Death Knell

Slipslip sliding
mad eyes writhing,
the Gorgons' dark breath
foretelling her death,
down the slope she goes
where to, no one knows.

"The Earth, she's hard",
so sang the bard
who kenned well what he said.
The dying soul has fled
into the deeps of hell
called by the pealing knell.

Flight

I'm tempted to run again. Just barely holding myself together. I can feel the panic building, the familiar tension. It's a flight reaction because I can't remember how to fight. He tells me it'll be alright, and I nod and smile, but I think even he can see I'm not convinced - not entirely.

It's early this time. I promise not to think about it, to just let it go, but inside, my thoughts are churning. Why, I wonder, do I yearn to be held back, kept safe, steady; despite fighting it all the while? I used to think that maybe it was the person I was with who couldn't hold me. Now I know better - the one to tame the beast must be me.

But do I even want to? What am I searching for? How will I know?

Treading Water

Standing right at the edge, she watches the waves lap over her feet. It's a cloudy, overcast day, and there's no sign of the sun. The sound of the waves envelops her, holding her close. She can hear shouts, but they're faraway, everyday things, meant to be ignored. Entranced, she steps closer, and sits on the sand, ignoring the water licking at her clothes.

It feels like coming home. She smiles, content in herself.

Dancing on a tightrope

Pushed and pulled by conflicting loyalties, she wonders where this is all going to end.

The choices stretch ahead of her - thin, uncompromising wires - and she takes the first step. She's hesitant, trembling as she leaves the safety of the platform. There is no a safety net, and a mis-step could send her crashing towards - what, exactly?

She's afraid, but this is no time for fear. She forces her body to relax, willing each muscle to yield. It's a progressive softening, an adaptation to her environment. She frees her mind, allowing it to think about anything rather than where she is and what she's doing. She's prepared. She can do this. It's been done before.

She takes a step.

Into emptiness.

Life.

This is where I'd usually write a long, tearful post about how everything sucks and it's all my fault and shit. But to be honest, I'm sick of feeling that way. Life's messy and you don't get it right all the time. Sometimes the choices you make affect other people. And there are always consequences.

But you live through it. I always have. Sometimes with a bit more drama and a lot less will to live. The point is, though, that it always ends. It may come back to haunt you later, but dragging yourself through the mud until then is unlikely to help.

I'm moving on. Maybe I made the wrong choices, but there's f###-all I can do about it now.

I hope we stay friends. Or become friends, considering the current state of things. It sounds stupid to me when I say he means a lot to me, but he does. He's still the most amazing person I know. Strange, huh?

Laughter II

Continued from here...

She fell back on the floor, writhing in pain. They just watched, unaffected.

They'd all known she'd try to escape, just as she'd known that they would stop her - that it'd never work. But she'd had to try.

He walked in through a door behind her and she curled up into a ball. She could still sense him when he walked into the room - a combination of that hint of oh-so-sexy perfume and sheer presence. She tensed against that familiar feeling of need. Summoning up all the hate she could find, she stayed where she was, not caring that the grime from the floor was getting in her thick hair, and matted into her white dress.

They vanished into the shadows of the dimly-lit room as he strode up to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. She sensed movement, tension in the shadows. They were waiting for her to make once false move.

He knelt beside her. "You're not one of them, you know." His voice was kind, not a hint of the detachment with which he'd killed her family showing.

She wondered if keeping quiet would be the better option. Ignoring him, pretending he didn't exist.

But she answered anyway. "You murdered them. They were all I had and you slaughtered them, like animals...." Her voice trailed off, not strong enough for the effort it took to keep it from breaking.

His jaw flexed. She could almost see the anger flashing in his eyes, though her back was still to him. "They are animals! Them and all their kind! Alex, they kill innocent people! They've gotten to you so you don't see it. Don't you realise you would've been next when they got tired of their cute young human plaything? Dammit, Alex, I love you! I would do anything for you."

The words cut her to her heart. Once, she'd believed. Once - it seemed a very long time ago - she'd thought that she'd love this man until the day she died, and that he felt the same.

