The Beginning

I sit watching the sunlight dance off the black sand as the hot breeze rustles the leaves that my prison has grown to protect me. Why the architects protect me I am not sure, why I am not impaled on the cross or pinned to the earth with spikes to be burned and torn apart like Prometheus.

There was a time before here. At least I think there was a time before here. There are vague memories that float through my mind things that when I try to hang onto them they slip like mercury through my fingers. It had to start somewhere right?

Tonight I give myself a headache trying desperately to remember what came before but they whisper to me, their hissing voices seem to overlap making it impossible to distinguish reason from sanity or sanity from hope.

As the day burns bright I lay on the floor of my prison trying to listen to what the voices are saying no longer sure that they are talking to me or each other. I want to ask about the beginning, the start of things, how I came to be locked in this world kept safe even from myself.

I remember the monkey, his laughter and playful nature, how he would make me smile even when the world was falling apart.

I remember the jackal, his quick wit and subtle mind along with his viscous nature, how I felt safe and terrified at the same time, feeling his strength ripple under my finger tips and the sharpness of his teeth as they tore into my flesh.

I remember the horse who was my strength, my loyalty, my heart, and my hope, and my peace all wrapped up in a massively powerful body. A mane that I could wrap my fingers into  to pull him close and hold him against my heart.

I remember the cat the inscrutable one who always had a cheshire grin. The one who taught me what it was to feel fear and enjoy it.

They created the quiet. The precious calm that wrapped itself around me the same way they wrapped themselves around me until there was nothing left of me. Sometimes one at a time and sometimes they would all be around their hands on me and bodies pressed close.

In the end the horses strength failed, the monkey slipped into madness, and the jackal like his counterpart in the Inuit legend ate himself and the cat lost his grin and his drive and ultimately any feeling he had for me, I think his quiet is gone just like mine is.

I miss them more than I miss myself. It is only a matter of time.

So true!
So true!

On the Edge

As I curl in my living prison watching the leaves that shielded me all day I realize that it is happening again. The reason why I live my life in this desolate land of twisted images and all things sharp and dangerous. Sometimes I am ok and can peak out into the world, the real world. It usually isn’t long before the mask slams down over my features forcing a smile that never quite reaches my eyes. My frayed and fractured world is safe behind the walls inside me.

Most of the time I can function in both worlds, the one of pain and pleasure, and the real one with the people in it. Then there are times that I can’t. I can feel it happening like something blooming deep inside my chest. I can feel the darkness spread seeping through the organs and bone more efficient than the spread of the most aggressive cancer and the darkness is twice as deadly.

This is not new. This is not different. This does not change. I can only hide from it for so long before I start to slip. This is just the beginning. I know it will get worse, I know how bad it will hurt, and I know what my body will scream for. I always hope it won’t come back, always hope that it is gone for good, and I can hide in my world letting the architects of this existence build their strange constructs.

People say that it will pass, and that I shouldn’t think about it. These phrases along with cheer up make me wonder what the person saying it looks like without skin or better yet choking on their own tongue.

The question that is always asked is “Are you homicidal or Suicidal?” I have always wondered what would happen if I grinned at the person asking and answered with the truth “Both.” Something in my eyes always keeps them from asking – it also keeps the people close to me from pushing me too far for fear of me snapping which one day will happen.

voicesinsanity

Addiction

I am not sure how it happened or even if it is possible but I am addicted. Not to any drug known to man or beast but to you.

I am not sure how you did it but I crave your touch and no one elses. In any other circumstance I flinch when someone touches me, my skin crawling where their fingers rested even for the briefest of moments. But not you, never you, always you, I don’t know how you did it or why but everyday the addiction gets stronger with every touch, with ever sigh, with every slide of your knife down my body. Pain wrapped in pleasure wrapped back into pain as you toy with me. Sometimes I think you don’t know how addictive your touch, your quiet, is but the craving is worse than heroin and cocaine combined. Nicotine was easier to quit than you are.

