...She gazed into the pond. She was drowning.
Until she glanced at her left side, and she realized
SHE HAD GONE COMPLETELY INSANE.
What lies behind it? And what happens if I gaze upon this reflection?
I'm looking at nothing. Nothing. It's only my own reflection,
except inverted.
I must not look at it, because it is inverted.
I must not look at it.
I must not look at it.
I must not look at it.
I must not look at it.
I must not look at it.
I must not look at it.
**I WOULD RATHER GOUGE OUT MY EYES WITH MY BARE FINGERS
BEFORE LOOKING AT THAT HORRIBLE INVERTED REFLECTION**
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 2:18 AM UTC
You cannot break a clay tile by just placing your finger upon it. To break it, you smash your fist into it.
(The same example applies for destroying clouds.)
Always keep this in mind.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 2:00 AM UTC
I tried, believe me, I did.
If only you could have been there to watch it.
I ran inside myself.
I drowned within my spirit.
I swam in a sea of blackness, filled with my essence.
I felt my warmth.
I cocooned myself inside this body, and cancelled any outside resonations.
I turned inward and made my concience backwards.
I ducked, the ever-flowing world passing me atop my head.
I curled into nothingness.
I became dissolved.
I felt my spirit.
And just like he told me,
I merged with myself.
And nothing changed.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 1:59 AM UTC
…But you suddenly turn the eyes, dreaming of a long forgotten lore about sails and the glorious ocean. Maybe the mighty heavens above dismiss you into a complete, perennial dissarray of moods. You gaze above, the blue dome above you staring back down, solemn and absent, appathetic, yet hardened with eyes petrified in iron justice; spears of the coldest grey stone that quash the will into bitter dust. You have sinned, and you must pay the price of transgression.
Clutch, no thinking, clutch onto the cliff, quit your pondering, and clutch for dear life unto the grey stone, it is your pondering that will cause your eventual downfall.
Look above: the oceanic heavens, of a mighty azur beckon you!!!
Yes, they beckon for you, oh, prodigal son, fallen Icarus, dare to fly again, dare to spread your wings and soar into eternity, become lost with perpetuity above, in the skies above, above, and towards the great beyond!
Beyond!
Beyond!
Beyond!
Beyond!
Beyond!
For beyond is where you will find peace amongst all things eternal...!
I am.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 1:54 AM UTC
It is at this point.
I usually am very effussive with words and all that, but I just don’t have it in me in this moment.
I no longer remember the last time I felt life cascading into my limbs, from my heart.
Apathy :P
It seeped into my weary shoulders.
Bleh bleh bleh bleh
Words are a waste of *****
Melancholy deeper into the upitty piper purportedly…
Silence. Silence and silence, but why…?
Snow – Nieve – Plumba – White-out – ***** on porcelain** – Aruba -
***** on porcelain.
A faint portrait of hollowed passions and GRAPEFRUIT.
I… I’m sorry, really. I got nothing. I wish I was so noble as to turn bitterness into something majestic, but what are you going to do about it, right?... Right?... Right?.... RIGHT???.........RRRIIIIGHT????? Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff, right? Ra-ra-right?
nO? OkEy DoKeY, then…
Words are stupid, They always have been. Words irritate people and cause wars, and controversy, and celebrity gossip and all that intoxicating pink, glittery smoke. I wish there was a machine, like a bird-making machine, that used dusted, vivissected concepts and turned them, unaltered, into spewed energy. A violent discharge of emotion, but no, no emotion, whatsoever, NO EMOTION AT ALL, cramped and jammed up inside like, like, like, like a trainwreck, still perplexed about the fact that it didn’t have much room to wreck havoc with in the first place, and go smash into burning-red steel debris, so it doesn’t, no no no no, it doesn’t know just what to do, and the innocent bypasser is looking, looking from a dusty cliff among the desert, UNABLE TO FEEL ANY EMOTION, INSENSITIVE, and it was supposed to be christmas, but no one’s weeping for you, no one, that ***** out of fashion, you’re **** out of luck holmes, clusterfuck full of **** and **** and bad luck, sorry holmes, no way, ******* luck, sorry holmes.
Bloh bloh bloh ilhc 674VDW864 A6WD8 4wd 64 WD 64c 6 4wf c6
*Ronald McDonald, sitting on a curb, face resting
upon the palms of the hands, no happy meal for this clown,
no lipstick-painted and make-up-enhanced
smile on the face of this clown, not today,
doesn’t feel like being
a clown today, even though he WAS born a
clown, from a colorfull egg full
of Crayola polka dots, no, and no, and no,
and who would want to be a clown?
Certainly not Ronald McDonald,
and certainly not today.
And words are stupid*.
I wish tears could flow cascading out of these eyes. Redeemer tears, pointing at the crude sculpture that the chisel of undrained emotions carefully crafted inside these tiresome intestines.
Rioted tears, a revolution of tears. I would very much like to scream right now, thank you very much.
I wish I could cry bitterly, weep sorely for my fate and for hers.
However…
There is nothing in my chest but apathy.
I have no nerve response.
Zero sensorial signal.
So… I can’t.
Whatever.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 1:47 AM UTC
A complete cycle later, and there I am, ohh, that feels weird. Terrible longings pulling on my stomach still, face turned to sunrise, that sun that never rises, an excrutiating dawn that lingers in the atmosphere, a sun that never rises, its ****** forever postponed, always in suspense, it never rises, it never reaches its finale, suspended in the sky, constantly bleeding its red-yellow light but never attaining resolution, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises, it never rises!
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 1:45 AM UTC
Pardon me for making this such a short visit, but this is only a fleeting trance.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 1:43 AM UTC
The air whispers in my ear every day, but I don’t hear it.
Musical notes turn into background pollution that only my body listens to- not me.
A fleeting flock of images roars past my eyes, in a rapid swerve, lost without a destination.
I don’t see them anymore.
My friends offer me pleasantries of company and laughter, and still I become petrified, quieting further, into my conscience.
Smell has lost its scent.
Colors have lost their brightness.
Time has lost its speed.
Touching has lost all sensitivity.
Suddenly, restraints around my wrists have receded their pressure- the occasional aching of the heart has not returned for a visit and a tall cuppa Joe in a while.
The city lights run quickly past my perception in their usual mute chattering, but this time, I am withdrawn from inclusion.
I have arrived on the monolith that is my spirit.
Look! I can open and close my hand. This is fascinating!
What is that?! It’s like a coating behind all things. I wonder if I can touch it…
I had never realized just how ALIVE I really am. It feels funny.
I can actually feel myself existing…! How weird is that?
I can’t help but smile as I quietly dissolve.
And yet…
…I can actually feel myself existing!
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 1:39 AM UTC
Just let me reach out…
Let me touch your face.
My contact delivers…
…Infection.
My fingers ooze…
…Execration.
You are but a mere fantasy.
I will pustulate….
…This fantasy…
…Into a stale emptyness.
Ripples, like the surface of water.
They blur out your form.
I shall reduce your form…
It is my contact.
It will…
…Cause you…
...To become…
...Nothing.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 1:38 AM UTC