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.

Empty skins

I have become an outsider. I don’t know any of your friends and feel cut off for good. I loved you so much and now I am an outsider because you, the link that united us all, are not here, and I don’t know if I like any of those people. I knew you, I loved you, I cared about you, and all I have left from you are letters, emails, messages and a circle of total strangers, some of them famous, who knew you personally and I have no place among them.

At night I listen to music and you come to my mind, and the pain just blooms and withers, blooms and withers, like blood escaping from an open wound. Each heartbeat makes it expand and vanish, expand and vanish in flowers of scarlet. I feel so awkward, so isolated in my mourning because I can’t share it with anyone who knew you. I was just the random person who happened to land in your circle because you opened your arms and took me into your embrace and now you’re gone.

How the fuck am I supposed to deal with that?

Oh, I go on, don’t worry, I go on and write and breathe and brush my teeth and suffer fools gladly just like I did before you were gone. But sometimes during the day or late at night I extend my hand and touch a solid object and then once more realise you are no longer here. The indisputable reality of matter under my touch just makes your absence bigger, harder to swallow and completely irrational. I can’t, won’t wrap my head around the fact you’re no longer here. I know I could talk to you about everything and anything, I could tell you my troubles and you would understand, and even if you failed to understand you’d never judge, and then you’d say something funny or try to offer me advice or relate something from your own life. I speak of my troubles to so few people, and you were one of them, and now, you’re one of them no longer and I hit the keys on my computer and cry and nothing changes. No matter how long and how hard I cry, what I write or don’t say, what I do or don’t dare, there will never be another conversation with you, there will never be another letter from you, and no-one will understand me the way you did.

I just miss you so much my silly Finnigami.

I miss you so much it’s like time has stopped.

If I could get my hands on Time I’d strangle the living daylights out of him for the trick he pulled on us both.

Damn it.

Friends and 'friends'.

It’s been a fun week, and I guess it’s going to be even more fun as the days pass by. I have a sore back, presently on the mend. I found an abandoned kitten and I am trying to find a home for her. I have been called delusional and insane. I have also been accused of disloyalty by the same person who called me delusional and insane. Funny thing being, in the ten years that I know her, that person has never been loyal to me. I could try to explain to her, of course, or tell her my side of the story. However, in my 36 years of life here I’ve noticed that an alarming percentage of humans deny everything when you point out their own mistakes and also become enraged on top of that because they can't be anything less than perfect. Besides, maybe the notion of loyalty for me and for that person means different things. So as per usual I shrugged and let it pass. I wait and see what else will come to knock on my door.

My friend who passed over less than a month ago was very loyal to me. She genuinely cared.  In her case,  she understood loyalty the way I too understand it. She wasn’t antagonistic, didn’t ogle the ones I liked and wanted to see me happy. She did care. She didn’t care because I was doing her any favours. She never asked for favours to begin with. She understood and respected the concept of limited time and energy. My sensitive information was safe with her. She’d never use it to exploit me or gain leverage. And whenever I shared good news with her, it put a smile on her face.

I am writing, and that’s something in itself. It’s slow and a bit scary and it’s happening if I set my mind to it. For good or for ill, who knows. I draw breath too and I am not sure what, if something, comes out of it.

I need to get rid of more books as I have so many of them at the moment. I read two, I still have about 70 unread. Life goes on. Ha ha.

Why did you have to go? I know you loved me, and nowadays there are so few of those who do love me with no strings attached. Why did it have to be you? You really cared, and now that void can’t be filled and won’t be filled by anyone else. 

Why couldn’t I help you? I have helped so many others, and in some cases I didn’t care about them, at least no more than I care about everything that draws breath and has the capability to feel. I should have helped you more than anyone else. However, I couldn’t. And it bothers me.

I miss you so much and I know with the passing of time I am only going to miss you more. My pearl, my dear, my precious Finnigami. You had to go and leave me with all the eejits and the cunts. I miss you like I miss my moments of happiness. I miss your jokes, your moral code, your talents and more than anything, your kindness. People sometimes don’t understand that when I keep my mouth shut and don’t tell them what I really think, that too is a form of kindness.

It just isn’t fair to lose you from all people. It isn’t, or maybe fair means different things to different states of being. I don’t know. What I know is that it hurts.

You can't be serious.

 

You can't be gone. Not like that. We've never met. I've never held your hand. We never chatted. We never kissed. We never hugged. I haven't heard your voice.