addiction

addiction

Daylight and Mourning

I watch the horizon carefully waiting for what I dread is coming. I can almost see the crystalline shine on the glimmering black sand. Just as when the green and blue moons recede pulling their lovely soft colour from the shimmering sand I know what is coming. The twin moons give way to twin suns blazing against the darkness in all of their red hot glory. They make the sand shimmer and dance or maybe that is just a trick of the heat. I watch as the light begins to creep across the sand making the shadows scream and dance away wishing I could do the same. The same light that makes the sands shine blue, purple, and oil slick black makes burns white hot despite their copper burning green and branding iron white colours. I glance over to the the X the architects work desperately to hide from view. The cross rises shining black above the sand. It gleams as the sunlight creeps closer to it. For a moment I watch and wonder if I will see charred remains as the light grows. I glance quickly away as my eyes fall on the gleaming misshapen white skulls of those who have gone before me. Some with horns and some horribly disfigured in unimaginable ways.

There are some things that I just don’t want to know. My eyes focus on the cross for a moment longer trying to discern whether or not he still hangs from the cross before the blinding sun forces me to retreat further into my prison. I can already hear the living bars expanding behind me, their molded black leaves creeping out to shield me from the suns’ horrific rays. I know that they will grow, flower, and fall before the twin suns set leaving me with stark thorned branches once again.

I begin to lower my eyes but not before I hear it a soft whimper carried on the hot wind and wonder if it is only my imagination.

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Stuck

Trapped, mired, jammed, wedged, these words don’t mean quite the same thing as the far more pleasurable restrained or caught.

Today is one of those days that I look at the shining bars of my self made prison. They are not like the bars of a jail or even a cage. Their black metal gleams in the sunlight as they twist upwards jagged thorns gliding out from their stems. They look like the long stalks of rose bushes or the blackberry bushes that used to scratch me before giving up their sweet fruit as a child.

Looking through the breaks in the bars I see an endless expanse of black sand that sparkles in the sun as if the schizophrenic architects have torn the buildings down in their fury. They caught me out of my hole, out of my box, and I woke up naked and alone in this burning cage. I can see the blue rolling sky above if it weren’t for the crystal black sand it would be too bright to see. Like the white on white of a the first days after it snows in the winter time. I can only see because the sand is black and the sky is rolling and not clear blue. It moves with a rhythm and pattern that my tiny brain cannot comprehend. I would ask its architects but I don’t know if they would answer me. Nor do I see them often.  Usually they flitter about faster than I can see and only clue they’ve been there is the strange buildings they leave behind.

I turn slowly in my prison. Looking for what previously once was only to realize there is only one thing left. In the distance I see the gnarled black cross laying on its side making an X its twisted corners reaching towards the sky. It is too far to see if the man who once hung from it is still there but from the gleaming red drips from its spikes I suspect he still is. I have not seen him in a long time, not since the architects began building their city, the city I so recently escaped to.

You were alive once. I am not sure now. I remember your touch like fire on my body and your too warm hands against my hips as you pulled me down onto you and you slide into me. I vividly remembering the burning heat between us almost too much for me to stand. That was before they pulled you away. Leaving me to watch you suffer on that black X. Hanging from it, its thorns piercing through your strong arms and thighs. Slipping them through the thickest most painful muscle echoes of your screams still haunt me. That wretched wailing that can only be made when someone is dying slowly. It has been a long time since those screams died away blended with my own.

I stare out of the dark bonds of my prison letting fear wash over me, letting it bloom out from my heart as it writhes and thrashes desperate to get out. I can feel it rub its icy fingers along my rib cage probing each one of them searching none too gently for the smallest chink in my armor. If it finds the slightest flaw it will rip through my body with claws that that radiate cold. All this while it does not loosen its grip on my heart. It is too intertwined into each chamber to consider letting it go, trying to remove it on my own. As my heart beats it contracts around the sharp slick claws tearing into the muscle and embedding itself further. It gradually turns my blood to ice. The cold slowly sneaks through the vessels and arteries until it reach my brain. If it can’t get out it wants in very badly. Wants to paralyze me further. Tonight it might succeed I can already feel myself wanting to give in, wanting things to go numb, wanting things to go black.

