I don’t understand why my mind does what it does or comes up with what it sees. Some are brilliant inventions and I know exactly how they work and some are dark and twisted things that kill when you look directly at them. Mad killer I wait until you decide I am your victim, someone who just wanted to know what it is like to kill than I invite you to try it with the complete disclaimer that I asked you to and the estate will take care of your legal fees.
Rule number 1 Always have an exit strategy
Rule number 2 When you start to make your self think that you are crazy you probably are
Rule number 3 When you can no longer cope use the exit strategy
When pain outweighs the ability to cope then it is time not stop struggling to cope
When you want to scream scream. when you want to cry cry you know where this is heading I really am not sure that I am going to survive this.
It is a night like this that I pace the house my mind not able to settle on any one thing. I close my eyes and I am somewhere else. Sliding back and forth between safety and sanity. I find myself muttering “where did it start, have to find the beginning.” It started with the horse. With the death of me. It started when the horse killed me… wait that is not right… It started when I was killed by the horse. I pace the house like something caged and alone.
I chew my lower lip and repeat it had to have started with the horse and the death of me or was it the jackal… no it couldn’t be it couldn’t be he ate himself after the horse killed me… long after… but then I woke up or maybe he did. The Jackal woke up he saw he knew. It was before the monkey went mad or maybe it was before I went mad. No that’s not right because I am not mad am I? I close my eyes again startled by what is behind them they snap open and I begin to pace again.
I can’t remember any more… In a way it saddens me that I can’t remember what happened first. I taste a coppery thick liquid on my lip and realize that at some point worrying at it I have broken through my bottom lip with sharp teeth. The taste of blood reminds me of something more making me wish that I would just forget for now and not want to remember the smell, the taste when I opened my mouth to draw in breath that I realized that I had been holding in that moment. And my mind blanks the rest. This is why I can’t remember.
I make it no secret that I will eventually die either by a situation I have put myself in or by my own hand. I do not want anyone to misunderstand this fact. It is not that I dislike life (I do but that is besides the point) its that I dislike living it.
It is not fair that people who want to live die and people who want to die live. Another one of god’s strange ironies I guess like the platypus or opossum. I don’t expect anyone to read the crazed rantings of what rattles around in that empty head of mine. Maybe someone will discover this and realize that it is ok. Its ok to feel like this and not hate yourself for it. Heck if you feel like this you already have enough reason to hate yourself you don’t need any more.
People may ask why I haven’t done it yet. I have often pondered that question when I slide a razor slowly across my skin wishing it were a lovers caress. Watching the red blood tickle its way down my arm trying to tantalize me into making the deeper, feeling more blood sliding down with a soft plink on the tile floor. I listen carefully enraptured by the feeling and the sound of blood slowly draining from my body. The blood caresses my flesh making me shiver and my eyes roll back just for a moment. God it would feel wonderful and decadent. But there are not that many people left in my world and the darkness is closing in.
I wish I could lose myself in the feeling. Let it be the only thing I feel, close off all my other senses to the blade, the blood, and the feel of it. I can feel your warm body beside me, behind me pushing me back against your bare chest. My head lulls against your shoulder surrendering myself to the sensation of the cold metal and your warmth. I can feel each cut, each time the blade slips inside my skin, the ultimate penetration. Not enough to kill be enough to feel it when we fuck later. The sex after is always desperate and frantic (at least for me) I am not sure if I am proving that I am alive or wanting you to plunge the knife deeper so that you can revel in the feel of my life, my blood pour out onto your flesh. Please
Today the wind slides across the black sand as I have decided to stay inside my cage for a while longer. I can see it blow tiny puffs of dust across the stark plain. In the distance A plumb of dust floats toward the swirling sky as if something is coming. I wonder vaguely what it could be before shaking my head and allowing it to hang down once again.
I take my finger and draw the symbols I once knew and once cared about. They seem strange to me I stare at them and try to make sense of what they should mean. Just as love once meant something, as did life, and hope. I wonder how I got this far, how I could bury myself so far inside. Yet to be glad that I did it it doesn’t hurt so much in my self made prison, I don’t feel as much the only thing that still stays with me is the knowledge that as soon as I am no longer needed I will no longer live. I will seek out death and make its acquaintance perhaps we will be friends when it is all over with.
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.
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.
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.
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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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.