Turn off the lights.

I'm obsessed with find something wrong with the most perfect picture you can hand me. It's normal I'm told, just part of human nature it seems... but its driving me crazy. Can you imagine trying to rub out red wine stains from a white linen bedsheet? That's my every minute of every single day.
Like playing a whole song but you keep getting one note wrong... or you're just a little off beat, off tempo.. and the whole thing is not too bad really but it's driving you mad...you're almost loosing your mind. You know you're being insane, but you really can't help it.
You don't know what I'm talking about do you? Didn't think so. Doesn't matter.
I stare into the mirror every morning...and I see a distorted face. I'm ugly. My face is mishapen, my nose is out of proportion. My hair never settles right, my eyes are too wideset, my foreheads got no width, and my neck is a little stub. Sometimes I feel like breaking the damn glass. I don't want to see into my own eyes.
I see emptiness. I see imperfection. I see evil.
And I have the urge to destroy. So many times I've grabbed my shaving blade and just gazed at it, half delirious - contemplating, wanting to slice my face up.
My body and the torment I inflict on it is another story entirely. Piercing and tattoos to try and cover up my insecurities. You know this can become a disease. I think it already is... Day's go by and I starve myself just to be 'presentable'. I can't stand the flab on my body.
I make love to my boyfriend in the dark, because I don't want him to see my imperfections. Such a patient man, he is so tolerant of so much, I couldn't bear to lose him. And if he sees me I know he'll leave me. I don't want to disgust him.
There are days I walk out of the door to go to work just like any normal person and then with a fleeting glace I'll catch my reflection somewhere, some surface be it the car windows or the glassy table top and then I'd just satre. Like a trance I'd be lost in thought... that is on other outer surface. Inside I'm burning with shame and humiliation. Why did I have to be born looking this way. I'll torture myself by staring longer until I just can't take it anymore and I run back up to my room... lay there and cry for hours...
But I don't feel the time passing.
Years go by and nothing has really changed. Paranoia, excessive fear, insanity - what ever you wish to call it... this obsession with my self... the vanity... it's robbed me of everything I ever cared about. The man I loved. My friends, my family - any social life at all.
And I engulf myself in the neverending darkness.
So it is my own doing. Some people call this self imposed solitary confinement selfishness. Some call it cowardice. No one understands the pain I feel is very real. The blade I cut myself with, it offers temporary consolance.... the scars make me feel better... for a while, it makes me feel beautiful.
I know you're thinking I'm twisted. I'm not normal. Who says your perception of normalcy is right? Humans declare what is moral, ethical and normal. I'm a human just like you. How can you claim superiority over me? Your opinion is right? Says who? Oh, you? And what the fuck makes you more 'knowledgeable' than me. Fuck education. It's all a farce.
I'm not stupid. I'm not crazy. This is me. I'm the cracked bead at the end of the chain.

The girl and the woman

Once upon a time... between distant lands... I met a little girl with sadder eyes than mine... I looked at her, and tears poured down my eyes. Tears locked inside for a long long loo-ong time... and visions came from faraway lands, along with broken dreams of long ago...
So I sat down with my little reflection, and kept wiping away her tears... I tried to bring a smile... I tried and I tried.
Some times it seemed to work but as she grew, the task became harder and harder and soon it started to seem in vain. Her little pink mouth curved permenatly down wards - up side down! It was a hopeless chase as despite my countless tries, blank her face did remain.
Then one fine day, she started to scream and kick and push me away. In defiance, her little legs walked further and further, empty rage blinding her from the dangers in her way. The stones she tripped over, the pits she fell into, countless branches to scratch and scar her pretty face...
Calling out, reaching out, grabbing... but I couldn't hold her... young and strong willed, confident in her naivete...
Yet 'I' saw them all coming, for it was a path I'd walked once before, a long time ago... since then it had become darker, wilder scarier... and the big bad wolves were only badder. All I hoped was to give her a torch to light the way through!
I was about to give up and started to walk away, upset... when a little hand tugged on my sleeve. Frustrated and hurt I shook her off and was about to go along my own way... and then I realised that I needed to see beyond what was there to see... despite my own fears I had to be what I had to be...
So I turned around and lo behold, fast came a running little girl straight into my arms - no longer as bold. I stroked her hair and kissed her cheek, whispering into frightened little ears 'be afraid no more... love will always be here... '
The little girl then walked on but in her hand now my torch... but the pretty face not as flawless as before... yet to my eyes her scars added to her beauty, new strength glowed through... finally I saw her smile, and then I cried again tis true!
And so we walked side by side, happily ever after... no thats not true - we sometimes walked on opposite sides... she is she... I am me... and the routes differed from time to time... so perhaps this story ends with a beautiful woman and a withered old woman... living ever after sometimes happily, some times sad... but always to gether with love on our side.