It is strange that I want it as bad as it does. I dream of not fighting against it anymore, letting it both in and out, letting it tear me apart because at least then it would be over. At least then it would just stop. The pain of the gaping hole that it will leave is nothing compared to the pain that fighting against it causes.

I look back again at the barren landscape staring at the giant x that he is pinned to and once again wonder if he still lives. Life and death doesn’t work the same here. The rules of gravity, physics, life, and death are not obeyed here. I watch quietly listening to the voices and pray for them to quiet. Unfortunately as I watch that huge black cross I see the sand shift and begin to move. The cold is increasing and so is the desire to give in as the x  slowly disappears behind their building. I shiver listening to the architects whisper to me and try not to pay attention to them, I try not to believe their promises. All I can do is think to myself is how nice it would be just to give into them.

aloneDe Profundis Clamo Ad Te Domine

What Happens?

What happens when this body no longer draws breath, when the gentle rise and fall signifying life slips away.

What happens when it succumbs to the slow dark decay that began all those years ago,

Will it rise from the dead becoming an even more unnatural abomination than it already is,

Or will it remain inert, interred in the cold dark earth to have even the most tender places pulled apart and eaten only to become part of the earth again.

What happens when this heart no longer beats, will it be as cold in the grave as it is inside this body.

What happens when lungs and heart fill with earth as the dying breath is not one taken in a hospital or a home but already in a grave. No coffin just a shallow hole as dark and beautiful as the one I am encased in while I live maybe even more so. Will I hear the shovel tamp the earth down so that it is smooth and perfect once again.

Will its vibrations echo through my body as it struggles against me with its horrible, predictable, immutable will to live. What will the soil taste like,

Or

Will you kill me first in the most loving way. Wrap your body around mine and slowly overpower that will to live. You’re strong enough and I am weak enough or maybe it is that I am strong enough and you are weak enough…

Not mine

 

 

Subtle Kind of Crazy

Some days I am reminded that I am still crazy. Not the subtle kind of crazy that most people are but the screaming kind of crazy that most people run away from or are locked up for. In a way I am locked up. I allowed myself to be put into a straight jacket a long time ago and decided what the hell straight jackets can be fun when applied correctly. Then again most things can be fun when applied correctly.

The soft whisper of canvas knowing that you can’t move even if you tried. There is something inherently lovely about that in the right circumstance. Unfortunately this is not the right circumstance.

I am tempted to take a look to glance up into that slick blackness of his eyes and taste the darkness there. Wondering if the red on his lips is from the kisses he has recently given another or from running his tongue over the open wounds that the glass has left in my skin as I clawed my away out. I don’t want to see what is in his eyes though. Whether they are the deep blue that I love or the swirling black I know is hidden there, that is reserved only for me. I can lose myself in either one only one is more frightening than the other. The swirling memorizing black fascinates and hypnotizes me to the point of compliance, complacence. The danger in them is not even a thought.

His hand moves up to brush against my skin and I realize that I don’t know if it is the soft caress of his fingertips or if the razor is just to sharp to feel at first as it cuts deep into my flesh. I don’t know because I haven’t looked into his eyes. Nor do I want to. I realize now something that I should have known all along. I want to know which it is. I don’t care if it is a lover’s caress or if I am going to feel warm liquid slide down my neck soaking my chest. I almost risk a glance down wondering if the warm that I feel around my heart is emotion or my life draining from me.

blackeyeThis one is mine – Not my eye but my picture.

Why do you do this to me?

The cold stings my knuckles as I quietly tap on the door knowing that you will hear it. I admonish myself yet again for not using my palm, knowing the bone on would tapping wood only cause pain. Footsteps echo in my head as I hear you approach the door and turn the handle. You know it is me, you knew I was coming the polite call that I placed first is always a warning.

I often wonder how you deal with the thoughts that float through the air between us. I can’t read you like I read everyone else and this is a good thing because despite the reason I am here I really don’t want to know. The door opens in a rush of warmth, you must have the heat on or maybe it is just my body reacting to the cat like grace you use to step aside to let me in. I move forward slowly, cautiously, still afraid you will spook like the wild thing that you are. Walking past you making sure that no part of you touches me because the tiniest touch will have me undone. Sitting down on the worn sofa my hand automatically reaches out to pet the feline that stretches lazily on the armrest. Touching the feline is almost as natural a gesture as it was to touch you. Soon the others are there curling around my legs asking quietly for the attention that they know instinctively that I will give them because they are as much a part of you as anything else in the room.

