Mythos

At the end of another day, and as the silhouettes of the trees grow to become black cardboard cut-outs against the pale red sky, I shift my weight to the cold metal fence of the balcony, feeling it pierce the warmth of my skin with somewhat of a comfort. My body temperature isn't exactly feverish, though my inside burns like I'm taking little sips out of a cauldron of hot tar. My eyes are stern and unmoving, as they always are when I contemplate my current suffering.
"One who makes a beast of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man", said a wise man once. I rank that saying above all others, for it saved me a million times from the very personal inferno I endure momentarily. But I am in lack of time and options for swallowing, snorting, smoking or drinking anything that might soothe, so I reverse to my personal spin-off of the qoute: "One who pretends a machine of himself, postpones the pain of being a man." It's a handy one. So I grip the cold bar and stare into the contour of the trees, trying to avoid the painful wagons of thought.

But why do I take time to describe my emotional tides, and does it matter? For you, the only person I would like to matter, it doesn't. Spare me the pretty words, because it doesn't. Because it was never about me. Even if I keep this up, endeavoring-perhaps even sacrificing my youth and unadulteratedly sincere ways of devoting myself-it might never be about me. I am not the star of this show, and this show never was what I thought I signed up for. I thought to be the scanty-dressed lady delivering laughs and cheers with her jests, short songs and dances in a cheerful cabaret. But I was nothing more than a fool delivering cheap laughs in an otherwise sad musical, with the leading lady being a pale ghost with a repertoire of mournful arias. It's a scam of a hard-to-explain sort, but a scam nevertheless. So fuck you and fuck her, and fuck every single person on earth who can't clean their hearts before passing them onwards. You'd clean a pistol before presenting someone with it, wouldn't you? And aren't hearts very much the same? A heart is very much like a loaded pistol, and this one just misfired. It's just that the consequences are not a loud bang and pieces of my chest splattering everywhere, but on the contrary: it's drowning in silence and pain, not in blood but in my motionless glare fixed on the bloody red horizon. And in stillness, I hate and weep.

But nobody ever feels for anyone that doesn't take it out dramatically, doesn't it?
Those who
shut the fuck up
and endure
without whining
without scars
never the ones attracting your kind
the answer to your riddle
for it's not about them
it's about you
fucked up
impressed with everyone
equally fucked up
so go
fuck off
and enjoy that cup of tea
have a fucking tea party of sorrow
for the rest of your life for what I care.

I did not sign up for this and you did trick me.
So I turn my back to you
And turn my face to Erida,
and I hate and weep.

....

The world becomes noticeably emptier when I know you're asleep
The silence grows noticeably nosier when I know you're asleep
The darkness shifts itself closer to me when I feel you're asleep.

Fidelity

Is this void the lack of content around me or the lack of content inside me?
Well, it always goes the shittier way, and it's hard to say one lacks prospects of amusement in his surroundings, whatever the milieu might be.

I've changed, and I cannot blame you, although by all means I should-you are the valid catalyst.
If you hadn't been here, maybe I'd keep my old ways for a bit longer, but it would be just feeble attempts at postponing this state of mind.
I'd smile a bit more, I'd linger around with the same blank-faced colleagues a bit more, I'd keep dancing to the worn off tunes, but eventually it would come, slowly creeping inside my life and corroding it day by day. Or maybe I would wake up one day and feel it plastered all over me, like wine splattered all over the tablecloth after a sudden twitch of the arm. I wouldn't even see it coming, but then I'd be drowning in it, and I think that's the option that scares me more.

Now I'm deep in this, but at least you're here.
And I don't know what I should do, but I damn well know what I wish to do.
I wish to erase all the appointments I ever had with people surrounding me, I wish to take back the silly photos, take back the scattered words and discard my every trace. I wish to isolate and rebuild, to take time and transform. I would forfeit it all, just so I could once close my eyes in solitude and feel self-sufficient.

