~-~

Its too much. All of it. And now I just want it to stop. No more trying to feel better, no more pretending to feel better. I want it to be over. Everything. All of it, all of this, all of me. Over. Finished.

Nothing works. I’m out of stuff to do and I’m tired of hearing myself say I dont know. I’m tired of talking about it and I’m tired of being tired and I’m just fucking fed up.

I dont think I can get through this. University, I mean. The pressure…that no one else seems to feel. It gets harder to breathe, to keep my hands still, to remember not to fall back into myself and to tell myself to come out if I do. I cant keep doing this. I’m too tired to fight. I’m just so tired. And I want to be able to breathe without it seeming like another chore.

If I could shut it and grow the fuck up, I would. But I cant seem to. I’m trying. I am, really. And then my chest tightens and all I feel is impending doom.

I have to fix this.

-~-

Mistakes.

I have been going over mine. Little, human mistakes. Misunderstandings that got brushed aside, or sorted. Insignificant mistakes, made in front of strangers I will never see again.
There is guilt somewhere that I didn’t allow myself to feel in those moments. And it comes back now. The guilt of being human.

It is tiring to remain in check. Tiring to carry meaningless guilt. Tiring to want to apologise for every little slip up. Tiring to doubt. Tiring to try and be above human.

But isnt that how it always is? A perpetual game of Hide and Seek. I hide behind my metaphors too. It is much easier to talk about drifting leaves than to say I am that leaf. I am that torn petal. I am small, insignificant, out of control. And there is no seeker in this game.

Little Bird

I dont want morning to come yet. I dont want sunrises and morning flowers. I dont want voices, people, life. It is harder to hide when the lights are on, and there is no option but.

I dont want lilies and wild flowers. I dont want apologies and little blank spaces. I dont want more skeletons, walls or demons. It is harder to hide when the lights are off, and there is an option but.

I dont want morning to come yet, and erase my impenetrable night. I dont want stars to shine or walks in moonlight. The silence broken only by wild creatures and forced sighs. There is no other way to quiet quivering lips and whys. Later when tears conceal to fake crystalline, and there is no room to breathe, I’ll pull apart the curtains, clear conscience and take flight.

Maybe some day I’ll be found somewhere with broken ribs; closed eyes.

Disintegrate

On.

Off.

On.

Off.

At this rate it wont be long before the fuse blows. Then we’ll bask in eachother’s darkness and bathe in the distance between us till we forget we knew how to swim. Our drowning bodies will drift away from eachother, carried on different currents to the same whirlpool, and escape will not matter then.

We’ll wait for Moses to part the seas once more and see eachother, here, there, everywhere. Little bits of you and little bits of me that we each lost as they drifted out to sea. They will come to their rightful place, and I will collect your pieces in a hollow clam shell stowed away in my chest. Later, when the waters of distance deposit me on some shore to rot, all that will be left of me are those little bits of you that I never returned. And the little bits of me you never wanted.

Never-Ending Season

There are things missing – puzzle pieces lost in the everyday hustle – thoughts, feelings, words, meanings, all missing. Lost, maybe? Or maybe just…not found. Like little torn petals in an uncovered basket that drift away with the wind or leaves that cling a little too lightly to their branch. Why does the branch never cling back?

Autumn. The season of decadence. Maybe it looks better that way – faded, water-washed and filtered orange. More aesthetically pleasing, like a story without the words. Peak season for insect vacations. Maybe I’ll crawl under a pile of leaves and feed off their demise.

But things get worse before they get better. So Winter comes with its despair. And stays. Cold has a way of seeping in through the tiniest cracks, and chilling the healthiest bodies. Fear not though. Winter fears the Cold we carry.

Summer was afraid we would miss the crystaline ice we wore as jewelry in our bones, so it forgot to come.

And all thats left of fairytales are the snow angels lying crushed beneath us.

Whats the

p

o  ?   i

n t

And does there have to be one?

