Thoughts and Souls

April 30, 2010

It was like somewhere along the way I had lost track of my own destination, fell out of touch with the person I wanted to be, forgot who I was and became the beast.

Trapped in a desert of sand, drowned in a salty sea, lost in a ravenous jungle, forgotten in the place of our dreams, we lose ourselves in the world of Fairytale.

That world. That world we wished existed when faced with the harsh cruelties of reality, where you try your hardest to live via a moral compass, to be overcome and seduced into the sinister.
Things become grey. Black and White fuse and you find yourself adrift in despair.

Laying upon green pastures as the thick scent of lavender fills the cool breeze. The souls whisper gently and the blowing grass tickles along my cheek. The clouds swiftly chase each other across the mid morning sky. The view is serene.

Self hatred and loathing start. Ruminating over the thought… could there be redemption? Can you escape through the barrier of thorns and dance upon the meadows?

Am I even alive? Am I a shadow? Or even a reflection? A Ghost in the fog…

The rain falls like tears from the sky, washing away my sorrows, the harsh wind blows through my hair and whispers to me that I am free.

Deception never tasted so evil. Thin crisps of trickery and the flavourless betrayal. Entombed in this torture for life without forgiveness.

Sorrowful songs are sung at dawn. Laments to those who wish to escape the fiery depths of hell and stand under Earth’s great sky and count the stars. I smell lavender and rosemary. Sweet and sour smells.

Now we’re all son’s of bitches.

All to Die

April 22, 2010

He begins carving his own face. Blood spills to the floor like water from an overflowing drain. The thick salty smell fills his nostrils as he hacks at his face like a butcher. Skin and blood fall like the fat chunks of meat they are.
The knife has reached his cheekbones and the man begins chiselling away at it. Chunking crushing sounds like sticking a shovel in sand.
He bashes at the bone as he screams, haunting long and painful screams. He cuts ferociously at it like knife against a dinner plate.
The screaming continues, long hard yelling amidst howling and crying.
The salty tears burn against the places where flesh once was. It stings so much that it is unbearable, yet the man continues, breaking through the bones and moving on to his own nose. He slices at it like a child would slice at cheese, there is nothing more then a deep dark bloody gap within a few seconds as the man’s screaming only radiates louder. He stops, and slowly moves over to the mirror for a look.
He inspects himself, raising an eyebrow and attempting a smile into the mirror.
He quickly dashes away and begins searching within the dark oak drawer next to the bed.
He is in a small dark room with little bits of dust floating around. He is rushing, and attempting to gain a hold of his new body, he is unsure of how to breath yet, he knows air fills his lungs but the feeling is strange without a nose.
He pulls out a small black object from the drawer. Holding it in front of him it begins flashing. It is a camera.
After a few minutes of photos the man picks the knife back up, and continues his carving.
He begins with simple symbols in his chest, but he does not know how long until that wont be enough… until he needs more destruction, more pain.
His teeth grit as he feels the insane hate and rage build within him, the urge rises again.
He screams with ravenous anger and begins punching himself in the face. Pulling and tugging at his teeth. He wants them out, they have to go.
He continues punching as blood and spit fly across the room. He runs back and forth across the room, beating himself, along the way bits of his face squishing in between his toes and sticking to his feet.
This annoys him. He begins stabbing at the chunks of his face now layering the floor.
He wants them to die. All to die.
He will burn them. Again in the oak draw he pulls out a bottle of Metho and some matches. He opens the lid and dances across the room, spraying the Metho everywhere, it sprays over his own body. It burns. He licks the place where his lips once were and grabs a box of matches. He begins to light before noticing a cheese grinder in the corner of his eye. He stops.
Before he goes he must use it at least once. He grabs a hold of it and pretends it is a bar of soap, as it slices skin from under his arms and his legs, ripping skin from all over his body. Satisfied, he proceeds to light a match. He holds it, staring deep into the flame.
He drops it.
Screams fill the night.

