You leer at me lonely. Single handed in that box. Can’t say that I’ve missed you. Sorry. You’re just not my favorite candy to swallow. You remind me too much of my fears, qualms and sorrows.
You leer at me lonely, and I try not to be upset; by the emptiness, your taste, and the distress. Last time we encountered there was no inscription. You just sat there –single handed in that box. Should I have been worried? I know not yet, perhaps it is something I will someday regret. I close my mind, try to remember. The frames I see are saddened, gray and blurred – an emptied CD, out of vogue, replaced by some hot thing as I, myself, putrefy or go rogue.
My stomach twirled, here I am, teletrasported to another world. So I see you again! It was bound to happen. But tell me, I’m curious, did you miss me? Yes, I’m braver now than before or perhaps I just care less if adversities come knocking at my door. You’d be proud, lonely. I sit as still as time. I wait. Not whine, cab riding to the disjointed other side.
See that’s only way to go, cause the direction I’m seeking is atypical – you of all people know.
Your whispers narrate what’s bound to come. My legs turn weak, and blue, and numb. Don’t be hopeful, there is still a test, a stop still. There it is. God knows – a wall. Mighty as ever, brick billed and tall.Your laughter shrills, my movement distilled. Almost there, just one final push.
That doesn’t motivate me anymore, lonely. I’m drained. Forswore. What more!? My eyes are small lonely. It hurts to keep awake. You promised me lonely I would not have to bare your tart taste. You promised me, that if only I chased you, you’d show me the way. I’m still here lonely. I’m still here. What do you have to say?
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Monday, 21 December 2009
Under the Layers and Lies - Irony
It’s funny how one second I can feel so absolutely beautiful, so completely sure of myself and the next I turn back into this.
These pages were never really intended to be read by anyone, as I said before I need a hobby and I need something to prove me wrong and give me some sense that my story will live on. That I am not irrelevant, that I made a difference in this world…
Make a difference in the world?
Yes! I cannot bear leaving this world exactly as it is. I guess that makes me more religious than I ever thought I was, in a sense that I need to believe that I am here for some ‘reason’. I need to believe it matters what I do, not her version of “get over it – we are just a mixture of chemical reactions”. Humph, it seems ironic that she of all people uses chemistry against me.
Just in case, from this moment on I shall no longer make it easy for you.
There she goes again, always loved the challenge, but yet again so did I. The only reason our competitive nature never got in the way of our friendship is because we are the same person. I do love her, but if she was anyone but me – I’d hate her just as much as sometimes she hates me.
No more references to which personality it is narrating, that at least protects some of my long kept secrets. Do not worry; it will be easy to separate us from one another now, she is the ‘white’ - I am the ‘black’; she is the combination of all the colors in the universe, and I am the lack of them. But wait some time, see how much some twists and turns can conceal.
These pages were never really intended to be read by anyone, as I said before I need a hobby and I need something to prove me wrong and give me some sense that my story will live on. That I am not irrelevant, that I made a difference in this world…
Make a difference in the world?
Yes! I cannot bear leaving this world exactly as it is. I guess that makes me more religious than I ever thought I was, in a sense that I need to believe that I am here for some ‘reason’. I need to believe it matters what I do, not her version of “get over it – we are just a mixture of chemical reactions”. Humph, it seems ironic that she of all people uses chemistry against me.
Just in case, from this moment on I shall no longer make it easy for you.
There she goes again, always loved the challenge, but yet again so did I. The only reason our competitive nature never got in the way of our friendship is because we are the same person. I do love her, but if she was anyone but me – I’d hate her just as much as sometimes she hates me.
No more references to which personality it is narrating, that at least protects some of my long kept secrets. Do not worry; it will be easy to separate us from one another now, she is the ‘white’ - I am the ‘black’; she is the combination of all the colors in the universe, and I am the lack of them. But wait some time, see how much some twists and turns can conceal.
Lizzy
Most people don’t know this, but the lines in your right palm change throughout your life. I think it’s interesting. My experiences and mistakes are somewhat important for they shape and mold me. But why, why our right hand? Once more I have come to an endstop. No one knows.