Such things seem as daydreaming, for as much as I was always capable of brightening up the saddest puddle of griff in the world, I was never able to open curtains of my own windows.
Back then, I would fix it with this and that, I'd go out and get shitfaced and occupy my mind with trivial matters for the next few days. And it would be okay.
If I did that now, I'd feel like an overgrown child trying to fit into the old cradle.
And it's you to blame and it's nobody to blame. I guess it's mostly only natural, because if I decided to enlist everything I believe is to be guilty from my point of view, the scroll would soar to heavens.

The only person I can relate to is a girl who's fucked beyond any proportions and basically unwilling to accept my help, so I remain just monitoring her life and, as time passes, finding more and more sad little parallels between our existences, which only gets me sadder. As it goes for the people who enter the muddy ring of quasi misery, I think I became oblivious to all the little attempts of cheering me up. Like staring at clouds, you might spend minutes admiring how unique and special they are, but at the end of the day you'll be sick with the monotonous patterns of condensated shit water.



I wish for one person to come up and seem amazing to me, the way every single person used to seem amazing a few years ago.

god told me to do it

my father is God
my father is God, no
but my mother is a whore, no
but my mother is a whore
she is the mother of all whores
and the President of America wakes up
with something dripping from his hands
dripping an unearthly red
and is it dripping or only tripping?
is he screaming or is he dreaming?
is he screaming or is he dreaming?

Krljavi krljavi stripovi

I've sold my camera because I might be getting a 5D MarkII if I pass the Roman Law exam.
So here's how I spend my lousy free time now





All you macfags and fat goth chicks please don't get mad at me :(

Perfection.

Only this moment
Holds us together
Close to perfection
Nothing is out there
No one to guide us
Lost in the senses

Another wave of insomnia leaves me paralyzed, and although sitting in this empty, lifeless room I can barely call my home, and having nothing better to do but to set off for bed... I can tell for sure that it's going to be one of those restless nights, as I can feel adrenaline pulsating right through me, whispering to me about topics I couldn't fall asleep while bearing in mind.

It's one of those chilly nights that many people would spend lying in bed with a cigarette and a good book in hand. However, never was I attracted to nicotine, quite unusually as I've developed an affection for worse decadency.

Virtues and vice...I spend a great deal of time struggling to achieve the first, but ending up doing latter. My intemperance, lack of moderation, the way I always willingly slip in the binds of overindulgence, my personal desires being forcefully fulfilled. How many people have I damaged through my course of actions? How many people would still feel better if I drew the line, sustaining myself from maneuvers in the fields between our bonds?

As I will wake up in the morning without willpower to get myself out of bed in the healthy morning hours, the same willpower will probably be lacked in any other attempts to abide by my promises. My ability of self-critical analysis will barely get me any points in this.

However, will a person bear any sympathy for me as he realizes the emotional values I put in certain matters? How I will often not dispatch some of my actions in fear of not losing something I find precious?

These are hard matters in hours that are hardly to be called lucid.

I spin the song that reminds me of another event that I would hardly call lucid as well...
I will finish this now and leave to fondle a few more pages of Nick Cave's novel, and hopefully sink in some much-desired sleep.

The Gift

As I often listlessly gazed onto many provoking topics, I frequently found myself pondering if my core was too crude.

I've seen many people spill their petty overabundant feelings over trivial matters and wonder how come I could stand stone-cold. It's not a display of pride, or some kind of childish fortitude I try to display with these words, just a curious exploration of my riddled psyche.

However, tonight I've been proven something I thought never would happen, as a gesture of sheer emotion that I'd in any different occasion ridicule and think to be nothing less than a pathetic emotional zeal, moved me and dismantled my whole being.

I'm still shaking as I glance upon it, savoring every word, esteeming every varicolored stain.

And on the bottom, the sincerity of my approval-although quite obviously disclosed before-marked by the few more tear stains that joined the paper, leaving the words being written right now quite unnecessary.