"But you look at the sunrise, the Gulf of Naples, the sea, and you can't help feeling sad. And the most disgusting thing is that you really are sad!"
Thursday, 30 March 2017
Tuesday, 28 March 2017
Am I alone? Completely, and utterly? But the truth is, I need only to reach for my phone and dial any one number belonging to any one person who has laid their hands on my shoulder and said: you have me. So why is it so that I am still isolated in my 90cmX190cm bed? Do I not want to trouble any of the kind hearts, or do I not want them to see me as I am? Perhaps I even doubt their sincerity; who knows?
The stories that I feed myself in order to survive until the next day, how much do I believe in them now? Their effectiveness is, like any other drug taken regularly, becoming nil. There are no beasts to slay and no revenge to seek in this life, so why do I keep going back to those stories where solitude amplifies one's strength? Without any willpower in the first place, strength cannot exist.
Right now, I live and breathe as a lump of meat, a mass of cells, and nothing more. I shiver under the blanket even though it is hot both indoors and outdoors, refusing to sit, unwilling to open my eyes. If I keep drifting off to sleep and living those short glimpses of dreams, maybe I'll eventually have a life in one of them. Any life with feeling is better than this, right?
Wrong. My life is great. What constitute this greatness? What determines how good a life is? While it is true that there is no need for me to suffer and people who aren't in my situation would not hesitate to live in my position of material comfort, I can't seem to see beyond my internal deficiencies. That intangible pressure that squeezes my brain as well, I cannot bear it, and I cannot get rid of it. Because it is internal, it determines what I make of my environment, regardless of the actual state the environment exists in.
Thus, I will admit that my life is not worth throwing away because there is so much to appreciate. However, that is only when I am able to step out of myself and approach my situation from an external point of view. When in my own body again, isolated by the terrorizing dark clouds that threaten a thunderstorm in my already chaotic head, all I want to do is to fall asleep permanently, so I wouldn't have to live in a swirling tornado.
Excitement from waiting on my next packages keep me hopeful. Consumerism has its way of comforting the troubled modern soul, even though it is a practice one shouldn't trust too much as it might just swallow one whole and propel one into a more painful state of being. Whether it pacifies my panic or fuels my consciousness of isolation, I do not know-- at this point, I'm too afraid to find out.
I am a strong, independent woman. I need only to say that to myself, then perhaps, I will appreciate the sunshine and smile again as I walk against the breeze of insecurity.
"Come pain, come hurt, see the Halo."
Monday, 27 March 2017
But I have seen nothing in particular. In this day and age, barren trees ablaze in fire that does not burn can hardly be taken to be a miracle, only clever mechanics. I wish too that I could have as much belief in any one aspect of my life-- any at all.
My nails need to be cut.
Instead of a flood and drowning to our miserable deaths, can we burn in pain this time? Rain is not as threatening as fire, and drowning doesn't make one realise the true extent of one's sins. There's a reason why Hell is hot, right? It'd be Atlantis if Hell existed underwater. Perhaps fire just intimidates the animal in us.
If I had to kneel by my bed and pray every night, that is what I would pray for: to suffer in flames of my own demise. Somehow, I think that if I set myself on fire, I would be untouched as the embers would quiver before my anger that burns a thousand suns brighter.
But of course, in reality every little burn hurts. The heat of the metal frame puts me in my place and reminds me that my skin would bubble and I will most definitely cry. Weakling.
"If our final day has come, let's pretend to carry on.And if the end has now begunlive on."
Saturday, 25 March 2017
The abject is born from the realisation that my existence is as limited as the meaning my body carries. Without it, I wouldn't have felt pain, but with it, only could I have known how to seek the sensations akin to the repressed trauma brought on by a separation of nature's will. And so as the guitar is strummed and a voice full of feeling carries the melody of suffering across the quad, my fleeting abjection is compressed into a dewdrop that reflects the stars. It shall return again, as falling stars eventually land.