Most of what I am curious about none of us know. Knowing aka possessing information. But is any information ever just yours? Yes and no. When the day comes and we acquire a piece of unexplored information, that data is ours to keep. But the little boy inside of us just wants to race out, bellowing at the top of his lungs for everyone to hear. It’s true, it’s true, it’s true. Then it’s out there, no longer ours to possess. Does that mean it suddenly changes? Metamorphosis into something completely different, something we do not know?
I am shoved onto the ground and no one stops to help me up. Christmas is in 4 days and the savages within us are released. The lady with the rabbit ears waits for the owl eyed man to show her where to find the latest hit, the noble prized, or some prominent cookbook. What was life before mass media? Before vampire novels, the great Wars, Ford, advertising… What was the point? Was there even one?
I feel like I am walking on the only strip of green left here. I am brought back to that used, polluted park. The sweet scent of dog crap and baby barf. A man runs in his flip-flops. Plop, Dot. His breath hastens. What does he run from? Why I wonder do I see him almost everywhere I go? Is he the meaning, the answer we search hidden in this drugged up world? A piece of crack, a pile of blow? If yes then why is he running? He should be sniffing, smoking, stealing or selling. The information is out there, and the demand is high. Why won’t he share it? Wouldn’t you?
Mold echoed in my mind – only time will tell. Yet again, time is not linear, but a folded convoluted nephron, carrying the urea and bodily toxins from one place to another. Everything is transferred, never destroyed. The inanity and idiocy I feel will always be hiding there like bad cholesterol. Always under threat of bursting, blocking, killing.
It’s like one minute you feel fine, you really do. You are in the third floor of a bookstore. People push, laugh, want. And so do you.
Then all of the sudden those wants are globalized into stone. Other views, transnationals invade you seeking for cheap labor, resources, and a multitude of favors. Before you know it, the skyscrapers have blocked the sun. The world is black, cold, stripped from anything remotely fun.
You see reality. He is running in his flip-flops. No convections, labels, fancies or perfections. No religion. No soul. You see actuality; she hides where the wind can’t be blown. It is in those times I think I am not awake, not even alive at that. I perceive the world behind a broken glass. Yes, I can see, smell, touch, hear. Do I feel? Yes, I can be observed, do people see me?
No.
People are pushing me, they are in a hurry, and I just stand here, on page 297 of an unfinished book. A blank slate. A battered plate.
You hug me and feel me twitch; take me by my arm, fighting off that bitch. Up, down, right, left. Just there! Only you can see me and shake me out of it.Your brown-eyed touch: the light at the end of the pit.
Most of what I am curious about none of us know. Knowing aka possessing information. But is any information ever just yours? Yes and no. When the day comes and we acquire a piece of unexplored information, that data is ours to keep. But the little boy inside of us just wants to race out, bellowing at the top of his lungs for everyone to hear. It’s true, it’s true, it’s true. Then it’s out there, no longer ours to possess. Does that mean it suddenly changes? Metamorphosis into something completely different, something we do not know?
I am shoved onto the ground and no one stops to help me up. Christmas is in 4 days and the savages within us are released. The lady with the rabbit ears waits for the owl eyed man to show her where to find the latest hit, the noble prized, or some prominent cookbook. What was life before mass media? Before vampire novels, the great Wars, Ford, advertising… What was the point? Was there even one?
I feel like I am walking on the only strip of green left here. I am brought back to that used, polluted park. The sweet scent of dog crap and baby barf. A man runs in his flip-flops. Plop, Dot. His breath hastens. What does he run from? Why I wonder do I see him almost everywhere I go? Is he the meaning, the answer we search hidden in this drugged up world? A piece of crack, a pile of blow? If yes then why is he running? He should be sniffing, smoking, stealing or selling. The information is out there, and the demand is high. Why won’t he share it? Wouldn’t you?
Mold echoed in my mind – only time will tell. Yet again, time is not linear, but a folded convoluted nephron, carrying the urea and bodily toxins from one place to another. Everything is transferred, never destroyed. The inanity and idiocy I feel will always be hiding there like bad cholesterol. Always under threat of bursting, blocking, killing.
It’s like one minute you feel fine, you really do. You are in the third floor of a bookstore. People push, laugh, want. And so do you.
Then all of the sudden those wants are globalized into stone. Other views, transnationals invade you seeking for cheap labor, resources, and a multitude of favors. Before you know it, the skyscrapers have blocked the sun. The world is black, cold, stripped from anything remotely fun.
