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.
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.
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,
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…
It is no secret that I work at night. It is also no secret that I am a dark person. Today is one of the days I remember just how crazy I am. It is a panicky shaky overwhelmed sort of crazy that overflows and washes over the inside of my body. It is not the pleasant warm rain that just makes you want to stand in it and enjoy the feeling. It is a if my blood has turned to acid eating its way through my body making the blood vessels seep as it burns through them searching for something leaving tattered blistered remains behind.
The uneasiness consumes me forcing me to want to hide inside something even if it is a building as twisted as I am. I am uncomfortable in my own skin as if it is a million insects attempting to crawl off my body on its own. The acid in my veins encourages it and if I looked in the mirror I doubt that the skin on my face would remain there. It would melt away slipping down and dropping away with wet clops only to scuttle away going to hide in the black spires of the world inside my mind. My face would be left with exposed muscles and bone without expression and without a sign of the pain wracking my already too fragile body and mind.
Darkness ripples around me like a poisonous cloud forcing its way into my lungs making it feel as if I am breathing through sand. Shards of the ever present colored glass slicing through poking grotesquely through the spaces between my ribs. Scarred bits of me slip open weeping tears of blood that my eyes cannot. The misshapen mouths split from skin open wetly as if they are shrieking with a pain of their own as they choke on my blood. As I watch them gape open I expect to see eyes peeking at me through the smaller ones that rest above the widest of the splits. Staring at me accusing me through the truth of the mirror.
I don’t know what they would say. I want to but I cannot understand it through their choking gurgles as blood stumbles out of them increasing in both amount and speed. I strain my ears to understand because just maybe they have something valuable to say.
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.
Not that any of them really are but this particular one is not for the kiddies. If you are under 18 please find something more suited towards your needs to read. Parental discretion definitely advised. If your child is reading this unattended by a parent then I cannot be held responsible. You should watch what your children read online.
I really think that everyone should be allowed one free murder in their lifetime. Just one where they will not take you to jail or put you on trial for it. Just one per person. This brings to light all sorts of things like who would you take. Would you wait until you had good reason or do it for pleasure. Would it be someone you hate or someone you love?
Would people set up match making services like the dating sites that are so popular? Matching those who want to kill and ones who want to be dead. Could you trade murders so if you are the one wanting to be killed can your killer have yours and therefore have two.
Could you auction that murder that you have? Sell it to the highest bidder so that they have more. Would you?
Would you take your lover? Wrapping him in silken warmth clamping around his cock. Rocking, fucking him harder and faster until he is just about to cum and then tighten your hands around his neck until he is coming and dying at the same time watching his life slip from him even as his cum splashes inside you. Would you let him do it to you?
Or would you do it with a blade. Blind folded with his wrists restrained and teased with the cold metal making small cuts as you stroke him with your hand, sliding your mouth around the tip as tiny trickle of blood seeps from the cut just above his hip, the spot that you love the most. Sliding your tongue around the head of his cock until you know pleasure and pain have become one only to take all of him into your mouth and down your throat all at once. Would you run your hands through the cuts tracing them carefully listening to all of the lovely sounds he makes. The sharp intake of breath when you touch a tender place or the soft cries torn from him as his cock reaches your throat again, pushing past it and groaning when he feels your throat tighten around the head. Would you slip the knife into his heart then? Or maybe just a tiny cut to the femoral artery, not noticeable until he gets light headed and your mouth and hands are slick with the warmth of his blood.
What would it be like to that warmth surround you the coppery taste mixing with the bitter sweet taste of his cum?
Would you do this to her? Only instead push your cock down her throat until she can’t breath. Feel it clench and try to swallow as she is slowly suffocated her struggles making your pleasure sweeter. Would you watch her eyes go wide when she realizes that you are exercising your right to one free killing on her. Would it make you cringe or hard?
Would you do it fast or slowly taking time to prolong the pleasure because you only get just one unless it is a trade? Would you collect them like baseball cards hoarding them until the time is perfect.
It could be your worst enemy or you could take your frustrations out on your boss, ex, father, teacher, mother, that girl in the 10 items or less line with a pack of kids and a cart full of groceries.
Would it be quiet or loud? Would you want to enjoy each moment reveling in the sensations of power and control?
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…
People say that you should not take LSD or hallucinogens because they bring up all of the dark and nasty thoughts that are in your subconscious. When I was younger I tried LSD several times and liked it. I am a dark
sort of person and therefore write and read dark sort of things. I like poking at the thing that resides in the blackest portion of everyone’s
brain and seeing what comes out. It’s fun. If you don’t want to know what is lurking in at least one person’s mind don’t read what I write. There is a dark corner in all of us I just dragged mine into the light introduced myself and asked it if it wanted me to get to know it a little bit more over say afternoon tea. That was a long time ago and now that dark corner and I are very good fr
iends. Some people run from darkness others embrace it and I was never one for running