Tuesday, 21 March 2017
Yesterday, it was a finger to your lips. Today, the first thing I see is you biting your lips. And again, your finger traces the line of your lower lip. Rarely do I feel the blood in my cheeks warm up enough to send me into a feverish daze-- not even when I read the most hardcore Yaoi, imagine that! Yet for some reason your unattractive face with all its awkward charms makes my stomach ache because even my intestines quiver at your cute ways. STOP PUTTING YOUR FINGERS NEAR YOUR MOUTH I'M DYING AHHHHHHHH
At first I linked your need to have something near your mouth as your desire to suck something manly, but unfortunately, I have confirmed your sexual attraction towards women. Is it unfortunate? Of course it is! You will never be my man anyway so I'd rather have Yaoi fantasies of you because where is the fun of imagining straight couples getting it on? If anything, imagining heterosexual sex is gut-wrenching for me.
Ah, let us talk about more pleasant things, like the information I have collected about you over the... how long have I been watching you? 1,2 weeks?
Name: too obvious
Birthday: May 1x
Intersted in: Women
Living in: Exx, Nx
Siblings: Younger brother
Temperament: Never Salty, Never Lucky
I'm sure I know much more, like who he would rather rub sunscreen on.
Technically, I'm not a stalker if all the information is revealed publicly by the person himself. I simply have excellent memory, as I've stated in yesterday's post.
When the Yogg hits just right and you bury your face in your hands, I just want to pat you and say that it's okay, I voted for Pavel this time.
How do I even remember?
I recall with such vivid detail the conversation of last Friday evening that even the ones directly involved are baffled at my recollection. They had asked what they were laughing about, in their pyjamas at 1AM. How is it that the ones who derived the most pleasure remember the least? Not to say that I hadn't enjoyed our evening together, my cheeks were sore too, but my mind never stopped.
How do I even remember?
Every sound, every reason, every word, every sequence.
Is this a curse or is it a blessing? I remember not what Lefebrve writes even after reading thrice, but I recall moments such as that which does not in any way enhance my living experience. If my task is to roam wastelands collecting lived experiences and sharing them with whoever has the intent of knowing, then I suppose the life of eating grass-root porridge is the life I was meant to live.
If forgetting is not a conscious mechanism and the act of remembering is involuntary, then can one blame me for being embittered by memories past? Can one look down on me and make little of the hurt I tolerate each day?
Elephants have a strong sense of community. So is this how it feels like to live as an elephant, in solitude? Nobody shares your lived experiences and you can only comfort yourself with the feeling of your own trunk that you already know so well, trapped in a rapture of memories.
Until now, I still haven't found the voice that I am indebted to from a life before this. The reflection in the looking-glass only returns my greetings, but never once greet. Perhaps when the Moon is full again she'll send me her messenger clothed in powdered silk. As fate will have it, it is not an elephant that roams the pale desert that is the surface of the Moon.
Monday, 20 March 2017
We all know where my regrets lie.
One sound less, and I might have been able to keep my life. If I had held my breath instead of cried when the tiger stalked its prey in the bamboo maze, its teeth wouldn't have found their way into my flesh. It was quick. They sank so deep I felt no pain, only my consciousness wasting away. I thought I could sleep forever then, dazed by blood-loss, kept warm by the beast stripping me of my own body.
It was gruesome, it was. But it seemed to relish the tang of my blood and what little meat I had to offer. When it had calmed down to feast on me, I swear, I felt happy. Was I smiling? In my mind, I was, but whether or not my jaw remained, I didn't know. Its breath kept me from the encroaching reach of the cold. It was almost sadistic, the way it teased me with the fire of life, reluctant to let me be embraced by the shadow of death. Does a live prey provide a heightened dining experience? If only tigers could speak.