You can't be gone. I know you will message me, email me, or write me a letter. You'll send me something, I'll send you something. I bought tea for you, I know you love that tea. You can't be gone. You never gave me an address to send you your tea.

You can't be gone. I love you so much. I need you here. I need you to stay. Your husband, your children need you to stay. You have so much more music to write, love to make, hugs to give to the ones you love. This must be a joke, and when I find out the one behind it, they will pay in blood.

You can't be gone.

You can't.

In was crying one entire day before the news of your departure arrived- how many more days, weeks, months, times will I be crying for you?

Stop this nonsense.

Stop it right now.

You're breaking my heart.

3/8/1977-12/3/2014

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2011/11/all-those-born-with-wings.html

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2012/03/hide-and-seek-and-you-may-find.html

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2012/06/seen-things-you-people-wouldnt-believe.html

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2012/06/blog-post.html

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2012/12/friends-from-afar.html

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2013/03/birth-day.html

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2013/05/voodoo-and-stainless-steel-panties.html

Zen

Art by http://www.benheine.com/

We walk in circles under the same stars that travel in circles above our heads.

Millions of years and still they are at the same place

Millions of years and still I am at the same place.

Blind, useless, terrified, going around in circles, doing nothing and not once realising that

We’re breathing stars ourselves, waiting to be re-united with those above.

Why so much fear?

Because I want to live and life is about pain and estrangement and confinement while it should be about joy and ecstasy and the open skies.

I miss my wings.

I miss your gentle hand on my shoulder.

I miss your kind breath waking me up.

I miss your wings around mine.

I miss you so much.

You’ve watched me die a million times and not once could you do something to stop it.

One above, one below, one in the heavens and one in flesh, walking the empty halls, walking the empty streets, and it’s all gone and gone and gone. Forever gone.

I want to die.

I want to live.

I want to be released.

I miss you.

Who dares call love unholy, when you meet people who see the other person as the living Christ or the Goddess in flesh?

All flesh is sacred

All flesh demands

All is temporary, to pass away, all is forever, all is dust, all is eternity. All is one.

And here I am.

Blind, scared, walking around in circles and never going anywhere.

No-one wants to see. No-one wants to understand. No-one wants to change.

All men must change. All men must die. All men must love.

Circles, circles, circles, circles with no beginning or end, no meaning or purpose, nothing at all.

I wish I could say that this is Zen.

(If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.) 

In and out

Tired again.

Slept late both on Sunday and Saturday and now I am sleepy and just a little bit cranky. :( I am cranky because I want to do things and as per usual there are one thousand obstacles, as if I am trying to kill someone. I don’t think that there are obstacles because what I am trying to do is wrong, but rather, because what I am trying to do is right. :( 

I am more than 84 kilos, which is not good. I ought to eat something sweet to drown my sorrows. ;D Ha ha!

Somehow everything is useless, and somehow everything matters. I do so many things, try so hard, and see no change whatsoever, no improvement in my life, nothing better, nothing different, as if I don’t try at all. 

The temptation not to try at all becomes very strong sometimes. Why try? It’s not like something is going to change anyway, so why even bother? But if I do nothing, I’ll most definitely go mad. 

Last year around this time I was trying to help a kitten live, and he didn’t make it. Don’t pat me on the back and tell me that I tried, I know I did. And just as he had started purring while we were feeding him, he died. 

Now don’t you dare fucking tell me that I tried and that’s what matters. I am going to rip your fucking throat out because what really matters is that no matter how much I try, it’s to no avail. And that matters a lot more than any effort I make. Result carries a lot more weight than merely trying and trying, and the result was, once more, death. For all my efforts, once more, death. And I tried so much with him.

Sometimes I am certain that the reason I came to this world was to have my heart broken into a million pieces again, and again, and again. I am not sure if I can find the pieces anymore, let alone put them together. I am just here so that someone can be amused, and use me as a chew toy. Beth thinks she is Loki’s chew toy and this enrages me, but it turns out I am no better. Just a chew toy. And no matter how much I try, and try, and try, nothing will ever change, and I’ll never find the one responsible and kick their ass until it gets wrapped around their heads. Unless I go, and then what’s the point? If I am already dead, there is obviously no point.

“I still catch myself being sad over things that don’t matter anymore.”

If that makes me human, what the fuck is it that makes me happy and whole?

At least the ‘Umbersun’ is playing, and it soothes my heart with its darkness. Thank fuck for Elend. I would have written, “thank god”, but tonight god can go fuck himself as far as I am concerned.   

