"You know...For so long, I've only been self-analyzing and involved with myself. I've grown inwards and turned to a labyrinth."
...12 to 00:00. Finished the packet. Kept one for tomorrow morning. 11 to 00:00...
I would have been a better creature
just if you have started an intimate conversation,
just for once
in the old times.
Craving death in a long crawl
was the tradition.
All in all and for now,
the intention is
staying up and alive.
Last night I dreamt that I'm bleeding from the nose. I was thinking about that right now and it reminded me of Webgard and his obsession with death because of a nose bleeding. Also, Soie told me that she is thinking about him very often these days?
Where are you, Webgard?
"Where is my compass?" the blind man asked. The wind howled.
Washing guilt by guilt,
my psyche fades...
*
I stare.
I daze.
You fly so high,
wind pours over you.
Descent,
ascent,
and andante restorations.
You circle the fiery disc
in circles aiming toward the center.
As my mind swoon,
and tears evaporate,
the smell of burning retinas
stains all the dreams.
*
For all the noise,
tensions,
and cruel winds,
I bear guilt.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
washing guilt by guilt.
I still tremble to the disastrousness of the things that might have happened. Time being healing is the biggest lie. It just relays and reflects the nightmare, the agony and the fear. You can get ruined once and forever, but time makes you remember how you were close to get ruined and you've survived. How close it was and how real, makes you tremble.
Almost everyday being like weekends and holidays is quite sickening.
Been away for a long time, very away to be able to write. Being away mentally is far more terrible than other kinds. Almost lost my faith in ALMOST anything...
1. Feel detached.
2. Hate email forwards.
3. No Hope.
4. Radiohead again.
...It's hard to forget...I have to forget...I forget....I'm forgotten...
By all the reflections,
Poured all over the flesh,
And the dark light,
Reflected in inner mirrors of the soul,
Entering the pupil of the inner eye,
I horrify myself.
Gazing,
The question burns,
“Am I Lost?”
Every morning, I wake up to a nightmare worse than the previous. That's how the days pass by. That's how I get closer to the very end. That's the story of my fall, our fall.
We don’t have much in common really. We live in different worlds. She sleeps in her seashell between Samuel and Fyodor and still uses the word ‘brutes’ to call them. After Dad and Ted, she always does. They don’t mind that much. They know how the world brands words in wrong occasions and she wasn’t an exception. Oh! Well! She was! She had no skin and so it was easier to reach out for the live flesh to scar.
We don’t have much in common really. We live in different worlds. She sleeps in her seashell between Samuel and Fyodor and still uses the word ‘brutes’ to call them. After Dad and Ted, she always does. They don’t mind that much. They know how the world brands words in wrong occasions and she wasn’t an exception. Oh! Well! She was! She had no skin and so it was easier to reach out for the live flesh to scar.
And I stay awake all my life listening to them. I’ve tried very much to throw away everything I’ve read before out of my mind, just for one single night of good sleep. But they are taking me for granted. I’ve let them in once and they’ve brought demons, angels, gods and devils and…Yeah! Sure!…clowns, the most frightening of them all. Now, we live by.
Their voices at night don’t let me sleep. I guess they make love. I become jealous and don’t remember the last time I’ve loved. Was there any at all? They don’t like questions because they are the most extreme questions ever so their lonely psychotic questioning doubtful lines go inside my head and then I am numbed and swooned, but never ever asleep.
Many times, though you never dare to sleep beside any of them, I’ve tried to make peace. And every time like always they come out and after an hour or two of wordy mesmerizing witchcraft, they pick their favorite choice looking closely into my soul. Once picked their choices, there’s nothing left to argue. They cut. They wound. They fight and bite. They would take away my pieces while shouting “Never open a book carelessly again!”
Seems the spell is working. Exactly 18 years before the day I was born, a woman started another self-destructive journey through the words. Sylvia writing Lady Lazarus. One of those crazy pieces which when comes in company of others, ultimately leads her to the oven. But now, she is free. Wandering around the bookshelves, she is making weird friendships with Godot god and the underground guy.
That wasn’t my choice to be born on that day. It was my parent’s. It was all biology. All that stuff we are ashamed off, but are stained with all over. It wasn’t my fault. The noise in my head rises, like pagans voice in most swooning moment of their ritual for the forsaken. It says “But it was your choice to open the book”. The noise shudders and echoes in my cells. So I admit. Waiting for the punishment. I’m through. I got to see the other side now.
“Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge.” – Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus.
One day you decide to kill yourself, or well at least you are in the mood to do so, but then a sentence comes out of nowhere - outer void - from an old unseen friend which says "Hi...I miss you...That's all". In a flash of light, you understand you gotta put down the razor blade and sleeping pills. Not just because someone missed you, but because the sentence is there, because of "That's all" and because you've always been missing people.
He hung himself with a rope made out of poor wishes and small cravings. It was only when he jumped that he realized, he would never die this way. He would live falling, losing and being tortured in a chain-reaction of hopes and wishes giving up, time after time and turn after turn.
But the life is so full of this small, tedious things that the rope tied around his neck can stretch forever.
...14:41. Waking. Facing the Mirror. Faking the Smile. Whispering "You make me real worry!". 14:42...
The Yahoo horoscope says "Sometimes, you just have to close your eyes, fall backward and trust"...I will...I'll close my eyes and I'll be thinking about all the times I have trusted and all the times I've been fallen, joining eternities within....losing myself....losing myself....
You don't see the crossroads of a human nature life, when the fate just walks over our bodies with its steely steps. You tell lies to people, just to make sure they are not annoyed and disturbed. But they get more than annoyed and disturbed when they find out you are telling lies. They would have no return, cause they ruined every bridges behind. And they cant go ahead, cause you've blocked the road ahead. It's the work of fate, walking, crushing bodies and souls.
Is there any way left than jumping in the fu*king void?
I'm full of hate, gotta go offline quickly....I'm afraid of
cyber-murder, cyber-suicide,....I'm full of hate.....
I've dreamed of a young boy sitting in the crowded crossroads of puberty,
gazing at his own image in a broken piece of mirror in hand and beg
passersby for love.
Then I've seen him somewhere different and lonely, he was making love to
blonde girls in the magazines.
The morning after, she left me...