On a Breeze

April 9, 2010

“Do you know why humans invented fun?”
“Because someone smiled and thought it was a nice thing to do?”
“Because we needed something to take our mind of all the troubles in our pathetic little lives.” I say snapping a twig in half.
We are sitting on the wet gutter of the street next to the Graveyard, small pellets of rain drip onto our shoulders as the water absorbs into our jeans wetting our butts.
“The whole concept behind a hobby is just because people need something to take their mind off things, off the misery. Back in the day we weren’t trouble with such notions. We had to hunt for foods, collect, gather, struggle to survive. Humans are moving too fast, and struggling to cope. We will be our own demise.”
I spit onto the wet tar road, the sun is beginning to go down the twilight helps add to the melancholy feel that I can’t seem to escape from.
“Well that’s cheerful.” My friend says, feigning a smile.
“It’s not about being cheerful, it’s about being true.”
“Well, tell me, how does that make you feel?” He says raising an eyebrow.
“Like shit.” I moan.
“That’s why there’s fun, and hobbies, maybe you’re right, but ignorance is bliss, no one wants to be fucking miserable.”
I think for a moment, like his words semi make sense within my mind, but I am unable to grasp this concept, my mind travels to my ex girlfriend… the love I once felt… still feel. The feeling of sickness and pain when I think of it. Why does my brain keep taking me to her. Hurting me.
“I disagree.” I say to my friend. “If no one wants to be miserable why do we listen to sad music? Why watch sad films, why almost a year after a tragic event do we still keep thinking back, making ourselves sad.”
“I guess there’s no arguing with you.” My friend says, looking away.
I can tell he’s trying to think of a topic change, I must be miserable company.
“What do you think would happen if a book was sold. A riveting story, fantastic, everyone was reading it, it was a best seller… and halfway through they found the last half of the book was blank. No conclusion.” I ask.
“There’d be an uproar, people would want the whole story, they’d want there moneys worth.”
“But maybe that is the story, like, you write a movie and a book, and it always has this conclusion, but life’s not like that, you never know what’s next and you just keep asking. Maybe the point of the book is that? That it’s not predestined. Like what Forrest Gump said, we’re all accidental like on a breeze. The book takes you in, makes you love or hate the characters, makes you believe in them…. then it just ends. Because the story isn’t complete. There is no true ending. You discover it for yourself….”
I stare deep and intense into the palms of my hands, hoping for some glimpse of what the future holds. My friend says nothing.
I breathe out as condensation comes out, like mist… mist…. You cannot see what’s next in the mist….
A single tears rolls down my cheek.
The warmth is real, it’s not to be debated. It is real, it is clear.
I look up at the sky.
I cannot see the stars, they are clouded by pollution.
This is the sort of world we live in.

Chaotic Reasoning

April 6, 2010

The harsh smoke of my $8000 Cuban cigar flows into my lungs. A fat bearded hobo walks the street picking up papers with his sharp stick, he places the rubbish into his beard, along the way singing “Oh, I pick my rubbish up, and I stick it in my beard oh what fun it is to pick up rubbish at this time of year!”
I hear an accent within the song. Possibly French.
“Another coffee sir?” Asks the hunchback waiter.
“Yes, yes.” I say, irritated. I can’t stand strange people, especially not Quasimodo here, nor the singing hobo who is now entering the coffee shop.
I take a long drawl of my cigar and allow the harsh smoke to soothe my lungs. I raise my newspaper in hope that the hobo won’t come begging to me.
I hear a rattling sound quite like coins being chucked around. I take a peek and see the hobo at the other side of my desk. Ugh, I proceed to ignore him and read the paper. Oooh, leather walking sticks are on sale! The rattling continues, I stick my hand out and shoo this filth ridden Santa away. Eventually he leaves, to my relief. I lower my paper and take another long drawl of my fair priced cigar. I see Quasimodo returning. I can’t smoke around him, his posture is creepy and weird. I want to go home and adore my fair priced furniture. My rug? $60, 000. A bargain! I search for my wallet to pay the hunchback of Nostre Dame so I can leave. It’s not in that pocket… nor in this one… Panic rises within me and I start to rigorously search through my coat. IT’S GONE!
Quasimodo arrives at my table and I send him off to fetch me another cup of coffee. I begin to inhale and exhale with my cigar furiously. As Disney’s favourite freak returns with my coffee an old shrivelled woman enter the store along with the hobo who beckons her for money. She struggles on opening her purse taking her, what seems to me, an eternity. She pulls out a huge roll of money, giving one note to the pitiful poor man’s Santa. He stabs it up with his sharp stick and leaves the store. Senior Right Angle returns, I send him to fetch me another coffee… How long will I be here for?!
The little lady hops up and goes to the toilet, as she walks I can’t help but think of the slug woman from Monsters Inc… She has left her purse! Here’s my chance, I reach over and grab it as I begin to open it a police car arrives in front of the shop.
“Shit!” I exclaim, perhaps too loudly and throw it down into the chair where it once was.
The officer begins a discussion with Walt Disney’s nightmare now would be my chance, I reach over and pull open the purse, the first thing to come out is an ugly looking mask, the face of someone you really wish didn’t exist. I look over at the officer and Quasi I notice they have pasted a wanted poster onto the wall.
I stare at the poster, and double take back at the mask. Oh dear.
Quasi looks over and see me holding the mask, who’s face is on the wanted poster.
A single tear rolls down my face as I start to tap the ashes of my cigar into one of the many hundreds of coffee mugs.
Him and the officer both begin walking to me. My heart rate rises a thousand beats a second, the hobo re-enters the store, they are throwing accusations at me, I begin to cry like a little girl, the old woman comes back from the bathroom, she takes the mask…
Paper is flying everywhere. Had an explosion occurred? I am slightly out of it. I see the woman exist the shop and enter a bus.
Quasi hands me down a bill, and I cry like a child on their first day of school.
I look up, and the hobo has placed the note on my desk. He then leaves and continues to pick up papers in the street. Quasi takes the money and the bill is paid…
I… I’m speechless. I smile and a sense of relief washes over me.