You see reality. He is running in his flip-flops. No convections, labels, fancies or perfections. No religion. No soul. You see actuality; she hides where the wind can’t be blown. It is in those times I think I am not awake, not even alive at that. I perceive the world behind a broken glass. Yes, I can see, smell, touch, hear. Do I feel? Yes, I can be observed, do people see me?
No.
People are pushing me, they are in a hurry, and I just stand here, on page 297 of an unfinished book. A blank slate. A battered plate.
You hug me and feel me twitch; take me by my arm, fighting off that bitch. Up, down, right, left. Just there! Only you can see me and shake me out of it.Your brown-eyed touch: the light at the end of the pit.
Saturday, 19 December 2009
The Pink Monster
Hello there little monster,
Are you shy? Your color betrays you.
Red. Pinkish red. Its rather cute actually.
Hello there little feline like monster. Growl at me. I promise I won't bark back or devour you. I'm just curious you see. I wonder, what lies behind your floppy ears, luxious tongue? What lies will you tell when our two bodies become one?
Oh exquisiteness , don't be too bothered.
You are like nothing I have ever seen. I'm bound to stare. Come on admit it! Your moist features keep calling me there. Give me one chance to prove my firmness, I am not one to disappoint, I promise no quaintness. I’ll pet you. Hard at that, and make you rock forward and fall on your back.
Oh little monster, please let me taste you. Who cares what people will think? Oh, what is that I see? A nod? Confused? Bright Red - your color betrays you. Here I come, I know you want me to -----
Call me a liar. Go ahead please do, because I am quite sure I murdered you. Your pink life convulses, coitus death - it approaches. And your pinkness fades, splitting gently into two. Pale blue. Just a tiny fragment made from me and you.
Are you shy? Your color betrays you.
Red. Pinkish red. Its rather cute actually.
Hello there little feline like monster. Growl at me. I promise I won't bark back or devour you. I'm just curious you see. I wonder, what lies behind your floppy ears, luxious tongue? What lies will you tell when our two bodies become one?
Oh exquisiteness , don't be too bothered.
You are like nothing I have ever seen. I'm bound to stare. Come on admit it! Your moist features keep calling me there. Give me one chance to prove my firmness, I am not one to disappoint, I promise no quaintness. I’ll pet you. Hard at that, and make you rock forward and fall on your back.
Oh little monster, please let me taste you. Who cares what people will think? Oh, what is that I see? A nod? Confused? Bright Red - your color betrays you. Here I come, I know you want me to -----
Call me a liar. Go ahead please do, because I am quite sure I murdered you. Your pink life convulses, coitus death - it approaches. And your pinkness fades, splitting gently into two. Pale blue. Just a tiny fragment made from me and you.
Under the Layers and Lies - The Synopsis
It occurred to me that I desperately need a hobby and I seem to love to talk about myself; ponder over the greatness and weaknesses of being me.
My name is irrelevant, truth be told, so is my story. I shall warn you before you even start that my memory lapses and not even I am aware of what is reality and what is the simple illusion that goes on in mind; what I want to believe I am, what I want to believe happened.
I fancy myself different, but maybe that itself is proof that I am exactly the same as all those other lousy upper class teenagers, that have everything but are too spoilt to acknowledge it; and worse crave problems and unhappiness, rather than sitting back and being ‘thankful’ for everything… I grasp at problems to call my own like some crazy drug addict grasps at any opportunity for drugs. Interesting, maybe problems are my drug.
That at least is something I like to be proud of. No matter the greatness of my boredom and all of my parents’ money, I had never felt appealed to turn to drugs to fill in that void inside of me –but it is more complicated than that, maybe at the end of this you’ll understand.
You see I have two personalities that live deep inside of me. The former is the “real me” and with her lies the reality in which my life drags along in its monotonous colors. We shall call her the “little me”. This girl is shy, unconfident, studious, and way too much of a volunteer and a people pleaser for her own good.
But then, there is this other side of me; call her my “alter ego” if you wish, she is probably the one responsible for me writing this in the first place, she lives in an alternative universe where all that matters is her indulging self-importance…she is strong, sexy and confident, and I love her. I love it when she incorporates me.
