You think the sadness leaves. It doesn’t. 

When I first met you, I said you were my Prozac with yet unknown side effects. Well I know what those side effects are now. First, that its efficacy is short-lived, and yet my body has grown so accustomed to it I cannot live without it anymore. Second, like most drugs, there is a period of complete and utter bliss, but then comes a crash that is so violent, it is something singularly spectacular to behold. 

These black, viscous, septic thoughts well up in my blood. These cancerous, virulent feelings course through my lymph. “Why have you lost so much weight?” people ask. “Because I have cancer, that’s why. I’m eaten alive by all kinds of horrible things, things that would sicken and appall people, if they were to open me up one day,” I want to answer. 

I’m trapped in a Sartre-ian limbo. My flesh was cut, blood flowed, and yet I still breathe. I want to die, but have lost the courage to attempt it again. Death says, you are far too contaminated, far too defiled for my kingdom. 

The loneliness is crushing, it’s maddening. I’ve never had much use for people in my life, because they don’t help. They only made me feel more left out in this world that has left me behind because I was broken. But you helped. You were so much a part of me that I no longer felt lonely. I could hate you, cut myself up because of you, bash my head against the wall in an attempt to clear out the anger and the frustration, I could kill myself, but I wouldn’t be lonely so long as I have you. I cannot go back to that loneliness again; if I have to flay myself I would do it, but I cannot go back. And yet, that is what you want to do. Leave me and let me rot in that unforgiving, torturous abyss. You say that I would be better if we weren’t together, but how would you know? You have never been trapped in that chasm, never experienced that bone-crushing despair, that loneliness, that deafening silence. You want to impose this on me. 

You always ask me what the things I love about you are. To tell you the truth, one of the very big reasons was how much you love me and how much I felt loved. It made me feel like none of this mattered. Like I was an actual person deserving of love. Like I wasn’t as left out as I thought I was. I was wrong. Only a monster could love a monster like me. 

This sadness is inherent in me, in my mother’s blood, and her mother’s. This sadness caresses me, drowns me, buries me. I am the darkness that overwhelms, I am the darkness molten.

(Not) The End

And it terrifies me that
it would come to a screeching
halt.

It's been too long since I feel suicidal again. I've forgotten how bleak everything gets.

dear you,

I have longed for people before, I have loved people before.
Not like this.

It was not this.

Give me a world, you have taken the world I was.

- Anne Carson

Just Dropping In To Announce That I'm Not Dead. Yet.

it's never about wrong and right

It always comes down to this: sadness. An unending, halcyon ocean of aching sadness; never overwhelming, or unbearable but persistent and perennial. This melancholy is a hanging sentence I had plunged into, without knowing when or how, only to discover that there is no full-stop - only innumerable ampersands.

There are secrets that clot the arteries in my heart and weigh me down in this truculent ocean, while I thrash and kick and splutter, only I lied - I didn’t. I didn’t fight this grief, instead I surrendered myself whole-heartedly to it, because in a twisted, morbid, masochistic sense, I like it. I like it because I deserve it, because I can never be completely sure that I exist, that I’m not a reflection or a dream of a doppelganger in an alternate universe. I like it because it made me feel, and it hurt and you know what they say - pain means you’re still alive.


But these secrets, these thoughts are choking me up from the inside and these knotted words I cannot utter. These malignant sarcomas I would carry in me and they would eat me up slowly, poison my blood and my lymph.

Perhaps someone would understand, perhaps if I whispered to them the contents of these little tumors they wouldn’t flinch, or judge but even then I wouldn’t. They are mine to bear and mine alone and I have come to be possessive of them. So even when I’m squirming with the need to confess all, to scream it out at the top of my lungs, to purge my soul of the grotesquery, I wouldn’t. Not really.

Sometimes I wonder where all these anger and frustration and resentment and sadness sprung from. Well yes, I suppose I do know, but the knowledge of its derivation only served to sadden me further since it suggests that this is not merely a phase but a pervasive disposition that had been molded from all-too-many factors dating back years ago.

And it depresses me that you, of all people, don’t understand.

Dear Cesare,

I was perfect. I was bloody perfect until you showed up in your cardinal robes (fuck you no one's supposed to look sexy in a cardinal robe dammit) and strutted around my carefully planned out schedule. I was an angel gazing peacefully down at the chaos in the human realm and I was sadistically happy until you ripped off my wings and I plunged into the wilderness.

And in that madhouse of disorderliness, I spent an entire day watching movies; well watching you and your fucking tight ass and your beautifully sculpted back and shit you shall not distract me!!!

Damn you Cesare Borgia, you devil.

i love you as certain dark things are to be loved

i cannot write poetry about you.
you, whom i’ve known for all but
thirty-five hours.
but these were hours of lust and desire and
covetousness and these feelings
are my dearest, most loyal friends.

so i said, between swoons and sighs,
my heathen, you are dark tonight;
you are black as your heart, black as your pitiless eyes
burning into mine
as you grind me - oh grind me to dust,
to small particles of nothingness
yes, nothingness,
for ever and ever,
amen. (for you love that word, do you not?)

libera me, domine, de morte aeterna,
amen.
always these words, my heretic, my darling,
my cesare.
are you that afraid of the eternal slumber?

i cannot write poetry about you,
because the thought of you renders me febrile,
and words and coherence elude me.
and only your apocalyptic latin hymns
will soothe my feverish soul.