Staying True

What is truth, anyway?

Is it in anything I say?

I swear I'll never lie -

That I'd rather die

It's so easy to believe

Even as I deceive.

Truth is a dream -

the clippetty-clip-clop

of the high heels

of a woman on the hop.

Prick-prick-pricking,

stabbing the stone

though she's walking alone

Truth is a lie

until you die.

It's all in your head,

the black and the red,

debits and credits -

nothing truly fits.

Meaningless words for the most part, but they fill my head. And it makes sense to me, somewhere, deep down inside where I'm trying to stay true to who I really am. I change so much and so often that I can barely find that truth now. You'd think that basic principles wouldn't change. Like love being sacred. Or always being truthful, no matter what the cost. Don't cheat, don't lie, don't steal. Those are basic. They don't change. Or do they? I can't tell anymore.

It's so easy to slip a little. Relax one little rule, because, really, who does it hurt? Just this time, right? We won't do it again. And the next time, it comes just that much easier. Is crime a habit? I believe it could be. You never hurt the ones you love. Or do you hurt them the most? I don't know.

We all try, we shoot for the stars, aiming for the impossible in search of the God in whose image we were created. Did God expect us to be perfect when he created us, or dependent on his love to save us from the way he made us? How fair is that anyway? To create humans with hopes and dreams, with a conscience - to design them to want to be good - no, that should be Good, with a G - and then say OK, you're not perfect, I'll forgive you if you make mistakes, you're just human. It's like saying "You have to want to be the best, but really, if you're not, it's just because I made you that way, don't worry about it - but try anyway."

Is the choice between good and evil just sport for unseen beings, or really the daily struggle to save the world that it seems to us? Is there any point to it at all?

I think I may have lesbian tendencies!

I'm still trying to get the picture out of my head.

But I'm getting ahead of myself...

There I was, walking innocently along the road, minding my own business.. when suddenly, they filled my vision. I couldn't focus on anything else, I was staggered. Leggggs! I looked up for barely a second, and up and up until finally my eyes met the hemline of a pair of very short shorts. I'm ashamed to say I can't even remember what the rest of her looked like. And the guy with me did tell me there was another girl there too.. But I can't seem to see beyond the legs. :S

Yeah, this is short, but I'm still trying to deal with the possibilities this presents.. :P

The works

I oughta be at work today. And I would be, if I weren't feeling so shitty. I've no idea what makes me get sick so often, but I've a feeling it's got something to do with me being so mentally wrapped up in stupid problems - mine and other people's. But I don't know how reliable that is, 'cause I get sick anyway.

Never mind that.

I've been thinking about stuff.. just random things like how easy it is to mutilate my name.. I'd go from there to how easy it is to mutilate other stuff, but I don't want to ruin my newly re-humanized image.

And other stuff. Like, you know how you'd expect someone who writes all those steamy scenes in romances (yes, guilty as charged, I do read 'em) to be all dashing, and gorgeous and irresistible? But it turns out they aren't. Kudos to their imagination though.

Yet more stuff. Like how I don't want to think about where the hands that touch the same things I touch everyday have been. And how that just got me thinking about it.

I've got a little story I want to write.. it's been in the works for months now, but it just doesn't seem ready to emerge yet... and I'm scared of being like that over-zealous lady with the butterfly, who wanted it out in a hurry and ripped open the coccoon, only to have the butterfly die because it wasn't allowed to struggle its way out on its own. But I'm also worried that I don't drag it out, it'll stay in my head... much like the way I'd stay in bed if mom didn't drag me out.

So yeah, going to try and get something productive done... Not sure what my next post will be like, I'm awaiting the result with interest myself.

Hello

You might've noticed this whole blog has been in the third person so far. In case you were wondering, which I doubt you were, 'cause no one seems to read this anyway, it was this way because I wanted to distance myself from the part of me that felt all those things.