Hell, I love the little high that I get every time that evil woman, and yes notice how she is a woman and I am yet a girl, slips into my high heels and spends hours in front of the mirror admiring herself. This girl is so different to me that a hardly believe that she is part of me.
After you have understood my schizophrenic nature you will understand my story a bit better. You see, the girl and the woman inside of me have lived different lives, experienced different things. It is true that their lives often interlock, but there are things that I have done that she has not, and plenty of experiences that she has had that I could not even dream in having.
This little game started like any other, I was never a popular little kid and I spent way too much time in the “imaginary friend” territory. It started when I was very little one day as I took the bus to school. I would be sitting in the bus next to my sister and outside there she would be, this incredible super woman, taking the skateboard to school – unimaginably awesome techniques, even at the age of 6 or 7 she amazed me, but I controlled her movements then, now things have gotten slightly out of hand… it has come to a point where I almost cannot separate her life from mine, I do not know where I end and she begins and because of that I cannot truly say that I have never gotten involved with drugs.
She has had a tough life. Her sweetheart - maybe the only guy she has ever loved died in a car accident a few years ago… she was young and naïve then and believed in true love. I still do.
Andre’s car crashed due to a horrible drunk driving incident. His friend who was driving survived, Andre didn’t. She never forgave herself for not stopping him from getting in the car, for not getting in the car herself with him, and neither could his friend Rodrigo. The year after that was tough - heavy smoking, drinking and some involvement with drugs… her grades sunk and she sent to see the school shrink, Joyce, for ‘rage issues’. She would ran away from home and wake up the next morning with little memory of what happened the night before, not knowing exactly where she was, but seeing Rodrigo’s familiar face somewhere around her, his face buried in cocaine, gave her some sense of reassurance. They became very close friends, bonding over their loss and sense of guilt. Andre’s death had made them realize that life was way too short not to be taken advantage of.
They made a list; filled with things they had never done - with things they were still to do. And with that, the year dragged on, thousands of fun nights, thousands of things being crossed out from their “bucket list”… Their life was good, great, how couldn’t it be? Their theme song was New Order’s “Guilt is a Useless Emotion” and that was their motto, hers at least… But then, Rodrigo OD’ed and his mother send him to rehab. She got scared and with that followed a horrible year of cleaning her crap up with no one to help or listen to her - but me.
I admired her strength and courage and I did my best to help her. It’s funny that I was the one to do this, seeing as I am so weak and she is so strong. She is so sure of herself and I cannot even tell when my reality stops and her begins. I know that I have tried cigarettes and some weed and came very very close to trying some cocaine, occasionally flirting with the idea of taking some ‘x’…. just a little ‘x’ to loosen up. But again, I do not know if that was me, or if that was her possessing me, the druggie in her trying to live through me. It has come to a point where I don’t even know the reality anymore; I am stuck in this dystopian universe.
Ecstasy. – The word itself means thrill, elation happiness, it seemed right that that was ‘her drug’. It certainly explained why at one point she was so well and at the other her universe came crashing down.
Maybe it was my morals that kept me away, maybe it was the fact that she had experienced that horrible incident with drugs and battled so much to get over it and regain her parents’ confidence, and I had heard all of her stories… I didn’t want to live through that; I already had somehow lived through it by her.
I love her so much, she hates me… But all we have is ourselves. She learns how to cope and I believe I am the most blessed girl in the world to have her, to watch her, to have her seize power and become me, even for the slightest seconds before the little coward that I am regains consciousness and pushes that amazing woman out of me.
I guess somehow this is a horrible attempt in telling both of our stories. I always loved stories, that’s how it all begun, how she begun. This is the story of the horrible girl I think I am, interlocked with this amazing woman I could have been, creating, I guess, under all the layers and lies, who I truly am. – This is the story of me.
My name is irrelevant, truth be told, so is my story. I shall warn you before you even start that my memory lapses and not even I am aware of what is reality and what is the simple illusion that goes on in mind; what I want to believe I am, what I want to believe happened.
I fancy myself different, but maybe that itself is proof that I am exactly the same as all those other lousy upper class teenagers, that have everything but are too spoilt to acknowledge it; and worse crave problems and unhappiness, rather than sitting back and being ‘thankful’ for everything… I grasp at problems to call my own like some crazy drug addict grasps at any opportunity for drugs. Interesting, maybe problems are my drug.
