the flirtatious turn of a woman's head. But do you care?

I wish I was as free as you are. Because there are nights I, too, need to kill. I want to push my nails into someone's eyes till I feel them pop under the pressure and my fingertips are covered by a wet, gelatinous mass. I want to run after a breathless teenager and grab them by the hair-long sweet smelling hair, supermarket shampoo and hopes of getting laid-, stopping the escaping scream with a single, sharp pull. I want to drag them home and tie them up and use knives to carve their flesh. But contrary to me, whenever you get one of those urges you act on it. You do the killings for me and I keep the balance for you. You watch and I keep watch. You destroy and I heal. I destroy in order to build,while you build for time to destroy. Time watches over us both; but I am the tumbling leaf and you the stone.

There is nothing more to say.

Contemplating...

I need. Constantly I need. Mental provocation, beautiful pictures, interesting conversations, something to busy my hyperactive brain with. I need something to keep me occupied. Boredom is not an option with so many different interests and yet I am tired of being the only one to keep myself busy all the time. Someone else should do that too. Someone other than me, a third party.

Sometimes I see all those people in fancy clothes and wish I could go out. The thought makes me very excited. Yet, whenever I do go out, the excitement soon dies as there is no-one gutsy enough to approach me. And even if they do come, they are just normal people, full of phobias, insecurities, stuff they try to hide. They are pitifully plain inside, even if outside they hold some promise. Yes, beauty is a form of genius and desire the only god I'll ever allow to drag me around chained. Yes, I am arrogant and conceited. I am pride and wrath from the seven deadly sins. I will not judge people for being plain or boring, but at the same time won't touch them with a six foot pole. No-one gave me my knowledge for free, no-one made me mature by magic. I have won every single bit of knowledge and maturity that I possess with effort, disappointment and pain, so forgive me for being demanding as to whom I spend time with. I am not average. But there is a cost to all this. I am alone. I have friends, but when I lie in bed at night, there is no-one in those dark hours. No friend and no lover can kill this beast late at night. My loneliness feeds me and kills me at the same time.

I know it is all part of the maturing process. I know I have to be patient and not worry. I know all those things. It does not make it any easier. Knowledge not accompanied by facts offers little or no comfort. I feel that I cannot connect to people on any level anymore. I don't know why. Time passes and I get lost deeper into the world of archetypes. Problems my friends have move me little or not at all and I have to do what is expected from me while wondering inside why I feel indifferent if not impatient with them. I go half hardheartedly through the motions with them while I may burst to tears while reading an article or a book. Is it me holding back? Have I become incapable of befriending and feeling for others? I really don't know.

My beautiful dragon, do you sleep curled, like I do, licking your wounds and shame? Would you share your shame? Since love is out of the question, then perhaps we can lick each other's wounds.

Come.

An alien

... landing on my head would hardly make me raise my right eyebrow, let alone crack a smile.

Found a new way to deal with homophobic people and generally, the kind of know-it-all-Greek people I despise. At the first hint of an idiotic argument that I hear (i.e. for gay people, the characterisation "not normal") I dramatically raise both hands and exclaim curtly and loudly "end of conversation!" This wins me a few surprised glances. It is okay. They do not know it, but it also saves them from a blunt object landing on their moronic heads. I can understand that every person has the right to have a head full of shit and brainwashed /pre-constructed vomit instead of ideas, but sorry, I will not deal with this if I can avoid it. They can keep their opinions to themselves and I will do the same for mine. No 'conversation' (parade of racist, homophobic and simply infuriating 'arguments' that defy any definition of logic) will torture my ears and brain cells if I can just skip it. Not for any other reason, but my blood pressure reaches the heavens and my hands start shaking with the adrenaline I cannot use to flatten their faces and give them a new point of view in life. So yes, I will be a fascist.

Between dream and frustration.

You smile at me. I wonder if you will do anything more.

I also smile at you. But will do nothing more.

So many days of our lives pass because we expect something to happen-and it does not.

You look exotic.

Please do not make me wait for too long. I might just give up.

Some people are fueled by frustration. I need fear.

The other can wait. He is not here. You are here.

But are you, really, here?

Please give me a sign.

I need this.

My reality has been the limits of my skin for too long. No-one touches me.

I promise I will never let you know you are not the one.

The moon is cruel...

I cannot change anything, and I try too fucking much to no avail.

Nothing is real.

Everything is real.

I think I have gone officially crazy. Rejoice, oh crowds. Where is my scepter and my crown? And what kind of army do I have under my command? To conquer which land of fancy do I march? To the death, to the death. Fantastic beasts curl at the legs of my bed at morning, watching over me while I sleep, exhausted from last night's pursuits. And my army has no men. Only willowy ladies who play the harp and dine with youth and beauty, leaving behind them senile men and wasted landscapes. Yes... It seems that my army run amok in this reality, hence its condition. Dry and humorless.

I went walking again last night. It is funny how my body from the waist down seems to belong to a different person. My legs guide me. I have no idea where. I just walk aimlessly. I pass trees and have this urge to punch them to make sure they are real.

I look at the moon and wonder how sick it must be from watching all this bullshit happening down here.

I look at the moon and see one of the female aspects of the divine. I call it 'mother'. Ha bloody ha.

I look at the moon and see dreams passing by from her face, like smoke in front of a window.

I look at the moon and see the earth's satellite, cold, lifeless and distant.

I look at the moon and shiver and sigh like a person in the grip of opium or malaria.

