Silence...

Silence. Silence is all I hear when I find myself at peace. I've never heard so many harmonious sounds at the same time than in the symphony of empty notes and hollow beats in silence; which leads me to conclude that peace only exists in nothing. Mankind, more specifically myself, is incapable of ever-lasting tranquility. The waters will never be placid, and the sounds of my heart will never coalesce with the sounds of this world. I let the silence surround me and I feel safe. No future: no expectations: no regrets: no misery. My reality is black and it is only when I lose myself in this ever so hypnotizing silence that I see an explosion of aura and color. I want to lose myself in the abyss; close my eyes and lose this burden of responsibility and accountability. It is so exhausting to be coerced into patience to allow "fate" to dictate my future; ironic. I want to take fate into my own hands. If reality won't end the incessant screams coming from within this core of loathing and self-disgust or from the whispers of hate and intimidation that ooze from their lips like sap dripping from an innocent, juvenile cherry blossom tree that has horrifyingly endured the bearing of a knife to its rugged yet delicate exterior, then I will no longer be patient. This patience only pilfers my sanity; only wilts the budding blossoms off that mesmerizing cherry blossom tree. What is more beautiful than to protect that callow cherry blossom tree and ensure it never again is to be scarred or disfigured? I will rip that cherry blossom tree from its roots and lay it in fire. Let it feel the loving caress of flame as it is consumed by silence and the welcoming universality of nothingness. 

Nothingness - such a beautiful notion. I long to feel its weightlessness and hear its silence. And yet, even with such a beauty I am viewed as demented and deranged. This world is not ready for the capacious reality that is nothingness. And unfortunately I cannot bear the chaos of this reality for it is has robbed me of my senses; it has stolen my soul and abandoned my naked and shivering body in refuse. I have been condemned by this reality; poisoned and forced to watch as my skin erodes itself, exposing my flesh for fodder to the crows and my bones to chafe into dust. I can only survive by sacrificing myself to the nothingness - a sacrifice for my salvation. 

The Dove...

To ponder on one's past indiscretions means to not have forgiven one's self. To plead for an opportunity to change the course of the past means to not have accepted what is. I can lie by myself at night, longing for the warmth and tenderness of his embrace, and only hope that I become enlightened by such "words of wisdom";  though my heart speaks otherwise. I have accepted my fate: I have forgiven my sins - for these sins are the essence of who I am in this very moment. Who I was is what drove that warmth away. I was the suicidal knife that stabbed the beating heart of the very love I long to rekindle. I was the insatiable flame that crept up and burned down the very future we planned together. I was the murderer, he the victim. I was the sinner. And as I have rambled on many times before this, the distinction between mistake and lesson is a very fine line only contrasted from one another by the very sinner themselves. Choose to learn from such mistakes and let the tears and memories become the forest in which the sacred dove is protected.

In such a way, I am forever indebted to that broken-hearted man who still bears the burden of my love; who still burdens for my love. Without you, I would be nothing. And for as many times as these words have tripped from my lips and fallen so carelessly into your pleading hands, and for as many times as I fought for their sanctity and genuine validity, they have never been more true. As much as I long to harbor that dove away in a cage, scared to allow it upon a wandering eye or lustful grip, I must let it fly. I so hope to see that dove soaring in the clouds: winding around sinuous mountain caps: feeling the warmth and light of my very love on its wings. All I can do, is know that dove is strong and majestic, and one day may return to perch itself upon my shoulder.

In the meantime, I will hold my head high. These may be wounds deep in my skin, but the blood I bleed is not tainted with despair and regret. This blood is blessed with truth and understanding. I have forgiven my sins, and I do not wish to change the past; merely walk a path towards a future with you. Whether friend or foe, love or hate - no matter how you see me, I will always be there. I will from this point on always bear the soul you knew lay dormant in these veins. My will may have been weak, but to have endured so many fatal blows: to have lost so much blood: to have been wounded and scarred beyond recognition, these beating chambers still beat. And most importantly, I will always love you.