That at least is something I like to be proud of. No matter the greatness of my boredom and all of my parents’ money, I had never felt appealed to turn to drugs to fill in that void inside of me –but it is more complicated than that, maybe at the end of this you’ll understand.
You see I have two personalities that live deep inside of me. The former is the “real me” and with her lies the reality in which my life drags along in its monotonous colors. We shall call her the “little me”. This girl is shy, unconfident, studious, and way too much of a volunteer and a people pleaser for her own good.
But then, there is this other side of me; call her my “alter ego” if you wish, she is probably the one responsible for me writing this in the first place, she lives in an alternative universe where all that matters is her indulging self-importance…she is strong, sexy and confident, and I love her. I love it when she incorporates me.
Hell, I love the little high that I get every time that evil woman, and yes notice how she is a woman and I am yet a girl, slips into my high heels and spends hours in front of the mirror admiring herself. This girl is so different to me that a hardly believe that she is part of me.
After you have understood my schizophrenic nature you will understand my story a bit better. You see, the girl and the woman inside of me have lived different lives, experienced different things. It is true that their lives often interlock, but there are things that I have done that she has not, and plenty of experiences that she has had that I could not even dream in having.
This little game started like any other, I was never a popular little kid and I spent way too much time in the “imaginary friend” territory. It started when I was very little one day as I took the bus to school. I would be sitting in the bus next to my sister and outside there she would be, this incredible super woman, taking the skateboard to school – unimaginably awesome techniques, even at the age of 6 or 7 she amazed me, but I controlled her movements then, now things have gotten slightly out of hand… it has come to a point where I almost cannot separate her life from mine, I do not know where I end and she begins and because of that I cannot truly say that I have never gotten involved with drugs.
She has had a tough life. Her sweetheart - maybe the only guy she has ever loved died in a car accident a few years ago… she was young and naïve then and believed in true love. I still do.
Andre’s car crashed due to a horrible drunk driving incident. His friend who was driving survived, Andre didn’t. She never forgave herself for not stopping him from getting in the car, for not getting in the car herself with him, and neither could his friend Rodrigo. The year after that was tough - heavy smoking, drinking and some involvement with drugs… her grades sunk and she sent to see the school shrink, Joyce, for ‘rage issues’. She would ran away from home and wake up the next morning with little memory of what happened the night before, not knowing exactly where she was, but seeing Rodrigo’s familiar face somewhere around her, his face buried in cocaine, gave her some sense of reassurance. They became very close friends, bonding over their loss and sense of guilt. Andre’s death had made them realize that life was way too short not to be taken advantage of.
They made a list; filled with things they had never done - with things they were still to do. And with that, the year dragged on, thousands of fun nights, thousands of things being crossed out from their “bucket list”… Their life was good, great, how couldn’t it be? Their theme song was New Order’s “Guilt is a Useless Emotion” and that was their motto, hers at least… But then, Rodrigo OD’ed and his mother send him to rehab. She got scared and with that followed a horrible year of cleaning her crap up with no one to help or listen to her - but me.
I admired her strength and courage and I did my best to help her. It’s funny that I was the one to do this, seeing as I am so weak and she is so strong. She is so sure of herself and I cannot even tell when my reality stops and her begins. I know that I have tried cigarettes and some weed and came very very close to trying some cocaine, occasionally flirting with the idea of taking some ‘x’…. just a little ‘x’ to loosen up. But again, I do not know if that was me, or if that was her possessing me, the druggie in her trying to live through me. It has come to a point where I don’t even know the reality anymore; I am stuck in this dystopian universe.
Ecstasy. – The word itself means thrill, elation happiness, it seemed right that that was ‘her drug’. It certainly explained why at one point she was so well and at the other her universe came crashing down.
Maybe it was my morals that kept me away, maybe it was the fact that she had experienced that horrible incident with drugs and battled so much to get over it and regain her parents’ confidence, and I had heard all of her stories… I didn’t want to live through that; I already had somehow lived through it by her.
I love her so much, she hates me… But all we have is ourselves. She learns how to cope and I believe I am the most blessed girl in the world to have her, to watch her, to have her seize power and become me, even for the slightest seconds before the little coward that I am regains consciousness and pushes that amazing woman out of me.