—

So wonderfully fucked.

The incomplete application is testament to it.

Part of me thinks I’ll end up like those wasted, pathetic, disfunctional people that’re so fucked, all they’re doing is wasting the worlds resources.

The other part of me is convinced I’ve already become such.

Two days to get my shit together. Theres still a chance. More than a chance.

I am better now. Writing. I need to do more of it.

If I could just sit here and type…forever.

Time to get back to life —

Chapter 1

She walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge door, standing in a halo of light. A neatly stacked selection of identical, transparent containers displays itself, of which she picks one, opens it and examines the contents. A brownish sludge of what once must have been food is all that is left inside. She snaps the lid back on and stows it away, picking another container and doing the same. After scrutinizing the contents of five boxes, she reaches the sixth. From the sixth container, she empties three tablespoons of the distasteful brown soup and warms up her meal in the microwave. The darkness outside causes a partial reflection of her image to form in the kitchen window. She stares intently at herself – past herself – as she brings half-filled spoons of leftover broth to her lips.

After having eaten and washed, she puts the lone pink bowl she has been eating from back in its individual cupboard and leaves.

The bathroom door is closed and firmly locked. She keeps her eyes off the mirror and on her hands as she washes. Soapy foam slides off to reveal blue-green veins that snake like seaweed from her wrists to her fingers. She washes her face, dries herself, steals a glance at the mirror and thus begins her daily, unfaltering routine to nothing.

The circle of life and other shittiness

Days pass by in a haze. Theres nothing worth remembering except how turned to mush my brain feels. And nothing to do except whine about it. And then whine about whining about it.

The nightmares are the only excitement I have, aside from the wonderful moments I spend fantasising about death. And there is so much stuff to do and yet… And yet I simply whine about having nothing to do. I do have things to do. So many, many things. So many important, future-deciding things, but quite frankly I’m more than sick of it. I’m fucked either way.

And talking doesnt help. And I’m too fucking lazy to try and write and to uninspired for it to come without effort. All I can manage are half-assed rants like this one, that I am secretly harbouring hope, will help me feel a teeny bit better, enough to fill in the fucking university application and get all this shit done and over with.

And all of me hurts and i think I might be coming down with something because my throat is scratchy too, and part of me is so fucking glad because I’ll have something physical to blame for my shit attitude aside from shitty-attitude-equipped self.

And I want to go to bed, but when I go to bed I cant sleep. When I do sleep, I wake up feeling like shit, regardless of how many hours I sleep. So this has nothing to do with sleep or lack of it. I actually think i function better when I sleep an hour or two a day. When I have things to do..things to make my stupid frivolous unimportant worthless life a little less of all that and a little more useful. But I do have things to do. I have a lot of things to do. Just…no fucking will to do any of it.

So you see? I’m running around in circles here. Imperfect, oblong, haphazard circles, but circles nonetheless. Stupid fucking circles. Heres to a new meaning for “the circle of life”.

Morbidity abounds

Death by asphyxiation. Self- asphyxiation.

Its possible, isn’t it? To want to die enough to suffocate yourself with a pillow. Practice, though, is what makes all the difference. Practice and determination.

How many times have you held a pillow to your face?
Once?

Once is enough. Enough to calculate the precise moment you will cease to exist.

The human body is stunningly resilient, did you know? You don’t use all the oxygen you breathe. The composition of air at sea level is roughly 21% Oxygen, 78% Nitrogen, 1% everything else. The air you exhale contains 14-16% Oxygen, and your body can survive on it. Albeit weak, weary and on the verge, but your body can survive.

Your hands will eventually ease off the pillow, and every breath you take from then will be stolen. Every moment will be a crime and there will be no defense against your want of pulling the pillow down on yourself again. And every time, seconds before the human panic sets in, you’ll realize you are within the vicinity of peace.

