sometimes the urge is too strong and giving in seems like the easiest most comfortable option. your mind goes blank and the people you care about seem very small and distant, shrinking further, disappearing. there is no right and wrong no conscience no morals. the line between reality and dreams glitches, blurry. just one step away. all of it. it seems the easiest. last heartbeats, breaths last thought. right in your palms in your fist. it feels within your control. one thing fate can’t dictate is what you decide to do with yourself. do i really want to stop. ive stopped feeling already. do i want to stop the rush. i can make myself suffer. its in my own hands. i can chose to. i dont want to stop.
wean yourself off of life. kill off parts of ourselves. slowly, bit by bit. one at a time. so that its less painful, less hurtful, less noticeable.
theres a fight for dominance in my head
2 people have found abode in me
without my permission, against my will
they live like the most misbehaving tenants you’ve ever seen
one only drinks tea and one comes out late at night
there’s a fight for dominance inside my mind
a man and a woman have made themselves at home
without my permission, against my will
and when they fight i try not to look
not to feel, not to know what to do
i sit and wait for them to resolve
because you see as much as these two want to call it home
my body is but one mind, one heart, one soul.
it can only belong to one being at a time
i try thinking that, maybe they’ll understand
but tonight im losing to the man it seems
He wants me to cut my hair again
So I kiss a girl and make her feel pretty
I put flowers in her hair, capture the sun in her eyes, I paint her a ballad, do everything she likes
but its not my hands
not my lips
I am a hollow of a person, i can feel it. It’s like all this time I’ve been leaving parts of my soul everywhere i went, simply for the sake of letting go of it. disposing it off, ridding myself of the burden of carrying life.
Its suffocating, living. Its making me want to clutch at my neck because i can’t breathe. A paradigm, i want to die but i must live. Death. such a pretty word. Such a beautiful thing. Death. I wpuld name my lover that. If i had one. I had a lover once though. But now all i see around me is death. i am infatuated with it. i am infatuated with a woman too. her name is fear.
on Wednesday night 7th of february, 2018, at 2:08 am i cut my hair in my sink. The scissors we’re orange but when they cut through my hair they seemed to be dripping with blood, dripping into my sink. white sink with dots of red and hair. So much hair. On 7th of February 2018, wednesday night at 2.15 am i cried while i held the bleeding scissors and my bleeding hair in my hands. They slipped through my fingers and fell on the white tiles, painting a pretty picture. The tiny patches of skin on my hands where the scarlet hadn’t yet touched, watched in shame. look at the glory of what the blood has done. i took a picture. but there was no blood in the picture. lorde played in the background. please could you be tender, she whispered. and it seemed like my body was crying to my hands, telling them to be tender. it cant hold more. kill yourself already my head said to me. kill yourself already, kill yourself already. break the mirror and stick the largest shard into your stomach. do it with the scissors. bang your head on the tiles till its smashed. swallow rat poison it’s right there in the cabinet, second shelf. nobody to stop you now. drink that drainage acid and do the world a favour.
on 18th of February i had my first cigarette. left me craving for another. anything to make sure this hell passed faster. look at me sounding like those 12 year olds who claim to be depressed. why am i still alive.
I know I was supposed to be reading first the books I put in my 2017 reading list but I just couldn’t resist reading George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty Four because I just fell in love when I read the first page.
The dystopian–or more conveniently Orwellian– plot is set in a post-war London that has been taken over by America, presumably after the First World War. The world is divided into three super powers–Eurassia, Eastasia and Oceania– that are constantly in a state of war in order to establish themselves as the strongest state, when in reality neither can defeat the other, even if two states fight as allies against one. The people live under what I can vaguely describe as a twisted, anarchic form of socialist totalitarianism called Ingsoc (English Socialism). The novel is mostly Anti-Stahlin and mocks at the dark side of Socialism and all the ways it can go wrong (cue forced-labour camps).
What really draws the reader is the possibility that this conditioning and hypnosis (or doublethink as Orwell calls it) could be prevalent in our present day society in an alarmingly subtle way. The Party slogan in Orwell’s dysfunctional world says WAR IS PEACE, FREEDOM IS SLAVERY, IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.
