A daily night-terror?

Waking up to these guys hovering around me like starving flies, rubbing their spindly little hands together and wordlessly begging me for scraps. Early mornings and midnights have never felt as charged, as loaded, as strained as they do these days. In the beginning of June I felt something loosen inside of me and since then I've been playing this waiting game with myself, waiting for things to fall into place, waiting for further instructions. Everyone is bargaining but no one has yet the upper hand so the price for my affection is at an all-time low.

How is it that I started to change at this specific time? Was every beer and every kiss aligning to point me in this direction? For once I'm not seeking the easy way out and, consequently, I have never been more scared in my life.







Image art courtesy of: Anton Semenov

Episode

The bench I sat on while waiting for my train was drilled to the floor, which was a good thing for me since the only thing that stopped me from running across the turnstile and flinging myself in front of one of the moving trains was clutching hard with both hands to the armrest of said bench and squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I could. No, I don't want to die and I didn't five minutes from that precise moment either, but for a precious few minutes, or it might only have been seconds, I was loose and all my instincts were telling me to jump. Except the meek survival instinct that from the very back of my brain did the chemical equivalence of going "ahem, excuse me? excuse me, hello?" and as I have trained myself to listen for it I heard it and let it reason with me. Still, the sweat was literally dripping off my face and for a moment there I was already dead, or perhaps only grievously mauled against the rail road tracks, I saw my life snuffed out and everyone I've ever met was bawling their eyes out at my funeral. Then suddenly I was alive again, realizing the whole scenario was ridiculous and the passing train was picking up speed again. No blood on the tracks, no blood spattered against the white tunnel walls, no train driver traumatized for life by the sight of a human body having the ick and goo spluttered out of it against his windshield.

I was just going home, but I can be anywhere at anytime and I always have to be ready to fight these urges. These episodes become less and less frequent but as they decrease in occurrence my defenses get more and more lax and I fall increasingly easier prey to them and the lowly voice of reason, the one that exists to ensure my future survival has been drowned out more than once already.

I know that I am weak but in itself that knowledge is the strength that keeps me alive.

Mouth-to-mouth

I'm resuscitating this blog for one reason and one reason only; I desperately need an outlet. I need to vent before I explode and since no one actually reads this blog I feel comfortable using it as my diary. Also, since no one reads it I can say whatever the hell I want. So fuck you. And you. And the guy standing behind you a bit to your left. Fuck you too. And fuck YOU in particular.

You're kind of cute though, what are you doing later?

Spider life and me

There’s something foul living in this body. The smell is that of something rotting. It’s the dead spider inside. She crawled in, and then she died. She laid a bunch of eggs somewhere in the uterus and they have started to hatch.

That tingling feeling when I think of you is actually thousands of tiny spider legs drumming their way through my body. The local pharmacy has no cure. Various creams that take away fungus, itch and unpleasant odours. Unpleasant odour? It is unpleasant.

My uterus is scratched where her rough body has layed pressed against the tissue walls and it’s full of swollen infected boils where she’s bitten me. They say I’m lucky.

Her children are curious little beings. When I look into a mirror I can sometimes see their sharp hairy fangs poking out through the skin, followed closely by black shiny eye beads. When they catch me looking they quickly withdraw into my head, snickering. I chase them with razors.

When I cut I see blood, my own mixed with her filthy. As her children grow bigger, they stop fitting in the smaller veins. If I’m to get them I must aim for the thicker veins deeper inside. Maybe I can kill them all before I lose too much blood. Wouldn’t that be lucky.

The water here knows all my secrets. It gets mixed up with me when I bathe or wash down pills. Through the pipes of the entire building the tell-tale water runs, whispering and laughing. When I go down to the basement the washing machines glance at each other and roll their eyes. She tried to drown herself again. Can you believe that?

I keep threatening the spiders. If I die, where will you live?! I scream at my reflection. They snicker among themselves and one or two of them whispers that dead is just as good. They say they feed off of the things I eat. Maybe they’re just trying to put thoughts in my head but I’ve stopped eating just to be on the safe side.

I threaten them with doctors. What if I should find someone who can actually help me, who can remove them? But they won’t let themselves be fooled. They know I don’t dare go outside. 

Because when I walk too fast, they start running, their little legs hammering through my veins and then I think of you.

Snow globe

Legal white powder dissolved in water, leaving close to transparent residue of bliss at the bottom of the bottle. I just gulp without thinking, refusing to deny myself the simple pleasure of intaking a drug I’ve become addicted to. Why bother about having to quit when there’s plenty at the moment? Tiny white crumbs twirling around in the water, inviting me to, if not dance, then at least take a little skip. Do a little jig. Rest my head. I’m not in too deep.
On another note, I never liked Vince Neil. He’s fat, whiny and untalented. Though God damnit how I cried when I read about his daughter in Mötley Crüe: The Dirt. My huge, swollen, gold sparkling heart aches and bleeds even for the people I can hardly stand.