Where Poeticism Falls Short -

I lean against
Cold porcelain
And brush
My poetic teeth
Then wash
My poetic face
While I consider
Taking a poetic shit
Like any other
(unpoetic)
being

Anywhere

I feel like I’m 8. I’ve decided to run away from home. But I cant think of anywhere to go. The bags are packed, with my stuffed toys and few clothes, and I’m ready to bolt… But I cant think of Anywhere.

I remember guilt. When I was 5. or 6. I wrote a letter starting “Dear Papa,” and told him I was sorry. I didnt know how to spell “know”. Didnt know the word guilt even existed. But I knew “sorry” and I knew I was. I remember the school day – my uniform; my friends (that girl with the pink plastic framed glasses and the boy with curly brown hair). They didnt know how to spell “know” either. So we decided on “no”.

I feel like I’m 8. Powerless, confused, scared, angry. Hurt. I feel like I’m 8 and I’ve decided to run away from home.

But I cant think of Anywhere.

Sleep-deprived ramblings

If I’m taking the goddamn risk, why not go all out and try to become a fucking writer?! Thats something I can actually DO..as apposed to..fuck. No, not fuck. I mean as apposed to draw and paint and shit. Or maybe thats the whole point. Reverse psychology. Give me all the options and watch me choose the “right” one..

Its not that. I’m sick of this. I dont want any of it. ANY of it. I’d rather live in a bloody freaking hole and rot to death. Okay, maybe not. But fuck. Whatever I choose, theres that condescension..that “look at what you’re doing with your smart brain” and then the “yeah, I guess she wasnt all that smart anyways” and the “what a waste of a life” and the “you’ll starve to death, then make money after you die”. You know, I could stage my own death. It’d be funny. Ironic. Like I’d go through that much trouble.

But nothings right. Nothing is fucking right and I might just as well give it all up and do a freaking BSc or whatever the fuck its called. Its not supposed to be this hard to get a fucking grip but oh look! It is! Surprise surprise, look who fucked up again. Yep, me. Wooo! There should be some sort of an award for this sort of thing. Or maybe a guiness book record.

And you realise…*I* realise that after all this shit about being creative and artistic, my artistic abilities amount to shit. Much like…everything else I’ve done with my life. Or..not done. Basically…not done.

But I have an year. An year to fuck up worse. And then actually have an excuse to give up, conform, reproduce and die.

I know how to work this out. I do know. I do. I know how to work this out.

And hell, if I KNEW I could, if I had even a vague fucking idea of how to do this shit, I would. Not how to work it out. I know how. I learn how to do the shit, thats how. But fuck…whats the point? Whats the fucking point?

What is this wonderfully elusive point that every goddamn living person knows. Rhetorical.

Its…rhetorical. Because of course, no one has the answer. And everybody has the answer. But its not my answer. Not MY point. I have no point. Heh. Extend that to “There is no point to me” and voila!

Funny how one supposed fuck up comes to this. Its always very, very funny.

Boogeyman

If you lay in the dark long enough, with your eyes open, everything disappears. Even things you see with light that snakes in from between the curtain and the wall, or that barges in from under your door. Everything disappears and still, you can feel it breathing right beside you. You can feel its flesh an inch from yours. You can feel it, ready to grab you, seep through you as soon as you unclench your fists, close your eyes and drift to sleep. Its muscles tensed, breathing controlled, much like yours. Don’t turn around. Whatever you do – Don’t. Move.

Your eyes burn unbearably now, so you risk a blink – you risk seeing it in your peripheral vision, you risk being seen afraid. The child in you makes believe; if you don’t see it, it don’t see you. Your eyes burn still, water, dry – fear makes us overcome many things.

There are only a few hours left till the sun rises; many nights left till peace comes. You wouldn’t be afraid if death came now, and took you, with your eyes open, frozen. They’d say you died like you lived, gazing at something beyond, looking for something more… They wouldn’t know – I hate looking for things and now
if I could just

close my eyes
and

sleep…

Falling and Fusion

Breath deeply till it passes – feeling. Numbness calmly sutures all wounds until you’re far enough from yourself not to care of who said what, when and to whom. You now exist as two people, estranged from one another; two people that see each other here and there but have not the will to speak, or to know. You the one that writes this note now, are free of all emotional attachment.
The other you is dead.

