Some Words Are Just Too Sacred

/always/

is never a good word to be used

in love.

do not reassure her with words interlaced with

‘always’. she will be soothed and appear to be assuaged but

it will be a word that would come back to haunt you

like a bloodhound. it will sniff you out years later,

aroused by the dwindling affection you feel for her, the

utter dissatisfaction and insipid detachment in your relationship.

and it will devour you.

i will always love you,

will become the most fearsome boogeyman

under your bed and in your closet.

/always/

is for the use of immortals.

there are people who understand love (these are the immortals)

and there are people who vaguely grasp it, but are

too afraid or too ignorant to penetrate it

further. to delve deep into its core, and yet

never lose sight of the starting point,

to never forget what your heart might have forgotten.

and even then,

it must be a word that can only be written; it must never be spoken,

for the spoken word, even when whispered, can be devastating.

Hypothesis

If you would love me, know first, that I'm a free verse. I am not a Shakespearean sonnet,  nor will I ever be the immaculate, rhythmic structure of Dickinson's meters. If you love me, it's because you understand the beauty of chaotic abyss, you appreciate the exactitude and veracity of each chosen word and you manage to find structure and cohesion under the epidermal pandemonium. You know that I will be mercurial and volatile - you will love me till your heart feels like breaking and you will hate me to my marrows. If you love me, you'll know that I love savagely and painfully, because I've never learned to love otherwise. If you love me, I will always be a part of you - at the fine line between sanity and insanity, in the darkest concourse of your mind.

God-I-Hate-It-When-My-Awesome-Story-Ideas-Get-Stuck

So If I Can Finish These By This Year I Would Be Satisfied:

1. The Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka
2. The Sickness unto Death, Soren Kierkegaard
3. Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche
4. The Plague, Albert Camus
5. Nausea, Jean-Paul Sartre

And by the time I finish these I would be one of those people who stay up all night chain smoking and thinking about the complexities of the universe with a scotch in hand and I wouldn't be able to survive without coffee in the morning and actually coffee all day. I would write motherfucking god awesome books about things no one really understands save the people who osculate in this dreary and infinite field. I would zone out in the middle of a conversation for a long pause and proceed to say the most kooky, depressing things ever. People will start shunning me because I'm too creepy and too goddamn wretched for them. I would be the ominous, gloomy overcast that looms over their happy little cotton parade.

That actually sounds pretty fucking awesome.

P.S. I don't know why, but philosophy triggers my foul language button.

But I Don't Want to be Saved

If the sky is falling
put me
in your mouth, in the
soft, warm crevice under your
tongue
and keep me safe,
until the sky
stops falling.

And if at four o'clock in the morning
of a sleepless night
you feel me convulse and
quaver and I'm tearing at my skin -
know that I'm beginning to
drown in
you.

When you see that
you're asphyxiating me
(horror-struck, you will try to save me,
but naturally fail to)
and you'll never understand why
I refuse
to save myself.

Anastasiya

He met her in the woods one evening, when he strayed off the path and left his drunk, stumbling friends to the vodka in their hands and the alcohol-laced songs in their throats. He didn't drink that night, not because he held any personal intolerance or disdain for intoxicants but because the night was unusually beautiful and he had wanted a clear mind to enjoy it.

The first time he laid eyes on her he didn't think she was human; at second glance, he knew from the pit of his heart that she wasn't.

It wasn't just the fact that she was hauntingly beautiful, or that her translucent skin glowed under the light of the moon, or the way her hair fell long and straight to the base of her naked spine. It was the ethereal way she moved, as though her movements were unrestricted by the laws of the world; every gesture was a foreign language, a mystery as old as the Stonehenge. Her silver eyes were a flux of sadness beyond comprehension, as though she had seen the world and learned all there is to be learned and was irreparably scarred by the knowledge.

He was in love and they both knew it.

When he brought her back everyone wanted to know where he found her. They wanted to know her name, where she came from and whether she spoke Russian. They were charmed yet intimidated by this exquisite and lovely but unbearably cold (even for the winter-born Russians) woman. His sisters were unsettled by this strange woman who did not or would not speak. He brushed off their inquisitive probings and would only tell them to call her Anastasiya.

Anastasiya, they whispered. Resurrection. They didn't know what to think of her.