Thought Process

Crazy thoughts. Insane thoughts. Rational, responsible thoughts. But all thoughts nevertheless...
All originate from a grey mass... and get stored in the same old rusty go - down with the rest of the 'stock' ...

Can society really hold us responsible for mere thoughts? Thoguhts when voiced become opinions... and people judge as well as characterise usfor them, but at the end of the day... they are just thoughts... or aren't they?

Every human being is a free living being, capable of thought and given the right to express them... after all thoughts without action is harmless isn't it? But is an idea - any idea... a harmless, aimless thing? Is the fact that it can induce action a bad thing? I thought freedom was the right to expore that...

After all we rule society... or does society rule us?

The Itch (Fictional Short Story - Male Protagonist)

And the cars flash by... life flashes by... I score... I score! Oh well... I almost scored.

24 hours of Need For Speed Most Wanted isn't enough to relieve my boredom...

[Alt + Tab]

MIRC and no one interesting online...

There are a million and one thoughts in my brain but I'm not concentrating on any of 'em.. a bit like having a dozen rockbands clashing in my head to different tempos... altogether too confusing...

My desk vibrates... I swivel around and crane my neck to see the caller Id. The blue screen flashes her name at me. A sick feeling in my stomach now...

I turn back to my pc and stare at the monitor... the pxels stare back at me. I feel empty, it's strange. I plug my headphones in and blast the Chains. It's a good song, but thats not it, I want to get that ringing, vibrating piece of shit out of my head. I want that bitch out of my head.
I turn on the volume, close my eyes and lean back.

'Down in a hole and I dont know if I can be saved'

'Can't meet you here tomorrow, say goodbye don't follow...'

'Now the body of one soul I adore, wants to die...'

Phrase after phrase, echoed in my head... and slowly flooded me with memories, things I'd forgotten, or tried to.

I tapped my fingers on the mouse keys... to the bea... till it became almost hypnotic... then struck me as familiar...

'Click click'

The sound of her stilettoes across the vinyl floor.

'Click click'

Echoed as she walked out of the room.

'Click click'

Walked out of my house in the middle of the night. Walked out of my life.

'Drumroll'

Walked straight into the arms of this rich bastard... pretty boy with all his visa cards... and I just stood there, broken...humiliated.

Beautiful girls deserve beautiful things. I don't think I'd mind if she left me, (well of course I would, but not half as much) if she really loved someone else... with even an ounce of... integrity. But she left me to be a trophy girl to some casanova.

The thing with trophies is that trophies get old and outdated... a new conquest constantly replaces the old, and that's exactly what happened. Hugh Hefner aint exactly having the same Bunny he had in 1980 now is he?

I suddenly burst into a mini coughing fit. Damn the tobacco fucks me up! But what the hell... I gotta have ma one disposable buddy... the gf that 'I' have the authority to friggin throw away and replace as I please... yeah baby...

I won't say she ruined my life... Coz she really didn't have the power to. But she is why my life got screwed up... I'll say that much. If not for her, I wouldn't have turned into a psychotic crazed son of a bitch who was incapable of making any sort of simple decisions, much less anything drastic.... or a love sick loony hanging around her like some pathetic wannabe... like a gayyyy prick...

I was in love with her mirage... a naive cute little girl who dreamt of big things... so blinded by the light that I couldn't see beyond the illusion... the vain, calculating, manipulating and ambitious woman who would stop at nothing to get what she wants... and as it turned out, diamonds were definitely her best friend...

My friends who used to respect my judgement and decisions came to PITY me... SYMPATHISED me... and there was nothing worse than them feeling sorry for me... maybe it's my wounded pride, whatever it is it was hell.

The world's unfair. It's also predictable. And when Ms. Pretty got dumped she came back, like I knew she would. Came back to the safe, good guy who will always be waiting. The sucker. Well guess what? It wasn't gonna be me. I had enough of Hero.

And she played every fucking card. Every single fucking trick. Like the whore she undoubtedly was.

I remember walking into my room one night. And there she was waiting for me... incredibly brazen...and so damn sexy... I was at odds with my self.... be furious at her intrusion of my privacy... amused at her unfaltering determination... but I did curse her for breaking my resolve... succumbing and making me hate my self for my weakness...

I hated how my life was apparently a little entertaining game for her... and in this childish little chess game... my family and friends were her pawns as well...

'That girl he's hanging around with Mom.... she's only after his money... not like me, I've loved him always'

Check mate.

'His friends are druggies... he shouldn't hang around with them. I tried warning him, now they all are turning him against me'

Check mate.