How could I stay alive through such torment? It wasn't up to me. It kept me from sinking into the ground and made sure I wouldn't grow as a demure shoot. In the faint luminescence of glowing jade marbles, I saw a colourless lotus shed its petals into a pond. With each ripple, a deep growl echoed. The whistling bamboo hummed me a prayer as the echoes from a blurred vision passed the threshold of reality: this is your punishment.
I couldn't cry anymore because I had already done so the moment fate let go of my hand.
So I lay with my guardian, my tormentor, listening to the bamboo sing.
Sunday, 19 March 2017
Friday, 17 March 2017
The only constant variable in those dreams is a man who is unaffected by his surroundings, even though physical pain is inflicted on him as well. I do not know if he is actually alive, or if he is forged from Spermaceti, for even though he breathes, blinks, and sighs, not even a hint of human emotion is present-- at least not to me because he only became human for her.
A new variable has entered the scene, one that is uncalled for. With the previous dreams only screams ensued, but now...
Confusion is at its peak. On the one hand, I know very well that I should unceremoniously bury the body of emotions that should have been long deceased. On the other, I think I should set them ablaze in undeserved glory until the woods char and all oxygen has been spent. That is why in life's play, I will always be the one unfavourable, the one who determines one's own death in the course of an unfulfilled life, dying in fits of regrets after being dealt the fatal blow by the celebrated protagonist. It is fun while I watch my anger swallow up the cries of mercy, but when nothing is left, only then does a glimmer of guilt flash on my cheek, reflected by the blazing light, evaporating just as if it had never flowed.
When is it time for pride to be put aside? Surely, it is now too late? If like a beggar I come crawling, how pathetic would that be? There is nothing more disgraceful than to beg! To beg for anything! Desperate as one may be. I am a pathetic fellow, indeed. If for so long I have been too proud to the point I have lost everything that I ever cared for, then would it not be redundant if I abandon all pride at once, when I have nothing but it left? What is there to keep, anymore? One day it will destroy me yet again, but without it now, I cannot pull the fleece in front of my own eyes to carry on. It is the bargain for keeping pride by my side.
No one shall pity me and I deserve none. In the dreaming world, it has been made clear that whatever I choose to do now will be unappreciated, unwanted, and mocked with disgust. I may cry, but nobody shall be moved, neither will they extend a hand offering tissues.
Scream, until you believe it.
On a cliff now, I feel the air of the wild purifying me.
My thoughts, though intangible, happen to be the heaviest obstacle that weighs me down. Why can I not do what makes me happy? That is right, I have tried, but in return came sadness a thousand folds thicker. An insect, am I? One that ponders around the arse of an ass, entertained by the motions of an uninterested tail waving me away. Whether my presence is felt on its skin matters not, the tail twitches all the same.
If you are going to be a friend who honestly could not even begin to care about my well-being, then why did you come knocking on my door again? Did the pain you inflict fail to hurt me as much as you wanted it to? Did you, after dissecting me without putting me under, want to further puncture the organs that now lay bare to your abuse? Did you want to see me dead, after all?
You have no right to say you still want to be friends when you have done nothing but reject my every attempt without reaching out yourself.
A guest comes knocking and when invited in, drops down in a coma while still conscious, taking up a substantial amount of space, unmoving, yet utterly aware.
Thursday, 16 March 2017
What have I to offer this evening? A breath of roses reminiscent of yesteryear's honey without a hint of sweetness. Warm enough to soothe a raving conscience, plain enough to neutralise all thoughts to the point where Dostoyevsky can be enjoyed.
Dostoyevsky, is it?
Murakami-sensei is also a fan of Dostoyevsky, is he not? His characters read Dostoyevsky as well. Scraping by, relying on translation projects-- such familiarity. Ah, I quite like how authors are inspired. Reading Crime and Punishment now, I think of my assignment on abjection and how our fitting story line was so unjustly rejected. Abjection, as our character saw it, was all that existed outside her and yet was what swallowed her from within. While Raskolnikov's revulsion was amplified by the very abject act of murder, ours was one brought about by the growing disgust born from the perception of a culture bordered on fear; a growing disgust born from the very fear of the realisation of the fragility of such a culture.