So fly my dove; with your feathers white as snow and eyes as deep as my love for you. I do not mind my feet upon this ground, for I will forever be able to watch you soar. Maybe one day you will rest your wings and perch yourself upon my shoulder.

What Purpose Should I Have...

No one person can begin to comprehend the purpose of life. Some say we're here to appease some "almighty" God - though in my personal opinion this "god" of which you speak is nothing more than a hypocritical tyrant using our lives as toys in a universal game of cat and mouse. Some say we're here just for the "ride." Ok - let's explore this possibility for a moment. We are here for the ride - first topic is what ride? What exactly are we riding? And if this ride is going somewhere where does it intend to take us? Is there a purpose; and if so transitively meaning there would be some omniscient, enlightening outcome. Where is this outcome? If my life is a "ride" - I'm done with the fucking loops, turns, and sharp corners and I want to find this so called "outcome". But so far, I've found nothing but emotional distress and immaturity on in all retrospects of bipartisan. 

I've slept with 11 people, all but 2 of which were cheating.
I've had an affair with a married man.
I was anorexic.
I cut.
I've made myself throw up.
I've done drugs.
I've been wasted and stupid.
I've had a miscarriage.
I've lied to the people I love.
I've attempted suicide.
I've betrayed my best friends.
I broke the heart of the man I loved.

The purpose of life isn't some enlightened ending. It's the journey of mistakes, trials, and tribulations that allow us to learn what really matters IN life. Life is not what matters, but those who love you. I'm done hurting those people. I want to be proud of myself. Fuck these excuses I've been making. Fuck them all to hell. I'm done. Time for me to be happy. The ashes of the old me I will let fall in the ocean; washed away by the waves carrying me to a place I'll be proud of. That list above - a list of all my demons. All the secrets I've lied about to everyone are out for the world to know. Accept me for my demons, I am learning. I have learned. And who I am, I deserve better. No more running. No more hiding. I'm so sorry I had to hurt people in the journey of getting here. I'm sorry..

Fuck Morality...

What delineates the difference between ethical and amoral? What standards can a single human being place on the morality of a decision when the same exact decision can be influenced by different catalysts in different situations every single time? A husband cheats on his wife: an ever so loving wife who has devoted her entire corroboration to the well-being and emotional fortitude of her family. A husband cheats on his wife: an ever so vindictive bitch who controls his every move and castigates any attempt at thoughtfulness because it just quite "isn't good enough." Where is the line drawn? Such decisions can be so placid yet so elusive in meaning. I can sit here in this booth, type this piece and attempt to justify my decisions by using my past experiences as a "legitimate" excuse. Though, if I truly were as smart as I attempt to seem through these empty words then I would use my past as a substratum for emotional growth; not emotional justification. If I truly were a moral person, I would not have to justify: I would have reasons for my decisions and those reasons should, and would, quintessentially be enough.

I look at myself in the mirror and I tell myself "I am proud of who I am." Today shall be a new day and any past indiscretions in moral sanctity will never again entangle my purity of mind and soul. But yet, I think of my actions just two days ago, and wonder whether or not God would approve of such antics. The ironic thing is that my faith in this deity that most of the world surprisingly clings to is abysmal to extant; and yet, his approval is what remains racing through my inner conscience as if I know deep down, he is watching. In all honesty, I believe this "deity" is really metaphorical for the inner shame everyone bears in their hearts. Most can maintain it within though mine seems to bleed through and trickles down my shirt, dripping along the floor with every step so as to remind me that yet again, I will fuck up. God is not a floating man in the sky who created the earth and heavens - he is the symbolic conscience that we humans pray we have because the only person who knows absolutely everything about ourselves is us. No one can run from their past. No one can hide from it. All we can menially attempt to do is learn from it and not reenact the same actions that influenced such a self-loathing. Me, I can't seem to do that. I constantly find myself making the same mistakes over and over and yet, I enjoy myself. I enjoy knowing I can get anyone I want. Every single man I've ever met has not only been willing but has cheated to spend just one erotic night with me. And I fucking love it. The only thing anyone has ever wanted from me is a sexual liaison, and for the longest this "niche" in society, this pathetic, whorish, disgusting role "God" seems to have deemed me ashamed me to the point of emotional insanity. But I have learned to accept it. I will be proud of my "enticing" skills. If it's the role I was born to play why not play it right?