'Hey dudes, you know... he said that he's changing your studio into a bedroom so we can have a better time... Sorry guys...'

Check mate.

Mind you, I was oblivious to most of these imaginative concotions.

I didn't understand to some extent... why her tears kept pouring down. She left me, confined me to my room... made me a social disaster... how could I trust her again? If she loved me like she kept saying she does, she would have stayed with me... she made her mind to be his little sex toy was like selling her soul to satan as far as I am concerned... Seemed to me like she couldn't stand to see me happy...

Too late... why cry, if she left me? Women... Don't get 'em... and they have the balls to say (welll yeah I know technically they don't but what the hell you get me yeah?) that men are hard to understand? Yeah right. And the sky is green.

I wasn't about to serve as justification for any sort of guilt she may be suffering. Fucking deserved it.

She made me a friggin' criminal infront of everyone who mattered to me... made it seem like she was the only one left... but her games didn't disillusion me... and never will... the living hell that is my life, is a movie directed by me, so there is no kasoti going on anywhere if I can help it.

So... I went from being frustrated. To not caring. Plain-ass ignoring. Hating silently, but refusing to react. Receeded into a shell. Watched, rather detachedly as everyone soon picked through her plans. Watched her fall... and remained watching. There was a time I would have done anything to protect her... now I just simply, did not care. It wasn't vengence... I just erased her... she was dead to me...

I stared again at the vibrating phone... I see beyond it... I pick up a strip, delicately fill in with flakes... roll... lick... smoothen... lights... suck, breath in... hold, release... I feel lighter, woozy even... repeat... destructive thoughts fade away...

Got that scowl lifted off my face. See y'all... aint too hard 'tall to be happy... the secret of life...

My O2 XDAII keeps vibrating... barely registers... got a pretty shine, it does...I watch as it moves further... drops... and shatters into a million pieces....

And in the one closest to me... I can see a distorted version of me... And I'm smiling...

The mind of a...

He watched her painting the view outside on the patio. Her hair was gilmmering in the sunshine and sweat glistened on her arms and legs. Her long long, exposed legs...
There's nothing sexier than a woman in a man's shirt, he mused to himself... and there's something especially attractive about someone drawn into their own little passionate world... An artist, why of all people he had to find himself an artist?
He just stood in the shadows, fantasizing about what he could do to her, what he would do to her... touch her... tease her... taunt her... torture her...
She wiped the paint on the white shirt... for some reason this annoyed him. Irritated him. The perfect picture, now tainted. Red paint, white shirt..
Red paint..
White shirt..
Red paint...
White shirt..

Artistic License

I've often wondered what exactly the term means...
I'm not really sure still...
Perhaps, it excuses erratic behaviours from people deemed artistic... poets, writers, painters, sculptures, musicians, etc...
And the more cynical of the world go, "why not just accuse them of being void of moralistic value and contributing to society"...
They'd also say, "so he got a wall to look like a man, cooooool"(and stick of out their tongue).
No niet non nope... uh uh...
(Turns head from side to side...)
Artists witness life, observe life and record life... as they see it. They provide the real history to how life and thinking can evolve. How people evolve. No two paintings are really alike. No two lives are either.
And since art is an expression of life (although it could very well not be the reader's own), it is representative of the way someone interprets things that probably we all go through. It's a new perspective, a new expression... History too... how someone living somewhere, at some point of time, thought about life and living.
What I'm trying to say if perhaps artistics feel that they need to experience as much as they can of life to truly capture the essence of it, or their soul, in the art. Perhaps they do not judge themselves too harshly because they make their mistakes almost on purpose, usually know when to stop, where to go... and are prepared for the experience...
Either way... it's fascinating...

My Addiction (Fictional Short Story - Female Protagonist)

I lifted my gaze to meet his...

The result is almost painful... I instantly regret my decision, cursing my own idiocy...Hating my weakness...

Heat rushes into my face. The reaction is visible to him, I remind myself... I'm staring at my toes but I can see the self satisfied smirk on his face. He's silent, butI can hear the sneering laugh... Like a personal victory... How sick can you get?

And what do I do in defiance? To retaliate? This strong, passionate woman? Nothing. I submit, cave in, give up, accept defeat... whatever you call it. That's how much of a coward I've become.

He owns me now. It's a relative term. It owns us. I suppose that's more accurate.

Years ago they were all racking their heads why we landed up together.
The bitch. The bastard. Yeah yeah, but still, how?

I was a labelled, confirmed slut from the slums. Not that I sold. I just experimented.
It's a string of failed relationships. Not really multiple dating. You know? That kind... Bad rep, but still I got good guys, decent ones even. Usually got what I wanted in life... Yups! Lucky me...