Of course, university only allows mediocrity. Anything beyond that is blasphemy.
If there are moments in my life that are impossible to satisfy, the under fulfillment of this project would undoubtedly be one of the worms that gnaws at the body of wasted achievements. It really annoys me, just thinking about it.
So we are stuck with a script nobody is enthusiastic about. Serving up shit to save grades truly makes spending close to 40K a year on
I actually really just wanted to share a passage from the novel and some screenshots from Hong: The Rebel. But here we are, with another lengthy post I'm sure none of you have paid any attention to. Can you find the chicken nugget hidden in the text? I thought not.
There is not chicken nugget.
"For one thing, my spelling's poor, and for another, my German's diabolical. I'm making up more and more as I go along and my only consolation is that it comes out better this way. Who knows, though? Perhaps it comes out worse..."
Wednesday, 15 March 2017
So goes the lively conversation about the weather.
Fangirling always brightens atmospheres. So let me start with my latest obsession-- not so much an obsession, but a person who makes me cringe in the most heartwarming ways. When he throws his hands up in victory and make machine gun noises as C'Thun's battle cry is triggered, I melt. Throughout the stream, I have to press my hands against my cheeks to check if my blood has been heated up too much. Without anybody to say anything to, I just wonder out loud why and how is this grown man so cute. He is nothing much to look at for sure, but he's just bursting with optimism, brighter and more contagious than the rays of the Sun. He's lovable, dangerously so.
I like little boys.
Ah, sorry, but there's no reason to alert the authorities. I only stalk little boys who are trapped in the bodies of adult males.
I tried watching some other streamers as well and although their playing style is clean, lathered in serious expertise without unnecessary cringe, they are not as entertaining as this little boy. It's impossible to stop watching once he starts. With his captivating personality and my obsessive tendencies, before I know it, we'd be reaching the end of the stream. It doesn't even matter if I am not watching, I'd still have the tab open, just so I can hear his voice~
But when you tell me to quiet down, take a moment to think about what I have just written, or what I really think about this little boy, I won't be able to recall anything. Excitement only lasts in the moment. Tomorrow when I see him again, I'll feel the flush in my cheeks and squeal when he laughs, roll in my bed and get drunk on cuteness.
I have issues?
It's reassuring to know that he will be available Monday-Saturday 1700-0000/0100 as long as my Wi-Fi is working. Know that song which goes "no need to hurry home now that you're gone"? SENPAI HAS JUST GIVEN ME A REASON TO COME HOME!
There are reasons why Senpai brings me grief as well, but they shall not be discussed, ever. At least not in this post that is a desperate attempt to make me sound like I am absolutely untroubled. Hu-hu.
Will Senpai ever notice me?
The answer is never~
He's gay anyway, right? People in Twitch chat seem to want to stick their fingers up his tight European butt.
That is none of my problem, I suppose. Because Senpai will never notice me.
I can maybe use my 2 weeks in the Netherlands to stalk him and design accidental coincidences, but even I have my dignity. Besides, I have no balls, and neither do I have a Yogg.
I spam it as if Senpai will notice me.
Tuesday, 14 March 2017
"In morbid states, dreams are often unusually palpable and vivid, bearing an exceptional resemblance to reality."
Thus, I refuse to go to sleep. Eventually it happens anyway because I am of the weaker species. If I cannot avoid the descend into an alternate reality just as painful when my consciousness shuts down, then I might as well shorten the time I have to relive those moments of abandonment.
One night, two nights, three...
When darkness falls and I open my eyes to behold a familiar world that's not quite right, I see you by my side with a heart still full of love. Does it make me happy, I wonder. Each night I wake up in a world created by shattered memories, aware of what lies at the end, yet for some reason, the awareness does not deter the growing hope belonging to the wistful Mädchen that shares my body but not my discomfort. Living in a body that is mine but having no autonomy over it, I can only hold my breath and go along with the responses of whoever is in control then. I cannot even shut my eyes to avoid witnessing the unfolding of my own tragedy.