I guess somehow this is a horrible attempt in telling both of our stories. I always loved stories, that’s how it all begun, how she begun. This is the story of the horrible girl I think I am, interlocked with this amazing woman I could have been, creating, I guess, under all the layers and lies, who I truly am. – This is the story of me.
ABOUT the 'About Me'
For those of you interested, which clearly none of you are, the extract in the about me session comes from the first story I wrote… it is a lot longer than my usual posts so I shall post parts, 1 by 1. These can be found by the title – Under the Layers and Lies.
Enjoy
xxx
Enjoy
xxx
Whore.
Private school teaches you the most astonishing of techniques: how to unbody the disbodied, how to discern between the eyes and mouth and ears and sounds that compose a human being.
Who are we? 14 years and I've learned nothing of the sort. Somehow those older than me think it best for me to focus on the more important concepts, technicalities, and casualties; the things more useful to me. I’m not quite certain what that means.
It is the last day of school and my head aches, yearning for the abnormalities. I walk down the too familiar corridors, smile plastered to my face, and the cracks, which are inherent to me and large, mighty large, are slowly filled with a viscous neon fluid.
I welcome it, come in. Come in me. Freeze, congeal and solidify within me.
Freeze- thraw. Erosion. Geography.
I am close. Don’t stop. It’s only a matter of time now for my face to rip away from my skull; peeling rather slowly at first, then alas cataclysmically. Humpty Dumpty. It’s over and I am left. Naked. Fragmented. Empty.
Nothing but scree on the ground. Nothing but scree to be found.
Scan me, tell me what do you see? A high-classed whore, come fuck me – its free. You say I am hideous and twisted, mere vestiges of a masterpiece, a curled coughed up hairball. Yummy.
You are wrong.
If I am anything animalistic, I am a black pigeon, crapping and ruining everything with the bleak dream of flying high and escaping from this world to the one beyond.
But I can’t fly, my wings are cut by rules. I have no choice, my wants are dissolved by rules. Neutralization. Killing me off is the world’s medication. It s War!
Private Schools must survive; we are in desperate need of education.
There you have it: the ultimate and much sought after truth: private school teaches you just one thing: we are dirt, mud and bone. We are human, whatever that means.
We live and learn with a plenitude of tears, those sexy emoting rips, your high priced stares. So like a zombie we travel on through the world. Our lives and worlds reduced to halls. It will soon be over, you’ll see, and you will be in search for someone else to corrupt thee.
Who are we? 14 years and I've learned nothing of the sort. Somehow those older than me think it best for me to focus on the more important concepts, technicalities, and casualties; the things more useful to me. I’m not quite certain what that means.
It is the last day of school and my head aches, yearning for the abnormalities. I walk down the too familiar corridors, smile plastered to my face, and the cracks, which are inherent to me and large, mighty large, are slowly filled with a viscous neon fluid.
I welcome it, come in. Come in me. Freeze, congeal and solidify within me.
Freeze- thraw. Erosion. Geography.
I am close. Don’t stop. It’s only a matter of time now for my face to rip away from my skull; peeling rather slowly at first, then alas cataclysmically. Humpty Dumpty. It’s over and I am left. Naked. Fragmented. Empty.
Nothing but scree on the ground. Nothing but scree to be found.
Scan me, tell me what do you see? A high-classed whore, come fuck me – its free. You say I am hideous and twisted, mere vestiges of a masterpiece, a curled coughed up hairball. Yummy.
You are wrong.
If I am anything animalistic, I am a black pigeon, crapping and ruining everything with the bleak dream of flying high and escaping from this world to the one beyond.
But I can’t fly, my wings are cut by rules. I have no choice, my wants are dissolved by rules. Neutralization. Killing me off is the world’s medication. It s War!
Private Schools must survive; we are in desperate need of education.
There you have it: the ultimate and much sought after truth: private school teaches you just one thing: we are dirt, mud and bone. We are human, whatever that means.
We live and learn with a plenitude of tears, those sexy emoting rips, your high priced stares. So like a zombie we travel on through the world. Our lives and worlds reduced to halls. It will soon be over, you’ll see, and you will be in search for someone else to corrupt thee.
Friday, 18 December 2009
Utopia
Willy loved words. He kept them in a shoebox under his bed. His soft pink hands would caress the cold, blue, black painted box, and nibble with the top. A noise?