Nothing is real. Everything is real. You choose your dream, your interpretation, your reality. You choose your drug, your booze, your fix, your jail, your aspirations. You choose. Or that's what I think anyway. But choosing needs brain, some sort of mental activity going on between one's ears. *giggle*

Only death is real, expressed through absence. It is funny to consider how something as absolute as death is expressed through the negative of existence. Absence. It never fails to amuse me. Life in general, and myself, never cease to amuse me. I am a funny gal, it seems.

I feel like my very soul has left me. Went away silently, flying on transparent, velvety wings.

And A. is leaving for U.K. Go, my girl. Go. Leave this land of lunatics and idiots. Godspeed. There is nothing more for you to do here.

I dine with ink, pieces of paper and impossible wishes in the ruins.

I pray I will be granted the chance to follow.

The moon is cruel tonight...

The vacation is over.

[ Beautiful art by http://directors-cat.deviantart.com]

I have managed to see quite a few people these days. Which makes me quite happy as all these people are important to me. No matter how much I try, I cannot exist in a void outside space and time. I need people. And I dare say my friends need me too.

I spent some time with my best friend, and it was quality time. We walked around a lot. We sat in a playground late at night and made little shapes with small stones on a bench. We shared little moments of magic and joy and swapped humorous tales. He is a true blessing in my life.

I saw a few more people too. I will not refer to them one by one but seeing them made me happy. I burned their brains with beautiful photographs and pictures. We moaned and nagged and complained to each other. We agreed that no-one can sleep well after the two eclipses, and when we finally manage to sleep the quality of sleep we get is lamentable. We also all agreed that we need some major changes in our lives, but don't know when these changes will take place or what will appear. We joked to each other and promised we will kidnap each other; that the first of us to get out will just grab the rest somehow till we are all saved. Or that's the plan anyway.

I am blessed with friends who know how to listen, make me laugh, are talented, funny, giving, and remind me what I am made of when I myself forget. I am blessed with their kindness and understanding, their humor and creations. I am surrounded by an army of angels, some of them fallen, some tattooed and pierced, some with nasty habits and odd interests, all of them with dark minds and most of them with dirty mouths, too. I am a lucky woman because they put up with me, support me and never complain. This should not be taken for granted.

The only one missing as per usual is you. :-( I wonder when you'll finally make your appearance.

So fuckin' original.

[Mana from Malice Mizer, J-rock band, now has a band name Moi Dix Mois...]

Whenever I spend more than just a bit of time with my mother, we are at each other's throats like maddened dogs. Nothing strange about it. We have grown too close for comfort and familiarity breeds contempt. I wish I could give an end to this uncomfortable, meddlesome affair. But just like it happens with everything else in my life, I have to wait.

If I nuke this planet you will know I just got bored of waiting.

[Klaha, ex singer of Malice Mizer, after Gackt left...]

On a happier note, I have been downloading endless pictures of J-rock artists with Malice Mizer and Gackt being the center of my affections. *sigh* It never ceases to surprise me that such men exist. I never cease to look at them dumbfounded, their make-up, their clothes, their style... Their hairless bodies, smooth faces, almond shaped eyes... Why do Greek men look like apes? Ugly, no necks, just a head stuck onto their shoulders, fingers like sausages, manners like Ostrogoths on a raiding spree, and the permanent fear of being called gay... Why do their interests begin and stop at football and television? There are exceptions, of course. Like my best friend. But I am tired of this whole bullshit trade. I am generally tired of everything and everyone, this why I once more focus on that which I cannot have. To escape somewhere better than here and now. And then I have to return and it hurts non-stop.

Nuking the planet still seems like the only valid option. :-)

[ And Gackt.]

I needed that!

I discovered this band by accident. Not so much an accident, really, as I fell in love with their name and looked them up in youtube. You can call me shallow, kitsch, artistically blind, but hell they made my mood better. And you have to agree on the fact Eugene, the singer, is a cult icon. It is one of the most electrifying, stunning live performances I have seen in ages. My hips instinctively obeyed to the calling of this music and started moving by their own volition. People in the Internet cafe for the past two nights must have been thinking that I am having seizures. Whatevah. Enjoy, unless you are one of those constipated types that only respond positively to black tie events. There is just too much scrotal sweat involved in Gogol Bordello for your taste, so please visit some other blog. :-)

Eugene, marry me!

[Alas, how have the mighty fallen... heheheh]

Things not meant to be put down.

[Beautiful photo by http://girltripped.deviantart.com]

In the old times, women used to kiss the lips of statues in the twilight, praying to the heartless god of love. Nothing has changed, save for the fact we kiss old photos and computers have replaced the glorious, lush gardens of the past.

You come quietly at night to claim me, dressed in moth wings. Wearing a long cape of blood and memories. My velvet prince.

I miss you. So much that sometimes the screams I never utter cut my insides. Like a mouthful of broken glass.

You whisper my name in your sleep. You seek my face. My caress.

I call out your name in my waking hours. I need you to be here.

Yet we don't meet.

Sleep claims me like a coma. Life claims what's left of me. Onwards I stumble, determined to take it to the end.

We never meet.

Sometimes I try to imagine what you may be doing. If you are happy or sad, busy or bored.

It's useless.

It all matters. It's all futile.

I throw away old love letters and recently acquired phone numbers. Again.

You keep yourself perpetually busy.

I am tired all the time.

We both know what's going on. Yet I am talking to your photo and you are talking in your sleep.

We never meet.

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.