If I could, I would push you away the moment you blur into sight upon my awakening in the dreaming world.
Always, the dreams start the way our relationship had, in light of all that fulfills one's heart. Then we pass the days idly until the dark clouds form overhead and the time for abandonment chimes like thunder spreading across the cushions of grey condensation. You let go of me, just like that. When time is due, all emotions evaporate and you walk away into the burning Wald. I am left crying after you and a storm is all that remains. No you. No burning Wald. Only wind, rain, thunder, lighting, and my wailing.
How many times must I wake up and fall asleep again only to find myself back in the very same world? I think I might be going crazy.
If one more night I must live through the same abandonment and wake up with the feeling of despair anew, I really might just let myself bleed out this final scene, trapped in an unending downpour.
Monday, 13 March 2017
Drawing the curtains up every morning and arranging fresh sacrificial flowers in the vase by your bed breaks my sanity. Each time I bend down to dry the condensation on your forehead, I come too close to the face I cannot read, one that reminds me of my incompetence and disgust. Then I plant a soft kiss on your forehead and greet you, good morning, asking if you had slept well, if the light that is coming in this morning isn't too strong. My intentions are hidden behind the proper code of conduct.
Proper? Why bother keeping up appearances even now? Ha-ha.
Freshly baked bread, there you go; eat up.
Then the evening comes and I let myself in again. I pull up a chair and sit by the bed, acknowledging the distance that needs to be kept. Smiling at you, out of habit, I ask about your day and prattle on about mine, my hands folded on my lap.
I pace around the lone chair I have been sitting on.
"I'm tired, I don't want to do this anymore..."
So soon... Wird alles gut...
With violence and in heated confusion, I grab hold of your shoulders, shaking you back and forth. I scream at you without words, hoping that the breaking of my voice could articulate better the state of my deteriorating soul. Would they reach you, the commotion? Not that it matters.
I slap you, repeatedly.
Holding you close, I console you with the rhythmic pat of my hand, whispering dreams into your ears. My embrace tightens, so much that I am holding my breath. Then we lie down together, with my head on your chest, your hand on my head.
What kind of game are we playing?
I get on top of you, lowering myself so that cheeks home to stinging rivulets may meet. Maybe I curl my lips to touch yours, without shame. It's all the same.
I've dug myself in too many holes...
Has the love subsided? Not that it matters, since it's all the same.
Plunging the knife into your chest is my salvation. To turn into foam for the better of our days or to live on drowned in blood that cannot be washed away, it is clear which path I should choose.
Again and again I pull the knife out of your punctured body only to stick it back in, regret and guilt overflowing from both our wounds. What am I purging, who am I purging? Stab. Stab. Stab. You have already been dead for so long, so who am I purging, what am I purging?
I tell you I'm tired and that we should rest.
Hold me... I'm drowning... Hold me...
And we both drown in Inferno.
Will the new dawn ever come?
Sunday, 12 March 2017
Being a creep myself, explaining my current situation using another psycho's words make me feel a little less perverted. If I did not say it directly, then it can only be an indirect hint.
Fictional, or not? In between the non-fiction, I suppose. I'd like to argue that even fictional characters are real, as in they fully exist simply because they have been created. Just as fragile as their existence is our existence, for if one does not know us, then we do not exist in their world. That is why people go insane when Senpai never notices them. The thought of not existing in their world is unbearable, and very much cruel.
NOTICE ME, SENPAI!
It is a scream screamed in futile.
Of course, it is common for one to have a Bias they would die for and a fictional character they masturbate to-- we lonely souls are in constant alienation after all! But does being the core of a stranger's fantasies bring the weight of a certain shame? Do you blush when you realise every morning that somebody, or ten-thousand somebodies are daydreaming about spending the perfect day with you? Perhaps fast-paced Life does not allow such trifles to be mused. Only those who are idle enough to plan a future with a fictional being can think of these things.