His skull would creak from under the bed, white eyes peeking out, illuminating the darkness with their glow. Alert. He was safe… for now. Smiling he returned to his prized acquisitions.
It annoyed me. How could my punk little brother not know how much of a creepy douche he looked like when he sneaked under his bed? I use to think he wanted to prove to everyone how much of a big boy he really was.
Wrath.
My mother’s voice groveled in my mind.
Nope… no longer afraid of the dark… not scared of the creepy crawlies either…. amazing yes… and at seven too… oh must have taken Sara at least three more years…
Nausea.
Why do we think that the “big kids” aren’t afraid of anything? I am more afraid now than I’ve ever been before. The boogie monsters are still, somewhat there, haunting me. Their words have grown, their eyes have become sharper, and their appetites more avid for my human blood.
The worst part is that I cannot escape them. These monsters feed on my memories. They are monsters of my own doing, and there is no use in turning on the light as that only clears their way. The area under my bed has multiplied itself, and Pandora, mighty Queen of Darkness, has found her way closer to home.
“Aiya. To the essence I say: her soul.” She screams.
“Yes maam!” The cytoxic cells follow her lead, engulfing and digesting all the bile which makes me unique. Finally, they reach my core.
I beg.
It is no use. Her long nails are already scratching at my doors.
“If you fight it I will have to kill you, just like I killed your illy brovuer Willy”
A pungent taste lingered in my mouth.
Willy.
It all came back, that last year – how valiantly he fought against leukemia, how young he was, and how curious. How he loved words, how he kept them in that shoebox under his bed, and how I use to think he was such a weirdo for doing so. The queasiness got worse, Willy was gone, and all I had left were his words; italic etches on scrappy pieces of paper. Paper which would soon rot. Willy, like paper, would too soon rot.
Pandora’s eyes glittered.
“Now! There, STRIKE, STRIKE!”
There is no strength inside me now, and she knows it. Advancing, she nibbles with the top for just one second more then she should, and then allows her pursed mouth to fall and release a high pitched laugh that issues the deadly blow.
My insides tremble and fluid seeps out. Yellow, almost like a waterfall of urine and uncertainties. I gasp. I must fight. Willy fought. My arms and legs spatter helplessly whilst I gurgle in his memory for one last time.
WILLY…. Willy… … willy?
It is done. She has wiped my memories and finally my sullied aura may glow. I smile more often now as the mask stuck to my face is thick, golden, perfect. I am no longer haunted. I no longer cry for the boy who locked words in a box, for I myself am locked in the promised calm that follows the storm – alas, utopia.
His skull would creak from under the bed, white eyes peeking out, illuminating the darkness with their glow. Alert. He was safe… for now. Smiling he returned to his prized acquisitions.
It annoyed me. How could my punk little brother not know how much of a creepy douche he looked like when he sneaked under his bed? I use to think he wanted to prove to everyone how much of a big boy he really was.
Wrath.
My mother’s voice groveled in my mind.
Nope… no longer afraid of the dark… not scared of the creepy crawlies either…. amazing yes… and at seven too… oh must have taken Sara at least three more years…
Nausea.
Why do we think that the “big kids” aren’t afraid of anything? I am more afraid now than I’ve ever been before. The boogie monsters are still, somewhat there, haunting me. Their words have grown, their eyes have become sharper, and their appetites more avid for my human blood.
The worst part is that I cannot escape them. These monsters feed on my memories. They are monsters of my own doing, and there is no use in turning on the light as that only clears their way. The area under my bed has multiplied itself, and Pandora, mighty Queen of Darkness, has found her way closer to home.
“Aiya. To the essence I say: her soul.” She screams.
“Yes maam!” The cytoxic cells follow her lead, engulfing and digesting all the bile which makes me unique. Finally, they reach my core.
I beg.
It is no use. Her long nails are already scratching at my doors.
“If you fight it I will have to kill you, just like I killed your illy brovuer Willy”
A pungent taste lingered in my mouth.
Willy.
It all came back, that last year – how valiantly he fought against leukemia, how young he was, and how curious. How he loved words, how he kept them in that shoebox under his bed, and how I use to think he was such a weirdo for doing so. The queasiness got worse, Willy was gone, and all I had left were his words; italic etches on scrappy pieces of paper. Paper which would soon rot. Willy, like paper, would too soon rot.