This has been my venting blog for a while now, it's just that the venting takes a different form from F###F###F###F###!!! though that would be nice. I just can't make myself say the word unless I'm really sad or angry. Comes of living with your grandparents for too long, I guess. :D

Why, then, am I taking a break from the third person? Maybe because I want to make this my main blog. Maybe because the last few weeks have been difficult, and I want to connect with something, even if it's just a blog.

So, since I'm starting over, I thought I'd say hi. So. erm. Hi. *awkward wave*

I'm tired, I'm sad, I'm hurt. And I know I have to keep pretending nothing happened so I won't worry my family. I'll figure this out. I know I will.

The Darkness Returns

She doesn't know how to begin. She takes a deep breath and tries to start over, but none of it makes any sense. She can't remember how this happened. How she ended up here, surrounded by people, feeling all alone again. She thinks it's funny that she's feeling this way, because all she remembers is a warm, fuzzy feeling of happiness, belonging... and then this.

She knows it's her fault, whether she did it consciously, or whether her subconscious was trying to re-create the environment which it'd been in most of her life. But she can't remember why or what, it's all just one huge blur. The wrong choices, people hurt.

She remembers pain. Overwhelming pain. Drowning in it, the flood consuming her, seeping through her, welcoming her back. She caused pain and that pain caused her pain. The knowledge that it couldn't be changed, that sometimes, there's just nothing for it but to leave, sinking in finally.

Laughter

She tries to laugh. A harsh, guttural screech escapes her, mirthless. They look at her. She looks at them. They all know what comes next.

Continued here...

Hate

She feels it throbbing through her veins, pulsing, intense.. She wants to tear apart the people who do this to them. They are the scum of the Earth.

She doesn't trust herself to speak. No, she's not afraid that she'd regret what she wants to say, she just doesn't want to allow them to see her lose control.

They leave.

She throws a glass at the wall, watching it as it appears to shatter in slow motion, splashing water everywhere.

Will be back

Eventually. or in a month. or in 2 weeks. We shall see.

Revisiting

She stands back, apart from herself, watching the thoughts coalesce. She sees them as she would see someone else's life. Scenes - colourful, picturesque events - happening as though they were a movie with a narrator talking unceasingly about one character's thoughts, feelings and motives.

One character. Herself.

She's not sure she likes this blend of her past and present. It's discomfiting, the way everything seems to flow so easily together until it's all a blur.

She wishes she could pause, let one idea roll around her mind, taste it and absorb it before moving on, but it refuses to be stilled, flowing seamlessly into the next image from something so irrelevant that it's a strain to try and find logical sequences in this train of thought.

Faces of old loves flash through her mind, sharing space with the awkward fumbling of lust-driven caresses. She remembers trying to stifle her laughter at the ridiculousness of the whole thing, knowing that she wouldn't be able to deal with the hurt and lack of comprehension in his eyes.

She sees it all again, as she did then, detached, aloof, refusing to surrender all of herself to the heat, the sweat, the urgency of the moment. She watches herself watch them, a story within a story.

She hears the commentary in her head and wonders if it's like that for him. Evaluating it critically, she doesn't think so. He appears lost in the growing tension between them. She knows she's in control and doesn't want to be. She wants him to force her out of herself. To make her stop thinking, stop judging them, debating the rights and wrongs of what they're doing - just to force herself to let go and to drown in the mindless passion that should be consuming them both.
She feels the tension growing, drawing her inescapably toward climax and wonders how she can still think -why she still can't let go. And then it's done.

Physically sated, she's still left with a gnawing sense of discontent - a nagging sensation that something wasn't quite right.

The thoughts run on, exploring other avenues, digging up old questions. She can't sleep.

Back and forth

She sighs. Thoughts of him fill her mind, and she closes her eyes and lets her thoughts drift back to him, a small smile playing on her lips. He never fails to make her smile. Then why does she push him away, she wonders, thoughts of his impending departure pushing the smile off her face entirely.

She realises that she can't help it. Whenever he gets too close, she feels stifled. Claustrophobic, penned in by his sweetness, his similarity to her, everything that brought them together. She wishes she didn't feel that way - she's grateful for the good things, she knows... but what use is gratitude?