There is one thing that can calm my heart, going to the rooftop again. Looking at the stars somehow makes it all better, and then once more nothing makes sense. In the rest of my life absolutely nothing makes sense. It never did, yet in the past I wasn’t as tired and sick of everything as I am now. I know right from wrong, I know the value of each thing and at the same time nothing of what I know by heart and by instinct applies to the world I live in. It just makes no sense. My inner compass is so strong, so certain of what I must do and why I must do it. So I follow my inner guidance and what happens is that I am merely saved in the nick of time, or put on waiting forever, or I am thrashed around perpetually for good measure. Nothing comes to fruition, nothing grows, nothing happens, I just exist to be used as someone’s amusement.

Is this fucking war? And if it is, where are my reinforcements?

If any of you knew how tired I am. All those people who chat with me and laugh at my jokes and thank me for my swaps. I am so, fucking, tired, that I hold it together by the skin of my teeth and not even that, I am slipping, slipping, slipping, and losing it, I am losing it all, meaning, purpose, sanity. Hope was the first to go. I try to function on an everyday basis for the sake of my own safety and sanity, I try to function and try to be polite, and try to be nice, but there is no end to my despair, no end to my anger. I am hollow and blackened and dead inside, disillusioned, dead, so fucking dead, I feel 90 years old and used and wasted and stupid, the only person who didn’t get the joke in a room of laughing people. There is nothing funny here, nothing funny at all, just stupidity and shallow, scared people, putting on a show for the sake of society, putting on a show for the sake of faces, and they are the real monsters, they are the real hollow ones, and I want to kill each and every one of them, I want to strangle them with their expensive handbags and crush their bones using their expensive cars, I want to flay them and tear their eyes out, I want to do terrible things to them and I keep it together, keep it down, keep it secret and cool and keep smiling and nodding and walking and eating and going to work every day as if it changes something, and it changes nothing. It changes nothing. And they won't let me be. He comes to me, blind, blind as the rest, lazy, chasing his own tail, pretending to be alternative, in reality just another pitiful junkie of his own self- loathing, and asks me for my opinion, and I want to be so mean, I want to spit on him and kick him away, and it’s not my place to be mean or to be his therapist and so I shut my mouth. And she comes to me demanding that I take my dog away, because her grandchildren are coming and they are afraid of a 15- year-old fat dog with arthritis that can barely move. And she demands that I take the dog away NOW, and I want to grab her by the hair and knock her head on the opposite wall, because she has turned her grandchildren into crippled, useless individuals. She lives in a country that you can’t go anywhere without coming across stray dogs, and unless they get familiarised with dogs they won't be able to go outside their home without being scared; still she claims I am the weird one and don’t understand. So I once more shut my mouth. But one day I won’t be able to shut my mouth anymore, and unless something happens to convince me that there is indeed some kind of universal, higher justice than the one I hold in my hands, someone will die or end up in hospital. And I try not to let that happen if I can. But if it continues going likewise, then I won’t be able to keep it together for much longer. So if there are indeed reinforcements on the way, now it would be a good time for them to show up. Or even better yesterday. Know what I mean?

The boss of this level

The boss is the villain you need to defeat to get to the next level in video games.

I don't really know if there's indeed a boss, levels, or I just have a very vivid imagination. The same kind of imagination that throws (seemingly) teenage boys on all fours and sexy vampire villains on top of them, and then havoc ensues. However, seeing parallels to video games and movies and books helps me make sense of reality.

Isn't that an awfully ambitious aspiration? Making sense of something presupposes that there is some kind of sense to be made. I have lots of doubts whether this reality can indeed make sense.

I have long, complex dreams. Oh, dreams I'm good at, I know how to unravel and interpret. Life, on the other hand, isn't that simple. It has no rules I am aware of.

I have two favourite hours in the day. One is very late at night, after three a.m., where everyone is asleep and I find myself looking at the sky, wishing I could make sense of my life, and the little pinpricks of light over the horizon seem to salute me or mock me, don't know which.

The other is when twilight falls and the entire palette of colours changes frequency and vibrates in altogether different notes. That is a time of endings, and for the past to be put to rest, and death.

I don't think there is one hour of the day I am not thinking about death. I am thinking about it more than I think about sex, which under normal circumstances should be alarming. It's not. Death is always there. Sometimes we hold hands and walk together. Time, on the other hand, isn't there to hold my hand, but to crush me under his heel.

So far I've been very, very resilient. Bits and pieces of me have broken and fallen off. The rest still stands.

Have I made my peace with the world?

Have I made my peace?

No.

I can't.