It's easy, stupid.

Found photos. Early 2012.

You can't keep your hands on me or your pants on.

National anthem - Lana Del Rey

Taming my universe

I am pissed. And I've been trying to calm my self down for a while now. The thought that in a few hours, I'll be having one of my escapes again is quite effective in making my bones still.

I love what I am becoming now. I love how I found (or how I’m on the process of finding)  my old thoughts again – thoughts that have been buried by frustrations and disappointments and failure and noise, so much noise, and people, and hate, and  the everyday self loathe.

I am still the same though. But less agitated. More in control of the universe full of black holes spinning inside me. It will always be inside me. It will never go away. Because it is me. Though sometimes it still takes over, I have learned to patiently tame my universe, constantly feeding the black holes so that they wouldn’t suck me in. We hold each other together. We coexist. If one of us dies, the other will be hollow. Void of meaning, of purpose. We must keep coexisting.

Unusual meeting of unusual people

Maybe it was by design that I met someone who I could share my thoughts to, who could get me – my obsessions, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, beliefs, obsessions, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. Maybe he was the catalyst. Maybe he was there at that moment to pull me back to myself. And he doesn’t know it.

I could talk about anything without moderating and adjusting to anything like what I always did. Because there’s no feeling of alienation or being judged. There’s no pressure of conforming – I was never a fan of it. My weirdness interests him. And his weirdness interests me. Conversations.  Conversations I wish I could record so that I could listen to it again. Our minds meet, I think. Our minds meet. And it’s healthy. And it’s rare. And I want to keep it that way. When we talk, my mind goes places. My imagination spreads towards mythical ends. I get this feeling of longing to make something. Create something. A longing to know more about things. I feel like the free spirit in me is being awakened and I want it to lead me to high unreal skies, delusions, madness. The kind of madness that I was looking for.

But nothing romantic in a love story context, it’s the attraction of minds – so alike, but so different. This will continue, and this will go better. This will go better. And this so unfamiliar optimism. (So contagious.)

Unconventional self expression

Because of the positive feeling I have gained towards my self, and knowing that certain people don’t mind if I am this way, and a severe longing to detach myself from people, who are not worth my attention and time, I find no problem dressing in  a way that people do not expect me to. But there was never a feeling or urge to blend in the first place. (The wanting to be invisible and unnoticed is ironic though, especially when I’m wearing clothes an ideal girl of my age wouldn't wear. Of course people will look, or stare. But I learned not to care.)

Sometimes I would go to one of my escapes dressed like a circus gypsy. But I don’t mind. And the feeling is invigorating. The feeling that you did something that you want to do through wearing what you want to wear with no rules or restrictions.

Rebuilding my universe in cafes and escapes 

I dared myself to discover new places where I could find solace in times I feel disturbed. Or places where I can think better, and feel better.

Lately, I came to an old café I always stayed at around three years ago. It felt like I renewed a relationship with an old friend. Later I think I’d go to this café this artist guy introduced me to. The people there are nice. And it has grown into me. I feel like part me is there already, which always pulls me back to meet its whole.

(Of course I won’t disclose the names and where they are.)

I know I have lots to do. And I’ll do it. It’s a long process. But I found someone who, I know, could help, would help, and wants to help me build it. ( I would like to think of it that way.)

I don’t know how, but I’ll get there. I’ll let the stars do their thing for now.

Sometimes, I get homesick too.

I always complain about people, how I don't like them and how they are such undesirable creatures. But there are exemptions. I kind of miss some friends back home. Coming over to somebody's house, raiding their fridge, taking over their remote control, movie marathons and lazy afternoons; night drives - two on the passenger's seat, four on the back seat with any imaginable object that could help you fight the boredom; drinking on the rooftop of an old building when we're too broke to gas the car. I miss my granny too, and my mum, and my sisters, and my dad, and my brother. But let's be clear, I don't miss that place. I abhor that putrid town and the people who live there.