It must be wonderful to be Senpai.
How does one obsess over one who doesn't exist? It all begins while dreaming of nothing. The tenacious nature of the desperation of those who are alone both inside and out will cause them to leech every passing victim who leaves a trail of faint rustling.
Reading Dostoyevsky is almost as unpleasant as living in reality. Now, there are even frustrations brought on by the fictional world!
There is nothing to blush over.
Saturday, 11 March 2017
It's raining outside as I write, but the Sun still shines. No man in sight.
With the lack of transitional phrases, I'll just plainly announce that the next paragraph will have nothing whatsoever to do with a supposedly gay man praying in the shower for the skies to rain men. It will be about me and my ridiculous habit of assigning sentimental value to just about everything I see:
Being a hoarder naturally means that I refuse to clear out even the dust that triggers my allergies because they too have sentiments attached. It's not good for me to live among the dust and must that come with the passing of time, I know that very well, but maybe, I like to look under the bed and address the dust bunnies as I would old friends. My eyes start to water, but even the hoover cannot suck them into oblivion for their bond to this world is neither tied to the floor nor the corner of the ceiling. In the middle of chasing unwanted guests out of my abode, I tell them to stay, weak as my resolution is to voluntarily let go of what has come into my possession. To have a connection to the past makes the present authentic and the future reasonable, all because that connection serves as brutal reminder of loss. Loss is feared, fear sets up boundaries, and boundaries satisfy the needs of the superego. In other words, fear is the key to self-realization. One should not underestimate the powers of horror.
Ask me how's life. I still don't have the answer. All I can manage is a truth rooted in reality that is mirrored by the reflection of an internal bluff.
Friday, 10 March 2017
Wednesday, 8 March 2017
It is as if you would answer me if I stared at you too. But of course, the answers I seek never seem to be spoken, not even once. Perhaps there are no answers to the questions I'm asking, questions that I haven't given voice to, only shape. Breathe and I let out a long sigh, as heavy as the howl of a dog who has never known disloyalty.
Now we are caught again in the middle of the week, a time where it's too early to retire but too late to lament upon. Mittwoch, あの不思議の日。
How come you never made use of it and now you want to?
I don't. I only have a quest I need to complete.
During a time where bonds were sustained by the energy emitted by hope, a mental fortification ensured the indestructibility of that bond. Such security and confidence led to its fine demise, for when the light of hope got overshadowed by the reality of how we live, that bond wasted away in the dark, having lost its life force. Anduin's Lightwell no longer shined upon it as in his eyes, it was no longer just.
Fallen from grace, one can no longer expect to live as carelessly as the Gods. Nor can one expect sacrificial banquets to be burnt in one's name. Humility has been cast, and so has Equality-- from feared Legends reduced to mere parasites that die with the flick of a finger. Either annihilation finds its way to you next, or you build yourself up again, never reaching the skies, but never too weak to fail.
How come you never made use of it and now you want to?
Because my divine shield has been silenced, though the will to emerge victorious still burns.
Monday, 6 March 2017
After a tiring day when one is finally deserving of some sleep, one falls back into bed contented, paying no attention to the quality of what cushions the defeat. No time to enjoy the pleasant details of refinement. Only the escape to a numbing sleep is desired. That is what it means to live a life one simply gets used to. It's not hurtful, there's no void-- it just can't be put into words.
I suppose that's why this post has a film of uncertainty plastered over it. There is this listless breath of the ordinary that breathes through, because other than feeling worn out, torn, and motionless, there really exists no other abstraction. My lack of talent is as apparent as the lack of meaning in my life.
What I want to express is the stagnation of being satisfied. A shrug of the shoulders and I can leave the whole world behind.