She's drawn to him... she loves all the little things that he does that make her feel so special. She doesn't want to let him go. But she knows that if he doesn't leave for a while, if they don't spend some time apart, she'll leave. It's almost as though the passion with which she's attracted to him pushes her away from him with its intensity.

And then she'd regret it.

Until the next one.

Rebirth

She closes her eyes and slips into slumber but at the stroke of midnight, wakes. The darkness surrounds her, making her claustrophobic. She feels trapped. She closes her eyes to keep the darkness out, but that just brings it closer, into her. She sets it aside, makes it part of her, and yet apart from her.

She watches over it, nourishes it, makes it grow...

She watches and waits. Somewhere inside her there's a stirring. Something fighting free.

She lets go... and it is born.

Freedom's price

She watches, jealous, as her other self flies free. Wishing she could go along, but tied to the murk that controls her mind. Writhing streamers of envy reach out after her higher self, who laughs as she evades the gloomy strands...

Just once, she would like to be the one that escapes. The one who tastes of the freedom and the joy. But she is trapped. Trapped by her lusts, her hatreds, even her loves. Her love of the light keeps her here; bound, so part of her spirit may remain free, unplagued by the demons tearing at her now.

Sacrificed to the darkness, she pleads with her alter-ego, begs for rescue from this cloying fog that surrounds her. But she is too far away, drowning in the mud of deception and death, while somewhere in the clouds, the joyous soul flies free.

She is free. She is trapped. She knows that the Light One is part of her, born of the consumation of her love of Beauty. But the cord has been cut, and Light One, nourished by all the power that she had to give, has taken wing.

She is left incomplete.

Alone.

Empty.

Defeated.

Witchcraft

She knows what these witches can do to her. She has thirsted for their knowledge, longed to learn their craft. She sees the allure of the darkness they worship, perhaps better than some of them.

She would have been one of them, but threads of sanity hold her back. They tie her to her family, to love, to all things good. They keep her from releasing life, and embracing the darkness. So she clings to all that is pure, shutting out the demons, not letting them near.

She prays for redemption. Not really for her soul, but to ensure the safety of the ones who hold what's left of her heart.

She wakes...

... to shame, guilt and fear.

Shame that she could forget herself, her values, her God.

Guilt that she could hurt those she loved. And enjoy it.

Fear that dreams will haunt her waking.

She dreams...

.... of murder, of torment, of mutilation.

Blood is streaked through her dreams, glaring crimson through the night. She is repulsed, and yet revels in the river of gore.

Death is not to be feared, but welcomed. Pain... so much pain. Not just her own, but of those she loves. She sees it and feels nothing but a strange sense of elation at their sufferings distilled into her dreams.

She fears what she becomes, a Hyde wrested from her waking Jekyll. And yet, there is power. Such power she cannot resist. She needs to feel it fill her, strengthen her, infusing steel into her own blood. She drinks it in, glorying in its pulsing pungence.

Then she wakes.

In the dark...

She lies there, and it surrounds her... Curling its fingers through her hair, tugging gently, teasing. It lies beside her, stroking, fingers against her skin, calling her name softly...

She pleads for it to leave her be, fears it, but is enthralled. Its voices whisper in her mind... drawing her in.

She feels that surrender will let it consume her, spread through her being, turn her mind to madness... and yet she wishes she could, to end the fear by being one with it.

You tell her it's a lie... and she wants to believe. That it's just her mind playing tricks on her. That the voices don't exist. That the allure of the darkness is not real.

But it's all a lie. You lie, though you know it not. The voices lie, a soothing facade for darker dreams...

Who am I?

I am
what she fears...

Those insidious thoughts
that slither her way
through the depths of the night.

Those pestering prattlers,
the nagging doubts,
the clinging yearnings.

Will I grow
unwatched,
unheeded?

Or will
probing of
this darkness
spread it?

I am
the blood,
the guts,
the gore
of her psyche...

Yet,
I am
her.