I watch you for a moment as you move through the house only glancing up to meet your soft brown eyes with their almost girlish lashes for a moment as you set the usual choice of beverage down next to me. Not a word is spoken, even though your voice would send a shockwave up my spine. You move to the chair that normally sits near your desk. Your eyes flitting over what covers the wall before resting on me for a brief moment and then on the television that plays an inane drama that neither of us is interested in. After a moment of indecision you move closer to me making me wonder if you know how dangerous you are to me. How addictive you are.

I am almost sure that you do. You use it well to control me without making it seem like that is what you are doing. I watch you out of the corner of my eye, my hand still moving restlessly over the cat soft fur sliding through my fingers. You speak softly telling me about the things that you do and those that you wish that you were doing. I listen more to the timber of your voice than the actual words. One of these days you will catch me listening to you rather than what you are saying, trying to understand why the voices quiet and the glass doesn’t seem as sharp when I am this close to you. I am tempted to reach out and touch you but am afraid that you will dissolve into darknesscheshire

What Happens When I Can’t Handle It

I know I should be able to take it with a grain of salt but I can’t. It eats me alive when it is like this because it shows things that I don’t want to see. They have no idea what they do to me. There is no answer to this. I should have stayed in my quiet reclusive state without any contact.

This is one of those days that I have gotten nothing done and can feel the glass writhing under my skin trying to break free. The shards just cut and slice deeper and I can’t do anything to stop it and I am not sure I would if I could. Sometimes pain is better than anything else at least it lets me know that I am alive. Unfortunately I should have stayed in my quiet corner and in my quiet home deep underground with the glass surrounding me. At least I know it I know what it does and why it does it.

Tonight I am so very disappointed. But then again I should know what to expect from people by now.

options-pain-suffering-option-best-demotivational-posters

A Day of Unknown Origin

Since everyone I know seems to be locked into a progression of holidays it seems only appropriate that I point out the worst fact of all about this particular holiday. There are several and most do not fit with the annoyingly happy gift giving sappy cherub loving crap. The pagans and you have to love the pagans for this picked a day in the middle of February to celebrate fertility. The Romans not wanting to be out done had a woman lottery where they would essentially raffle off young women to spend a year with the participating men – most of the time this year ended in marriage (gee wonder why that is) This lottery took place only after proper sacrifices of goats, dogs, and other livestock and whipping the women with the skins…. yeah romantic.

This brings us to the Catholics, the Roman’s who sacrificed not one but several people named Valentine or Valentinus and the Catholics were set on making them martyrs. Nothing like celebrating death with love. Perhaps they did this just because it has always been frowned upon to celebrate love with death.

When asked my simple response is that I don’t celebrate holidays. Not due to religion I am Catholic which is not only a church of contradictions, riches, and holidays.

There are however a few things that they symbols of valentine’s day make me think of.

Cupid – cherubim servants of god who held the fiery sword barring the doors to Eden. Light bringer was a cherubim. He is also known by quite a few other names such as morning star and if you don’t know who that is study your lore.

Hearts – Now there’s a better image. Hearts bring to mind blood, pounds, skipping a beat, and how you could slip a small knife through the muscle between the ribs because it is only two inches to touch someone’s heart. Although this is probably not the type of touch the valentine’s day card writers mean. How slick blood is and how it changes colour as it leaves the body going from crimson to dull red.

Harlequin – Don’t ask why there is this association. For some reason valentine’s day always brings up the image of the character Harley Quin.

Aphrodisiac poisoned cupcakes and chocolates. It would be interesting to do and even more interesting to read the headlines in the newspaper or watch reporters try and describe the tragedy of hundreds literally fucking themselves to death. Oh come on you can’t say that you haven’t thought of it. If they poison Halloween candy why not…

I don't know the artist but love the picture.
I don’t know the artist but love the picture.

It just reminds me of valentine’s day.