April 4, 2010

What do you do, when you wake up in the morning and look in a mirror but don’t see yourself? My sky blue eyes…. now black, lined with red veins. My short, neat blonde hair, now brown and greasy and reaching my shoulders. My nails once pink and perfect, now overgrown and filled with dirt. Once bright clean teeth, now yellow and rotted.

What do you do, when you wake up in the morning and can’t even recognize yourself? How does one become this way. How can ones life turn so wrong? One day a normal life, normal friends. Next day being through as much loss as one can. Losing wife and kids. Parents and grandparents. Brothers and sisters. Killed. Slaughtered in a fashion so disgusting if I was to describe it you might cry. And what for? For being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Seeing the wrong crime being committed. Dying because someone else couldn’t be fucked to kill them elsewhere.

On the run. Living off scraps of McDonalds. Running from my own shadow, hiding from my own reflection…

No. I couldn’t live like this. I was going to start a new. I got a job. Not the greatest. Then what is great about whoring yourself out… I had the money… I had it. I bought a ticket and was on my way out of here. This plane would take me far away. Away from my sorrows and pain. Away from my fear and confusion. As I sat thinking of the plane I’d be on tomorrow it began to rain. I stood up enjoying the cool water splashing against my skin. The water washed away my fears, my confusion, my sorrows, my pain. It washed away my dirt. It cleaned me. As I looked up to the heavens the water stung my eyes. No more…

I caught my plane. I caught my plane on the 11th of the 9th.

It burned away my fears. It burned away my confusion, my sorrows and my pain. It burned away my life. My sad pitiful pathetic life. At least… I wish it did…. I wish this story was true… some facts are. But the cold hard truth…. My story it’s… it’s much worse.

I Wrote

April 2, 2010

Imagine, being completely alone. Not trapped, but free.
The world to yourself, one enormous playground, the ability to see life as a toy, no-one to hold you back, no-one to push you. No influence.
Everything you do is all you. The greatest spiritual enlightenment, finding yourself in the innermost peace, creating- forging an identity.
Creating yourself.
No boundaries but those you set by yourself. Life’s greatest lesson, self taught morals and experiences.
If we admit that life can be controlled by reason, the possibility of life is destroyed.
The simple things bring greater enjoyment. The feel of the sun upon your skin, the wind through your hair or the wetness of water quenching your thirst.
Be gone with an artificial reality, living as existence was meant. But how long until loneliness consumes you?
Happiness- only real when shared.


April 1, 2010

Sometimes I feel like screaming.

Sometimes, there’s this anger and fear inside me.

Sometimes, it all boils up. The hatred, the rage, the sadness, the loneliness. It boils until it feel like I’m about to explode.

And then…… right then…. it feels like a piece of my soul has broken off. Like a piece of my very existence, my fragrance of life has died. I hold it in. I push it back down within me. I force it all down, kept hidden away.

Sometimes… I wish I could get rid of all this teenage angst that surrounds me. That I could be left with all the happiness, and I could shrug off the bad things. That… in some aspect… I wasn’t human. That I wouldn’t have to suffer.

I could make thousands of metaphors or similes to describe it. I could be creative. But I’m being blunt. I wander, constantly, hiding all feeling, wishing I could just cry sometimes…. but I don’t. I wander on. Letting it eat away at me, the sick feeling in my stomach. The feeling you can’t describe, but if you had not felt it you would not understand. But imagine, if you will. Standing alone in the dark. In complete nothingness. With no feelings or emotion. But a gradual insanity, a rage, a needing to be released grows.
No… that’s wrong. The feeling… is like waiting in a hospital bed, and the Doctor slowly enters the room, life moves in slow motion, like the whole world is revolving around you in the one exact moment. His mouth opens and he speaks. But you don’t hear him. Not completely, you already know what he’s said as the world melts around you… the feeling in your stomach, that… that some sort of sickness. You’re going to die.

Yes. That’s the feeling. A sort of nothingness, a heavy weighing on your soul, as it shatters into a million pieces. Sure you live on, but you’re never truly living.
Living life in this depressed state, where you don’t truly belong. Like you shouldn’t really exist. You do. And you don’t want it to end. You just wish it was better. And as the days go by the sickening feeling grows.

You never really enjoy…. food doesn’t taste, you just eat because you’re supposed to. You don’t enjoy the sun upon your skin, or the cold breeze across your face. The thought of death always on you mind. A nothingness. An end. The pleasures in life are void.

Sometimes I feel like dying.

But I don’t. I wont. Not today. No. Today as I sit by myself, having philosophical arguments in my head about the point of it all. I will not live like others. I will not be understood. I will talk to people, as if I am a person. Yet I am not. Because I do not understand who I am. I have not yet developed my personality, not yet defined myself. I am still a void.
I will talk to my friends, I will laugh and argue. But in those silent moments, when the void grows and I go blank, falling from reality….. I will have learned more than other have. I have learned to feel dead. So when I grow, pass my teen angst, my hatred and fear, and when I truly live…. well…. I will truly live.