So this is all I have to say to anybody out there who wants to criticize, castigate, and ostracize anyone who is  "morally" different. Go fuck yourself. No one person has the authority, nor the emotional right, to label that which is approved and that which is degraded in regards of ethical integrity. All that matters is that you can live with yourself and the decisions you have made. The life you live is the result of every decision you yourself have made. Do not blame your family, or your illness, or your "inexplicable" shit hole of a life. It's your own damn fault. Accept it, love it, and just go with it. And if not, don't make me sit here and feel guilty for something that I fucking enjoyed every second of. 

It's All Too Simple...

Life is too simple, yet so complicated. Such complexities can elicit illegitimate feelings and disconnected reflections based on what; silly conjectures and misread dialogue? My problems, when thought of purely logically and objectively, are so simple. I can write down each mental or even physical problem and know in my heart what caused the problems, what the problems are, and where I have fallen due to such indiscretions in emotional fortitude. And the irony that so lovingly taunts me is that this simplicity is so placid and translucent that it's so heterogeneous and convoluted in its makeup. I can't seem to outrun the mistaken words and misread gestures that lead me to assume only what one would call asinine and ridiculous. But the apparent satirical theme of my life is all too asinine and ridiculous. Every racing thought that rips through my inner conscience is quintessentially and, metaphorically, a parallel of the scars on my arm; all due to the emotional indiscretions that fucking taunt me straight to the alleged soul that I have, probably, already condemned to eternal damnation.

I cling to the idea of control: the more control the better. My whole life is one fiasco after another and this chaotic pattern is the derivation of both my anorexia and cutting. Both behaviors are merely hopes at controlling this sinuous, distorted, twisted mental illness I have: bipolar. And much to my avail, I have relied on these behaviors to such an extent that their effect on relieving those feelings I run from so arduously has degraded to practically nonexistent. It seems the only outlet that will never fail in a lasting effect is drugs; though, of course, that's just another crutch and problem to add to that fucking list. As I sit here and type this pathetic monologue of a personal reflection I can't help but succumb to the inevitable reality that I am, in fact, pathetic myself. The fact that I can't overcome my own issues and break through the inferno of burning regrets and doubts within my mind and soul is weakness.

The Trinity of Life

What is human thought? If thoughts can neither be seen nor heard how do we know they exist? How can one begin to classify thought, human reason or conscience? The matter being we ourselves must not exist if that which we are made of lives within its own existence. Humans are made of organs, which are made of cells, who have organelles, made of molecules which are made of atoms. Thousands of cells, living with their own purpose of life molds the human body, so what is it that gives us our conscience? Is it a higher power, god perhaps? Though, no material proof has ever been discovered. If conscience comes from nothing, nothing is a state of being, or something. Though, everything comes from conscience. A theological trinity; at least, a thought. The irony of the matter is the disturbing addiction to a religious probability often times, in the Christian word, revolves around the Holy Trinity. Both beliefs merely thoughts and neither proven. Yet one must conclude that everything comes from a conscience, which comes from nothing, meaning everything comes from nothing. What about emotions? Are emotions a state of being? Human reason dictates that we are separate from our emotions; there is a distinct contrast of the physical state of being to the state of human conscience.  And yet it is emotion that dictates our actions. Pain, anger and agony are all physically felt yet simultaneously they are an element of conscience. And it is here that religious probability meets its flaw. Emotions, a psychological state of mind must be a physical state of being to cause physical effects: effects in which I, myself acted upon and suffered the repercussions.