So I have gone back to wondering how big of a sigh would kill me, and how much sighing is needed for one to run out of breath. Such is the thoughts that run through my brain when I let out a sigh.
I'm not unhappy. The glass will always just be half full.
Sunday, 5 March 2017
I wandered from café to café this Saturday, meeting friends, sharing Bingsu, indulging in Murakami, and consuming way too much caffeine. By caffeine, I do not refer strictly to coffee, but to green tea as well. Not a cup or two, but a potful at a tea specialist-- this was after I had indulged in two pots of fruit tea washed away by a glass of iced Long Black at the previous two stops. This intake of caffeine does not simply cast Bloodlust on my body, instead, it's a Power Overwhelming that will destroy me at the end of its effective period. As a sort of consolation, I tell myself that the tea was infused with Lavender that calms the nerves.
Why are we infatuated with European culture? Google recommendations for tea houses around PJ and you'll see reviews of elaborate high tea with disgusting pastel-coloured macaroons, Victorian sponge cakes, and scones baked out of shape. It's infuriating, at least to a person who cannot fathom the obsession normal humans have with sweets, in all forms, whether spongy or crunchy. All the frills associated with tea time, I would like to cut them all off with a pair of scissors that were made in China. I suppose this is cultural imperialism at its finest, to have others worship your culture without having to beat them into conformity. I for one like my tea plain, like my life, instead of adding milk and sugar into it, as if placing an elaborately decorated cup on a saucer isn't pretentious enough.
There is much to criticize. But of course, I look at myself as well and ponder upon the fascination I have towards certain cultures and their people. Why is it that I show interest? Do I want to be LIKE them, to BECOME them? Or is it simply because I am an evil motherfucker who wishes to walk on all paths of life just so I can learn the vulnerabilities that can be used to break them? Who knows? Maybe I simply want to belong, so badly, that I am willing to become one whose identity is as fluid as the seawater that laps against all shores.
As much as I would like to belong, some core principles will just never change:
Saturday, 4 March 2017
Thursday, 2 March 2017
I do not wish to unearth what has only just been sealed, where the dirt is still damp from the effort of rejection. The chrysanthemum I placed above the burial ground, its petals come undone piece by piece in the breeze, replacing the droplets that would fall from my eyes as I blink. Even if your hand were to break the stem of the mourning flower, its sorrow exists in a space your negligence is unable to perceive.
With your return came the season of loss I have yet to experience. The fragrance of the blooms that thrive in this season is nauseating, and I vomit as I struggle along its path back to normality. A distinct chill sets the temperature of this season. It freezes one from within, spreading outwards, instead of the reverse. Is it possible for me to survive such harshness? Already my lips have begun to crack, my skin flaking. Warmth has no place anywhere.
What does one know of having to face a corpse sustained by abject repression? What does one know of having to please a corpse that does not feel? What does one know of having to speak to a corpse without saying anything? What does one know of being haunted only by the likeness of a dead man you once knew?
The birth of a newborn does not kill its mother at the first wail.
Do you really want to know how I'm doing?
Do you, really?
Fear lives in a well dug by a pair of twins, Inse and Curity. Each morning, the twins make their way up the hill and to their well, drawing up a bucketful of spring water, drinking their fill. But of course, the fear that tinges the water is like the most subtle poison, odourless, clourless, and tasteless to the bodily senses. Do we blame the twins for ingesting such a substance? Of course not.
The Sun seems to be rising earlier each day, or maybe, the twins have been rising later and later each day. Still they made their daily commute up the hill and to their well, drawing up a bucketful of spring water, drinking their fill. No longer were they aware of time, only of each other, strangely so. Inse would glance at Curity and say nothing, while Curity would glance at Inse say something. It did not matter if any words were spoken, for fear plagued them equally.
And so, because fear is irrational, Inse pushed Curity down the well.
