A somber feeling, carried by pure agony,
Flowing, drifting, swiftly in the stream of thoughts, as the spilled pieces just have vanished, never to be whole again, or gazed upon,
The pieces of a time crafted in blessed and happy thoughts,
Swaying back and forth, the once illuminated, azure heaven far above is darkening with ominous looking, thick, yet allure thunderclouds,
Perhabs once this sky has cleared up again, this scene will shine just as majestic as it did before, without worry nor care, without pain.
Ah, phantoms.
I would like to lose myself in this wandering fragnance of what used to be a wonderous and amortal spring dream, created in plain fantasy
But after the city already lost its colour to the obscure horizon,
I realised you were no longer here with me,
And the pieces of a past long gone, have cut my skin before vanishing
Chasing a brighter past caused the future, knocking on my door to be dark, yet such emotions made the world I inhabit a cold, lonesome but also a very gentle place,
Even if tomorrow were never to come,
I wouldn't be able to care less,
For now, just let me rest my eyes.

~ Umi

I'm torn appart,
torn from the inside
torn between two forces
in me.
I am most definitely a misanthrope:
asexual, friendless, dysphoric, and even
ugly.
I struggle with life,
but I especially struggle with life around others.
You can call me shy or an introvert,
but I think there's something more to it.
Perhabs something in that desire
to erase the whole human race
and substitute it with a powerful computer
maybe capable of thought, definitely of science,
with luck art;
most certainly not capable of love,
and harm.
An unmoved observer of the world
would produce our random beauty with its ones and zeros,
and none of the pain.
Perhabs just my inability to enjoy being with others;
they are my species yet sometimes
I wish they were not.

I've always been shy.
I've always been an introvert.
Maybe I've always felt alone,
but not this alone.
I've never been this alone.
I've had friends,
real life human friends too,
but they are gone,
I no longer feel them,
they got tired of knocking at my walls for me to open up,
relax,
talk.
I used to be able to talk to them,
occasionally,
but I no longer can.
It's not their fault;
I'm just being misanthropic,
that's my thing now,
they better just move on.

But I do feel alone.
I imagine myself being loved
and it looks like a chimera:
it has fear's wings
and frustration's claws;
it has overcooked thoughts' head
and, worst of all, my body.
I imagine my life alone
and it looks so real I could touch it.
It is here.
This twenty years of preparation
where a lie,
design to sell me life
as a worth living experience with friends and family.
My friends are gone,
they are gone because I made them leave,
I am gone.
My family is here but they are not with me,
they would be better without me.

Is this the conclusion,
that life is not worth living
and everybody is, or would be, better without me?
Maybe it is.
Maybe I should.
Maybe I will.
Maybe  I'll see you around
at the bottom
of the sea.

My life is a battleground
I’ve led thousands of recon missions to reclaim the parts of me that in my younger years of captivity beneath tyranny’s reign, were ripped from me by the velvet gloved steel palms of my father.
I have been trapped beneath crumbling buildings of my own deteriorating self image, railroaded and betrayed at every turn
There is difficulty in moving forward, when years of debris weigh heavy on your back
Not the wreckage of my life, only his, burdens bestowed, yet not belonging, I was convinced were mine.
I made attempts to be smaller to fit into the shape of what was expected, to abide by his will
Belief, blossomed that perhabs, if I was small enough I could escape their notice,
Shrinking, I've found, is impossible,  instead I grew. Unfolding like each arc of the universe, too myself, and what he made me, to escape discovery
My father fed into my problem and let me expand
He wrote his mistakes into my skin, sunk an arrow of shame deep into my heart, until the pain was too great to remove it, he kissed his sorrow into my forehead and told me everything would get better, though poison of his actions had set my blood, my thoughts

Playing favorites, professing conditional love, I was made to fight, as if I was not worthy enough oh my own.
Simultaneously his reassurances made life all the more difficult, while my brothers and I, struggled against one another in hopes of catching his attention...
His approval....
His love
the wounds I was given me made me wise, it's best to believe that suffering does not make you kind.
It offers only a mirror, to hold up beside your past self, a means of reflection.
I’ve learned that struggle is how nature strengthens us, to humble myself and rid pride from my existence in order to hone my edges
That the twisted way he loved, was the only way he knew how, the only way he was taught. It gives perspective, and no comfort.

He never delved into lessons of battle and strife, but the art of war was not lost on me.
I waged wars with my brothers, raised my resolve, fortified my defenses, barred doors and closed hatches, rained verbal airstrikes against them. Fighting back was never a question of strength, only desire, the strong pieces of me, that grew when no light could be found.
I have taught myself how to hold a gun to my enemies intellect, to cut skin with the blade of my tongue, brandish a knife to my own skin to cut out the destruction of a dysfunctional youth, I catch razors between my teeth as I fought off, as I continue to fight off the onslaught of my own self hatred that rolls over me like tidal waves, uprooting foundations.
I am a rock to break the rushing wall of water, I will rise again, my islands will drain themselves of the bitter taste of sea salt and blood

If you look in the debris of my youth, my heart will show you
The lands of my mind and my body will be mine again, I am the king of myself,
I will reign again.
My rebellion is one incapable of being quelled
I will fight myself until I can take back every part of me that I lost.

"Y es siempre el jardín de lilas del otro lado del río. Si el alma pregunta si queda lejos se le responderá: del otro lado del río, no éste sino aquel."
-Extracción de la piedra de la locura, de Alejandra Pizarnik.

Siempre cercano,
siempre lejano,
el jardín de lilas se vuelve inexistente
pues siempre está del otro lado.
Tal vez la muerte te lleve a tu otro lado,
a tus ansiadas lilas, Alejandra.

Yo sólo pido encontrar en mi orilla una mísera margarita.

//

"And is always the garden of lilies on the other side of the river. If the soul asks if it's far it will be answered: on the other side of the river, not this one but that one."
-Extracting the stone of madness, by Alejandra Pizarnik.

Always close,
always far,
the garden of lilies becomes non-existent
for it is always on the other side.
Perhabs death will take you to your other side,
tu your coveted lilies, Alejandra.

I only ask to find on my shore a miserable daisy.