This (and more) Will Explain Why I'm MIA

I really shouldn’t be here because

My ass cheeks hurt

From sitting too long in this

Plastic chair that I should

Never have bought.

She told me so

And I imagine the blood

Clotting in my ass, as

My weight presses down on it

And the cells scream for oxygen

The way I scream for you

And for ice-cream
And my eyes scream
and my eyes cream. 

But I can’t

I can’t get up

Because I have two and a half more

Chapters of anthropology to study

For a midterm that is

Too close for comfort.

And still here I am

Writing about things that

Make no sense

And too-intimate details

About my personified ass.

July 24th

So... It's currently 12.02 a.m. and I've been eighteen for 2 minutes - actually, 3 minutes now. Apparently I'm pretty much legal now, and like, I'm no longer considered a teenager. Funny, I don't feel any different.

I think that one of the world's greatest tragedy is that, often things turn out quite differently from what you had imagined or expected when you were little. I don't think 8 year-old me would have been very impressed with 18 year-old me if she time-traveled 10 years into the future.

I thought that I would be smart and wise by now. I thought that I would have the answers to all the complexities and mysteries of the world. And now look at me. I'm still asking the same questions that used to bother me ten years ago. The existential crisis that used to occur is still occurring. Why was I born? What am I to the world? Nothing would happen if I die, the world will not stop spinning, the human population will not dwindle. What's the universe made of? Why does the universe exist? Do any of us have any inkling why we exist? What purpose do we serve? 

I feel smaller than I had ten years ago in this expansive universe.

But then, I don't think its fair to say that I've learnt nothing at all. In fact, I would say that in a non-philosophical point of view, it was spectacular in its own unspectacular way. I have crazy/weird/annoying/wtf-do-you-think-you're-doing friends and annoying/love-me-in-their-own-incomprehensible-way/i-guess-they're-nice-after-all family and I'll never stop complaining about them but at the same time I love them with all my heart.

It's late and you know I don't do late. My brain's not really functioning right now and this probably sucks a lot and I'll be look-at-all-the-shit-that-I-wrote! in the morning. So I better shut up right now. And gah, I'm sorry, I don't mean to be all emo on you. I don't know why but birthdays make me emo.

Love all of you. Thanks for everything. I'll try not to delete this in the morning.

Happy birthday.

Blinding

I found my song. ♥

Fascinating,

don't you think?
You know, the way the birds sort of... swirl around. In the air. I mean, virtual. In the virtual air.
Gah, you know what I mean.
It's mesmerizing. I can't tear my eyes away from it.
Maybe it's just me.

Dear You,

There was once a girl who spent so much time building castles and worlds and perennial universes;
her arms are islands and her feet are mountains.
The wind is her breath and the ocean her blood but at the same time, she is the island and the mountain, the wind and the ocean.
She is not here, or there, or anywhere but she is everywhere.

She spent nights trying to find her voice. She had it once, long, long ago. But the only memory she had of it is vague and unintelligible; she couldn't even recognize it.
So now she goes around knocking from mouth to mouth, trying to retrieve her lost voice.

She's a dreamer but such a strong one. Hurricanes that would leave her devastated come and go. New hearts are drawn over old, smudged and crossed out ones.
Torn seams and lost faith are stitched back onto her soul.
Her teardrops are the infinitesimal stars in the sky. She who dreamed and dream still of love.

They say that things invariably get better. Well, I don't know about that or what to do, or what to say. I can write fancy schmancy proses and beautiful words but in the end I searched my soul and I have absolutely nothing to say.
All I know is, if I could give you the world to make you feel better, I would. If I could write off sorrow and mail it to the all-consuming sun, I would. I would do anything to make you happy again.

Darkness Owns Me

You'll never see the darkness in my mind: the bone-crushing blackness, the maddening loneliness, the infinite and cosmic abyss where I fall through an eternity. I fall and fall and fall and there is no telling how long it might take me to reach the ground, to be shattered into a thousand pieces, to end it once and for all.

You'll never understand how the darkness would suffocate me. It washes over me like waves, gentle at first, so soft I wouldn't even notice it's there; then it gets rougher, and I would get swept into the black ocean. I would try to swim, but the waters are viscous and heavy and the inky droplets would stick to my arms and weigh me down. The worst part is realizing that while the drowning at sea part is only in my head, the suffocating part is real. I'm doubling over and kneeling on the floor to breathe but it is like a thick layer of oil is coating my alveoli - my lungs just don't work anymore.

That's not to say that I'm depressed all the time. Sometimes it's as if I'm another person altogether. I guess that's what bipolarity does to you. But even when it strikes, I could fight it for awhile; when I'm with company. I could still pretend that I am another person, untouched by the darkness and I would fake it so well that even my demons are deceived. It is only when I'm alone again, that they would come back and haunt me and tell me that the brief happiness I had felt when I was another person was a lie, an illusion, and I was foolish to believe it.

But it's better that you can't see the darkness. Because then you wouldn't fathom the atrocity of my deepest thoughts. You wouldn't know that when I say I hate the world, I meant I would burn them all, all the occupants on earth - you and him and them and me. You wouldn't know that I dream of monsters, tearing and mutilating people with their fangs and their claws, only to realize that I am the monsters. All of them. Like zombie clones of me.

You don't believe me, do you? That's alright. I terrify myself too.

The Fall

I'm plummeting. Through a depth that only nightmare can fathom. An emptiness so perfect we can't conceive of. And I'm falling fast.