He did. He knew exactly what she was and yet he couldn't leave her to save himself. He told her that she could do whatever she wanted with him as long as she belonged to him. She would go back to the village with him as his wife, she would have a name - a beautiful name befitting her nature and she would not hurt any of the villagers - he would keep her satiated.

And so, when the doors to their room were firmly closed and bolted for the night, she slipped him out of his heavy moleskin lined fur cloak and tunic and small clothes until he was naked and shivering in the cold Russian winter. She pressed her lips to his partially open mouth and commenced to suck. At first it was just soft and pleasant, the way a lover's kiss feels like; but then his eyes grew wide as she began to suck harder and soon she was sucking away his blood and his soul and all of his being. She sucked away his consciousness and his dreams and his deepest fears. She sucked away all that was his and all that he was. He was dead and she was gorged to the brim, her body humming and vibrating with the stream of life force she just fed on.

But by morning it was apparent that he was coming alive again. Resurrected. His heartbeat was feeble and he was still pale as a corpse but he was alive. He wasn't too sure how it worked - whether it was her innate healing powers or if he just didn't really die - but it soon became a pattern that fell into place without fail. He died every night and was resurrected every day. He would like to believe that it was because she loved him in her own way, loved him, and wouldn't bear to let him die.

"Do you love me?" he once asked her. She was silent, as usual, but her lips curved into a cold, cold smile.

Philosophy 101

I

Do we breathe because we're alive or are we alive because we breathe?
Are we emaciated little souls crouching by the sidewalks, ravenous and rapacious
for all eternity;
or are we machines that come to life when certain parts are well-oiled,
when we are fed scraps of metal and when certain buttons are pushed
at certain intervals of time?

II

Bite down hard on truth:
is it alive and moving? is it dead?
is it really thin air and that we've been imagining it all along?
does it taste of clarity or complexity, luminescence or the eternal abyss?
And if it exists, where do we find it?

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.

Mad World

I

She had become a phantom. That was it. Standing in front of the mirror, her hair unkempt and eyes deadpan, she could see it – that she had been fading away for the past… what? Five days? Three weeks? She had no idea how long it had been since she was in this catatonic state. Her mind vaguely registered that this should have been alarming, should have warranted a larger reaction compared to this idle curiosity. And yet she found that she could not have summoned the energy to elicit the appropriate emotions even if she wanted to.

Her eyes skated over the image in the mirror with the same mildly curious look: over the pallid, sallow cheeks and the once-luscious lips; along the gentle slope of her slumped shoulders down to her arms hanging limply by her sides. But it was her eyes that captured her attention. They stared back at her with the same indifference: one eyebrow minutely raised as if in mockery or as a challenge. The look in her eyes was dead. There were no other words for it. It was pure and utter blankness.

They say it happens when you wander too long in your own subconscious mind.

II

"We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

III

Mad - em. ay. dee.

M.A.D, as in:

Morbidity – the batshit crazy cat lover who is so poor she couldn’t even feed herself. She carves out chunks of her thighs for her hungry cats.

Agony – the sweet twin sister of suffering. She is forged in the womb of humanity and born from the marrows of desire. She is the blood pumping through our veins and the breath we hold in our lungs.

Despair – the poison that spreads through your mind like the Black Death. It ravages your soul and eats up your hopes and your dreams. And when you’re cold and dead and gone, it will shit on your corpse and dance on your grave. 

Madness. The satire of humanity. 

I would say that this is the longest we've been apart? 3 months is a record I've never thought I would survive. But then, I wouldn't say I was completely alive in the past 3 months.

Do I still love you? Irrefutably and implicitly, yes. I love you; but only because I will never stop loving you. You've been too deep in me for too long that I don't suppose I'll ever truly let you go. I guess you can say that you're too big a part of me that cutting you off completely would be like severing a limb, or an organ. But have I given up all of hope of reconciliation? No - despite the almost over-whelming urge of the pessimist in me, we have too much history for me to believe that it will all vanish in moments.

Because up till now I have no idea what went wrong. Of course, I was the one who became a zombie, I was the one who pushed you away, but I've never understood the trigger. For once in all these years I couldn't find solace and peace from you. My inability to feel has eclipsed all the love you lavished on me; it exhausted you and I couldn't even work up the energy to care.

I've been better lately - pulled back to the world of the living and feeling. I miss you - your dark eyes and your nose; your soft lips.