Pandora’s eyes glittered.
“Now! There, STRIKE, STRIKE!”
There is no strength inside me now, and she knows it. Advancing, she nibbles with the top for just one second more then she should, and then allows her pursed mouth to fall and release a high pitched laugh that issues the deadly blow.
My insides tremble and fluid seeps out. Yellow, almost like a waterfall of urine and uncertainties. I gasp. I must fight. Willy fought. My arms and legs spatter helplessly whilst I gurgle in his memory for one last time.
WILLY…. Willy… … willy?
It is done. She has wiped my memories and finally my sullied aura may glow. I smile more often now as the mask stuck to my face is thick, golden, perfect. I am no longer haunted. I no longer cry for the boy who locked words in a box, for I myself am locked in the promised calm that follows the storm – alas, utopia.
Wish-List
I could hear her soft voice from my room. By soft I mean shrill. By voice I mean shouts. They fought all the time now.
Can’t you just wish her congratulations? Can’t you see that her head is out of place? What’s wrong with you?
Normally hearing these would have bothered me. Today it didn’t. I just sat, motionless staring at the TV. I wanted to reach out and turn up the volume, but I just couldn’t be too worried with it. I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I just sat there in a not-too-distant world of my own, swallowed in the revolving vortex of time – stuck between my sweet past and promising future. By sweet I mean pungent. By promising I mean disgusting. The stink surrounded me, and I was starting to get use to the bile.
I am tired all the time now. People keep telling me I should be happy, that college is the most gratifying experience of my life. Is this truly what I’ve been waiting for? Golly, I guess this is what being overwhellemed with happiness feels like then.
I am officially an Ivy League student. Yeay. I still feel pointless and empty. I am nothing but a hard shell. Put them to your ear and hear the distant ocean.
Sound . Senses - a kind reminder of our existence.
Yet the ocean you hear is a mere reflection of the real thing, infinitesimal really. It’s like wavelengths. The further you go the more two different pitches just start sounding the same. Two different cries for help are meshed into one, until someone is annoyed enough with the disconcerting tune to just turn it hell off.
I am tired.
I feel numb.
I want to sleep. I want to laugh. I want to live. I want, I want, I want.
I want none of these.
What I truly want, only I can give myself.
What I want is to awake from the dark and silent night. Hear the shattering noise of the shell and the shrieking light of that final sunrise.
Smile.
What I want is to escape from the stewed mirror into the looking glass, and like Alice fall into the pitiless hole, but this time never come back, just hit the ground, rock hard.
Rock hard, yet leave no sound.
Can’t you just wish her congratulations? Can’t you see that her head is out of place? What’s wrong with you?
Normally hearing these would have bothered me. Today it didn’t. I just sat, motionless staring at the TV. I wanted to reach out and turn up the volume, but I just couldn’t be too worried with it. I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I just sat there in a not-too-distant world of my own, swallowed in the revolving vortex of time – stuck between my sweet past and promising future. By sweet I mean pungent. By promising I mean disgusting. The stink surrounded me, and I was starting to get use to the bile.
I am tired all the time now. People keep telling me I should be happy, that college is the most gratifying experience of my life. Is this truly what I’ve been waiting for? Golly, I guess this is what being overwhellemed with happiness feels like then.
I am officially an Ivy League student. Yeay. I still feel pointless and empty. I am nothing but a hard shell. Put them to your ear and hear the distant ocean.
Sound . Senses - a kind reminder of our existence.
Yet the ocean you hear is a mere reflection of the real thing, infinitesimal really. It’s like wavelengths. The further you go the more two different pitches just start sounding the same. Two different cries for help are meshed into one, until someone is annoyed enough with the disconcerting tune to just turn it hell off.
I am tired.
I feel numb.
I want to sleep. I want to laugh. I want to live. I want, I want, I want.
I want none of these.
What I truly want, only I can give myself.
What I want is to awake from the dark and silent night. Hear the shattering noise of the shell and the shrieking light of that final sunrise.
Smile.
What I want is to escape from the stewed mirror into the looking glass, and like Alice fall into the pitiless hole, but this time never come back, just hit the ground, rock hard.
Rock hard, yet leave no sound.
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