Half the time, I can't logically understand what I am feeling, let alone know where to derive such feelings. Ironically, I constantly try to think logically about everything in order to find an analytical interpretation dictated by reason and logic. This "process" I follow, this "intellectual" scheme to which I am always so loyal, ends up alienating me from those that I love, or at least, the one person I love. I can sit here and know deep down that I need to let go of whatever discrepancy that is catalyzing my instability in emotions. And yet, there's a protruding, echoing voice within my head, telling me how insignificant and unimportant I am: how no one could ever love me: how I will never be worth anything and therefore should be cast into a reality of isolation and solitude. That's the reality of it all - isolation and solitude. This world of love and compassion I'm living is merely the fantasy, with the reality being coerced into the most abysmal depths of my subconscious corroboration. And yet it claws, and scratches, and fights its way out; leaving wounds along the way.

It kills me knowing I have the sweetest man who loves me more than anything in this world; in his eyes I'm the most beautiful woman who will ever live. But yet I belittle his emotional expressions into falsities and pathetic sympathies.

It kills me that I try to think logically about my depressions; knowing that emotions are mere intangible matter - therefore not even matter at all. They are not physical entities and therefore shall elicit no physical effects and have no directional bearing over my body, mind, or soul. And yet, when night falls, the tears pour down like rain - what is more physical than the cold, chilling feeling of a teardrop landing on your skin? How it falls down and the moment it breaks into a million smaller tears you can actually see all the pain and sorrow trapped within those now hollow, salty waters.

As if some higher power wants to sarcastically taunt me with my illogical emotional turmoil, I still follow these attempts at intellectual reasoning to place an understanding on that which I cannot understand. Everything, everything we know and accept as knowledge are centuries-long opinions widely believed. Every single bit of information labeled as factual is an opinion of someone before us who was able to manipulate and persuade those around him to have just as much faith as he. Everything comes from the conscience, which comes from nothing. If we all are made of the same structured cells then why do we think differently? And within these differences of thought, why are certain patterns labeled as normal and others as faulty and broken? Why am I labeled as broken? Everything comes from thought, which comes from nothing, therefore, transitive theory states everything comes from nothing. The Trinity of Life. And even further scrutinized, everything is nothing. I am nothing - which completely contradicts my entire psychological motif I've been trying to disprove. The trinity of life is a bitch. And Edward, I am sorry I'm broken.

The Horror of Our Love

I'm a killer, cold and wrathful
Silent sleeper, I've been inside your bedroom
I've murdered half the town
left you love notes on their headstones
I'll fill the graveyards until I have you.
Moonlight walking, I smell your softness
carnivorous and lusting to track you down among the pines.
I want you stuffed into my mouth
hold you down and tear you open, live inside you -
love, I'd never hurt you.
But I'll grind against your bones until our marrows mix
I will eat you slowly...

Oh, the horror of our love
never so much blood pulled through my veins.
Oh, the horror of our love... never so much blood

I wake in terror, blackbirds screaming
dark cathedrals spilling midnight on the altars
I'm your servant, my immortal
pale and perfect, such unholy heaving -
the statues close their eyes, the room is changing
break my skin and drain me.
Ancient language, speak through fingers
the awful edges where you end and I begin
inside your mouth I cannot see -
there's catastrophe in everything I'm touching
as I sweat I crush you.
And I hold your beating chambers until they beat no more
you die like angels sing...

Oh, the horror of our love
never so much blood pulled through my veins.
Oh, the horror of our love... never so much blood

You're a ghost love, nightgown flowing
your body blue and walking along the continental shelf
you are a dream among the sharks
beautiful and terrifying, lit and restless
we dance in dark suspension.
And you bury me in the ocean floor beneath you
where they'll never hear us scream...

Oh, the horror of our love
never so much blood pulled through my veins.
Oh, the horror of our love... never so much blood  

-Ludo