From between the roots where wild grass part, dewdrops of purple began to swell and merge into a flowing river that carries the essence of a weeping soul. Inse, drowning in the manifestation of her own fear, was washed away into the open ocean. She continues to pray that the river might run dry so that she may sail back to the only world she knows, undisturbed by the currents of the river that continues to weep.
The world, always within sight, yet never within reach. Is this punishment enough for one victimized by fear?
Of course, nobody should live in Hell while they still breathe the air of this world.
Inse sometimes wonder if Curity misses her too, as she drifts between sorrow and fear, day and night.
Deathwing has got your back! Yes, Deathwing has got my back! Of all the games I've played with you in my hand, I've only ever put you out twice, and twice, you perished just as quickly that I never had the chance to breathe my reliefs at your glorious exclamation of being POWER INCARNATE. Dear Lord, why must you meet such unfortunate fates every damn time!?
I remember the first time I put you out on the field. I had won for sure, I thought, but of course... Of course he also had a Deathwing in his hand that he could slam down the next turn. We have been bested, my Lord.
That was months ago after I first unpacked you one dull afternoon, screeching in joy.
Then the desperate moment of life and death came again this evening, where only you could have saved me from shame. I would have ended the mage's petty life if it wasn't for Ice Block. So, my last hope, I slammed you down and let my cards be burnt by your rage. The mage had already Polymorphed my Ragnaros, so what could be done to you now, just what?
Ah, I loathe the Mean Streets of Gadgetzan expansion.
Of course the mage would be able to create the perfect custom spell from Kazakus that turns all minions into 1/1 sheep and gives your hero 8 armor.
And just like that, my Dragonlord was reduced to a bleeping sheep. It would have been more bearable if you had just turned to ashes and returned to dwell in the depths of the volcano.
Such misfortunes this Black Dragon is met with when dealt by this hand. Maybe, we were never meant to be? For our ambitions are too great that even the Gods forbid our bond to form, in fear that we will succeed in claiming all creation for ourselves. Might I come to show true affection for you, your magma will be the last that I feel before my cries harden onto the surface of this rock you will forsake. I can only live to use you, as you manipulate me. We shall see whose heart is more corrupt, and whose soul still remain.
Descended with your traits of darkness that luster in waves of my hair and the oblivion behind my eyes, the longing for the kin of those you slaughtered is the pain I will endure. May the cold reflection of the moon glow in the eyes of the flaxen wolf that stalks the borders of such longing.
Wednesday, 1 March 2017
While watching Timm Thaler, I was in my seat wishing that Baron Lived would casually appear next to me and tell me he'd like me to be is evil heir. I'd have accepted his offer without a moment's hesitation! Does he want my laughter in exchange? No problem! Quoting his own words "you don't have much to laugh about anymore anyway". I'd be a fine demon.
Giving up the world to experience what it is to be utterly human, is it worth it? It seemed so. I would have thought so, if there still exist love and happiness in my hea-- that's right, even that itself has been lost.
Aren't we all a little bit cold?
It used to trouble me when I realise I would never be the protagonist in life's incessant tale, but as I come to terms with reality, I no longer uphold the will to rid myself of my antagonistic qualities. A bitch, but still fabulous, still admired, only less noticed than those who shine with goodness. I think it would be full of anger, revenge, and mistakes, my life. Why can I only think of Darth Vader at a time like this? WAE!? YOUR RED LIGHTSABER IS AMAZING ZZIIINNG! Yes, I want to walk around flaunting my flowing cape and paralyze people with fear just by gazing in their general direction. FEAR ME!
Rachel's aspirations at the age of 20:
1. become a demon.
2. become a dragon *coughcoughDeathwingcoughcough*.
3. become Darth Vader.
Instead of wearing light coloured dresses and flowers in my hair, I think I should buy some black clothing, and a cape. Should a person ask if I am in mourning, I would say yes, mourning over the death of myself.
Even I am unsure if I should cry, or laugh at my immaturity. I can only confirm that I cringe at this awful blog post I published.