Relapse II

I did it again
Lithe steel invading flesh
Cutting through skin

Memory is such an ugly thing
The feeling, the feeling.
The Buddhist hunt

Is starting.
Fallen monks.
Those asleep are blessed.

Pray for the dead.
The barb-wired fences
Of forgotten graves

Are rusting. I wonder
the feeling, the feeling
Of dull ends

Lacerating
Hungry wrists,
Addicted.

Marks that'll never fade,
Hide all you want.
Foolish virgins

Venerating porcelains.
Blind faith
Don't you miss it?

Stop with the pretending.
Puppet plays, charades.
give in, give in.

no tears are falling.
Benzene.
Drying drops on marble

Red as Irish heads.
As your nails too.
You think you're beautiful.

The silver is laughing.
Sword fights,
one always dies.

Are you satisfied?
I know you want more.
the restless throb.

Listen.
Crying prostitutes,
Groaning old men.

Nasty
As the rats in the ceiling.
No one will notice.

One more, just one more.
Pardon he who asks pardon.
Taste the cherry red.

_{Around her crooked conscience she will whine.}

I should've burned this house down.

I.
Our goldfish died this morning.
I wounded my fingers when I picked up
the broken fragments of the fishbowl
once I threw it against the kitchen wall.
It maddens me that you started lying
of what you think, what you feel
And what you had for dinner.

Remember that time in September.
We were arguing and I threw the fishbowl at you.
And we suddenly stopped
because Aurora might die.
So you rushed to get the teapot and filled it with water.
And we have forgotten why we were fighting in the first place.
But Aurora's dead now.
And I broke the fishbowl again.

Now everything's a mess.
And there's a water puddle in the kitchen floor.
Well I can clean that, but we're not a water puddle
on the kitchen floor.


II.
You are standing on the doorstep.
I wanted to slap you so hard my wrists breaks
but how can I go back to knitting
myself back together
every night when I go to bed
where I used to sleep with you
under paper lights and the shade of the Friday moon?

But the pile of dirty clothes is eating up the bed.
And I swear I really need to do the laundry.
I'm just afraid that the bed would feel empty.
And It's funny how I want you and don't want you back
sleeping on it.

III.
I was gonna tell you to leave but I told you that Aurora died instead.
You stopped me from talking further and
You still taste the same.
And I still feel weak in the knees and I said I was gonna slap you
But my hands hang on my sides.
And all I can do was bite your tongue.
But I didn't.

The afternoon was too warm my eyes felt droopy.
And I really wanted to believe that it's the weather.
And I really wanted to stop myself and scream at you.
But the walls missed you too much
Even the china and the carpet on the bedroom floor.
I wanted to send you away, out of my life

But my voice was black and white.
and your shirt seams were crumpled.
And the last thing I heard was bones cracking
and my eyelids shutting close.

Honeyglazed

I hear the tides caving in.

(Remember when our toes used to touch.
You said, "I can see universes under your skin."
But you never saw the stars exploding,
My galaxies imploding,
Black holes everywhere - sucking me in,
Sucking you in.
You floated into the abyss,
But I was drowning. You knew I couldn't swim.)

I walked and walked again.

(Remember when we used to lay side by side.
We traced constellations on your ceiling.
You said, "Nothing is as fine as the Cassiopeia on your spine."
But I only had four moles.
The fifth one, you made it.
Put out your cigarette on my flesh.
"How beautiful," you said.
I smiled, but I can still feel the sting.)

You stole the moon's gravity,

(Remember when our fingers used to intertwine.
You said, "I can see auroras in your eyes,"
But you can't even remember the color of my pupils.
That one rainy summer afternoon
When we had coffee on your mother's bed
I asked you, "If I wasn't oxygen, 
Would you still take me in?"
You just kissed me.)

And left me by the sea.

Wake

Blunt shards from the broken stained glass window
embroidered by bedbugs underneath her pillow
pierce through her lucid scalp, but not a trace of red.
Burgundy blots stain her silk and lace white bedding:
the aftermath of lust, the regrets of a virgin.