With precise movements of your dexterous hands, you record every moment that begins to pierce through your indifference. By binding it to paper, you hope it will cease to burn through you – but that is seldom the case. It burns still and you have your journal set ablaze, yet it somehow burns without consuming itself. Fire can only consume that which is of this world, you conclude.
These thoughts are not.

Where are they from, then?

Breath deeply, make it pass. You ponder not on pointless questions that bear no relevance to your being. Beings. There are two of you now. Does one still exist if one is dead? Does death alter the inherent property of a human being? If one were to stop being, what would one be? You ponder on pointless questions that bear no relevance to your beings.

Your anti-being lays motionless before you and you wonder how long you may remain separate this time. It is a gradual process, this disassociation. Like a stunt-devil, you learn to fall closest to ground. As you learn, you go higher, fall longer and let the numbness consume you.

And fusion…is when you hit ground.

Rants dont have titles

Things fade. Time devours all relationships, then you bury the ashes and walk away. You visit their graves on special occasions to remember them, pay your respects to them. You remember how they have each painted a mark, which you sometimes call a scar, on your body that will remain as you grow old and wither.

The trick is when to call time, or when to charge up the pads once more, tell everyone to get their hands off your relationship and shock it. Chances are you’ll have done that a lot, for the special ones. Chances are most of the special ones are still alive and kicking. Then there are those that didn’t make it, though they were special. You shocked and shocked and begged and cried and kicked the operating table and threw down your array of surgical instruments. But you couldn’t operate alone.

You were afraid, after your first time losing one on the table. You let some choke, because you were afraid. Others, you didn’t take to the operating table. They too died of neglect and fear. Some, you left on the operating table. Got tired and walked away. You left them for someone else to bury, watched their funeral from afar. Then regretted it.

Regret is a funny thing. Funny in the distant, tragically ironic way you try to see your life in. There is irony in all tragedies though, is there not? Tragedy is all about missed chances, what-ifs and unfulfilled possibilities. And irony? You just like to think there is some, so you can laugh at it. So it isn’t a tragedy to you, but a twisted comedy that leaves you in tears of laughter.

Or at least, what seem to be tears of laughter.

Oblivia: Maps

You’re lost.

You walk over to the city information desk and ask for a map. You’ve been here for a while now, but these all-consuming streets seem to have been designed by Deadalus, and you feel like on of the 14 young men and maidens offered up to the Minotaur. You’re half expecting to see a map marked by strings, cracked walls and abandoned shields. Of all things, its Greek mythology that your tired, wandering mind recalls.

Non-existent wind plasters an obscure map to your face, not unlike the one you imagined. You wonder what you would’ve got had you asked for a trail of bread-crumbs or sparkling red shoes to take you home.

You walk over to a pensive passer-by, the first you’ve seen, brooding over a piece of paper that from afar looks very much like a treasure map from a pirate movie.

Sir, could you tell me the way Home?

He looks up from his map, notices yours.

Did you get this from the information desk?
Yes.
That’s the wrong map.

You look from your map to his, back to yours. He’s gone.

There are no walls in Oblivia, you notice – aside from the towering stone monument that separates you from Esperenza. There are no walls, yet you hold in your hand the map of a labyrinth – the labyrinth of thoughts that Oblivia is. You see, you are King Minos, the sacrifice and the Minotaur all in one. You offer yourself up to be destroyed by your demons, while you look on in amazement and twisted joy. The labyrinth grows as you do, and right at the heart of it grows Oblivia.

You had no Ariadne in Esperenza to gift you a string. And as you turn the corner in your mind, arriving at a familiar abandoned shield, you realize –

You’re lost.