The people are said to have committed thoughtcrime if they even think ill of the Party or their leader Big Brother. The people are caught eventually by the Thought Police, even if they suppress their anti-government opinions because under the stress they talk in their sleep at one point. Or they commit suicide before the Thought Police can get to them, fearing their brutal punishments. Telescreens are a norm in every room of every house, office and street, whence the people are under constant scrutiny. Even an unconcious look of dismay is noted and questioned. People learn to plaster a grin on their faces and shut their emotions from showing.
People are brainwashed to believe that Big Brother is their saviour and worship him for dragging the people out of the dark days, where the capitalist swines ruled and the poor were trampled upon. The irony lies where the same is happening in Big Brother’s new world order, only the people are too blind to see it. The kids are enrolled to become Spies as soon as they learn how to speak, and they end up spying on their own parents for possible thoughtcrime.
Primal human instincts are continuosly suppressed. Food is bland and minimal, cheap cigarettes and synthetic gin is how people survive the workload. Anti-Sex scouts wipe out the concept of affection towards the opposite sex from a young age, producing impregnable women and hungry men. Falling in love is looked down upon as an act of the uncivilized “proles”. The only purpose of marriage ought to be to produce offspring who will later serve the Party. Half the population goes barefoot. Figures and statistics are distorted and “corrected” to make people believe that the economy has been only growing and swelling every day. One day the chocolate ration is announced to have been reduced, the next day is an announcement where Big Brother who cares so much for his people, has increased the ration, and everyone buys it.
The concept of war in the book is shown as a national obsession– a source of extreme patriotism and passionate loathing for the other countries. So what are the chances that we too are today living in a prematurely Orwellian society?
“He used to shower me with gifts, you know” She walked in unannounced. The sound of heels clattering against tiles ceased and her heartless gaze met the horrifed face of the only occupant of the kitchen.
She studied the maid like an animal weighing its options. A disgusting housekeeper is what he fancied better than the one woman coveted by hundreds of suitors. What was it that he saw in a filthy maid that he failed to find in a noble woman like her. Beauty maybe, but no ranks, no jewels, no class, a piece of garbage. He got what he deserved.
“M..Mrs. Desmund! How n..nice of y..you to stop-p by. W..would you like s…some tea?” The maid frantically dug into the cupboard, looking for an excuse. Her shivering hands let slip a kettle and the sound of expensive china shattering like her sanity, enveloped the kitchen. She froze and so did her heart.
“DON’T YOU FUCKING MOVE UNLESS I TELL YOU TO! UNDERSTAND YOU WHORE?!”
The lady like poise vanished as a monster slipped through the crevices of a perfectly polished persona. Mrs. Desmund took a deep breath, composed herself, and tried to block out the sobs of a filthy 18 year old, panic striken servant.
She placed a beautifully wrapped package on the kitchen table,
“Always wearing himself out” She continued in her previous charming tone, “finding the most expensive ring, the smoothest pearls, the largest diamonds, the perfect tokens.”
“And yet, this one is the best I’ve received so far”
A slight tug to the ribbon let the wrapping loose; the grip on the rag tightened and so did the lungs making breathing laboured. Prespiration and tears adorned one woman’s face while a steely smile carved into the other’s. The paper slipped and a mortified face of Mr. Desmund peeked through. Glassy life-less eyes stared back into the gleeful eyes of a woman he once cheated on. The air seemed to thin in the spacious kitchen and lights seemed to dim as the maid fought hard to maintain focus.
“Don’t you think?” whispered Mrs. Desmund, stroking the matted hair of her loving husband. The maid stood petrified, holding onto her dirty rag as if she had just peered into the future, and seen her own imminent death. Her skin had turned a pale similar to that of her lover’s putrid head.
“It’s a shame you have to see him like this.” She turned towards her. Her limbs and conciousness began betraying her as she struggled to get up and run for her life.
“P-please Mrs. D..esm..umd p..please, believe m..me please, It’s n..not…NO! Please…It was him…” she tried to sound intelligible between sobs, but Mrs. Desmund wasn’t listening.
The sound of metal scraping against stone followed by wallowing shrieks of misfortune echoed in the newly furnished kitchen.
“It’s about time I gave him the perfect gift.”
Flows like honey trickling down a warm picnic toast
Carry the suns that when set, drown in rivers divine
Paints a trickle of belief and hope in these eyes
A thousand heavens break down to light the sky
Weave a tapestry in air, threads in all shades of joy
In empty dreams of desire
Goes to show
Need naught but beauty for survival
Fair Maiden fear not life’s ugly facade
For your existence is but a poem to devour