It'd be some sort of consolation I suppose, had he been goodlooking. Understandable if he was filthy rich or had much dignity to his name. Fame I mean... well, none of that. They'd have been able to justify it all had he been the sweet, cute, cutiepie sort - then again if that were true I probably wouldn't be here in the first place, now would I?

Absolutely shameful is what it is.

Was he especially kind to me? Hell no. Lied. Cheated. Ignored. Humiliated. Several times over...

So what kind of a retard am I?

In the beggining I tried to please him... like any love sick sucker would. Love, no... I'm not going to taint the word in this story, Let's try again.

The guys I used to date, like I said... were of the good sort. Sweet faced, sweetly smiling and sweeter manners... Ironically I end up with this looser. Figures.

I suppose I could say I had to stay with him because I lost my virginity to him and felt some sort of attachment to him. I suppose I could say he wouldn't let me go because I soon started to play wifey and do his chores. I suppose I could tell you his reckless bad ass attitude was a new buzz. I guess I could blame it on me finding his junkie/orgy infest/almost criminal lifestyle appealing...

But the truth is... I wasn't that naive... The truth is I knew what was coming... Reality is that I was never the good little girl I pretended to be. I never had die hard morals to begin with, to stop me. I'd always questioned what I had been taught.

Not an ethist by any means, don't get me wrong now. No holy woman neither.

Lust is a very powerful emotion. If it can be called one. It's more like... a... drug. Cheesy huh... It's addictive, destructive and alters how our body functions and to top it off, is induced by a chemical realised into the body. Isn't it a drug then?

It's an escape mechanism, a vulnerability, a window of weakness.

Some smoke. Some snort. Some eject. Some Some drink. Some choke. Some just fuck. Simple as that. A, B, C. It's my cocaine. Like so many other addicts I didn't see it coming.. the high was just...beyond this world. Life itself is a variable you know? I fooled myself into calling it love.

The thought is hilarious now. Love? That? Blasphemous!

I sort of... hallucinated... and within so, dreamt up castles, conjoured up phrases like Shakespeare, planned out a perfect lifetime... one heck of a trip that was... and my ruin... I got hooked.

Didn't take long for the transformation. He became evil. Everything I'd constructed, concieved to be him... under closed, relaxed eyes... all dissipated, and I began to see him for who he really was - just another guy.

I hated him from the very innermost depths of my soul. I needed him though, I needed him, I needed him... and I need him even more. It burned a hole in me...

We had lives before each other, him and I. He had a good, safe girl. I had a decent steady guy. The story was to end in one and only one way. I knew exactly what that conlusive chapter would be like. I tried hard to walk away. My family set force to rehabilitate me in the sense, to life without him.

And then came the withdrawals. I itched to dial his number... I stared at his messenger icon... willing myself to look away, move away... I walked by his home, though mine was on the opther side of the neighborhood. I didn't mean to, at first, but I guess you could say that I began stalking him...

I knew him so well you see, I'm messed up but I'm not stupid... I went to the places where I knew he would go, when I knew I'd be able to find him there. Just sit and stare, observe him. I was beggining to scare myself. I couldn't sleep at night... all I could think of was him, and I knew something was going wrong with me.

My friends tell me I talk about him all the time, saw him or images of him no matter where I was, he haunted me. His voice echoed in my head. I was going insane. I told him, and in the beggining he found it amusing. Then he told me I was sick...

He left me, after using me. He felt guilty at first... I needed answers so I pushed it, tried to make the guilt work for me. Manipulate his feelings that way, you know, bring them back out. This desire for him, it couldn't live just inside me.

I bribed everyone to bring him back... his friends, his family... emotionally, physically, financially... and the most deadly weapon of all, sex..

'I'm pregnant and it's his...'

'You know, he stole money from me for heroin'

'You know you want me... come to me'

All the things I said... all those words I used... it was for the better. White lies.. no big deal... I had been pregnant, but I miscarried before I went for the abortion... Felt worse, like the child had rejected me... He did take money from me... for marijuana... drug either way...

He himself couldn't stay away from what I could make him feel...

I had trapped us into being what previously we couldn't be... and the lust drove us into it... drove us over the edge... and we couldn't take it anymore, we were trapped in a deadly cycle, damned forever. One of us had to make the sacrifice... the one that was truly wasting away...

I rubbed a finger across his paled cheek... and looked back into his eyes. This time the gaze isn't strong at all, it's empty... I bent over his beautiful face and kissed him. Then I dipped a finger into the warm flesh blood pouring out of his impaled chest and painted those delicate lips.

'My darling... and for what? Just lust?'