Paradox

Have you ever been absent?
Not there… unfamiliar with yourself?
Have you ever looked at yourself and thought, “Who is this person that is supposed to be me?”

I used to be good at being me.
Now, I am beginning to think I lost touch.

During the week I find myself moaning, barely able to stand the weight of long work hours and appointments, longing for the weekend and some time off… and once the weekend is here, I wish to go back to work because I don’t know what to do with myself.
It is absolutely disgusting.
The nagging question is: When did this happen?

I used to be able to entertain myself.
I used to be able to just read, write… or enjoy nature. Just sitting in the grass for a while was enough – fulfilling.
Now, I look at this shell (that is supposed to be me) in the few hours of time that I have to myself on weekends and it seems like I am just
pacing…
Pacing…
PACING…
on the inside – because I feel the need to go back to being under pressure. Minutes keep dragging on, feel endless. Even while writing this, I keep thinking of ways to pass the time until it’s Monday again and I can go back to work – and hating my job. It feels like a Love/Hate -Relationship. Once I’m there, I can’t wait for it to be Friday again – to be rid of demands and ‘have-to’s’… and on the weekends, I can’t wait to get back to the stressful environment I loathe.

Has Society finally succeeded to assimilate me? Has it made me one of their mindless robots?

Perhaps not quite – or I wouldn’t be writing this.
Perhaps this is my true Self’s Last Stand.

It is a frightening feeling to discover you lost yourself.
I keep wondering when that little person inside me (the one who stands for my individuality) shut the door and resigned. I keep wondering when exactly the daily grind got the best of me… drowned me out, without me even noticing.
Frightening.
Utterly frightening.

Can you be addicted to stress?
And even more importantly, how long can you keep it up until your body and mind surrender?

I am frightened by the lack of me within me.
I will heed this warning and work from here… hoping to find my way back.

Good Luck find me… I need it.

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for my friend

how much does it take to break a human being?
how many times can a caged animal be poked and prodded, before the inner demon lends it the strength to break through the bars?

the desire for freedom is embedded in our hearts; a desire so great, so vital, that its voice can never be drowned out.

be safe, my friend.
i wish you would have had an easier path to travel.

the artist

*x-rated* Happy (belated) Halloween!
______________________________

it squirms.

he can hear the shifting… the thrashing, coming from the next room… faint, but unmistakable.

******
he had left the door ajar after his last visit a couple of hours ago, figuring he would need some time to prepare, to get into an artistic state of mind.

he had been right.
******

a delicious treat awaits him.

muffled whimpers in the darkness. how they reverberate off the walls… through the cold, dank cellar.

music.
the sweetest music of all.

he closes his eyes, inhales the familiar scents.
stone, disinfectant, mold, rotting wood… and something sweet, metallic.
blood.
the tickling, tingling scent of blood, barely noticeable, still lingers in the stale air.
he savors it, slight smile curling the corner of his mouth.
soon, there would be more.

much more.

******
he had forgiven himself.

he hadn’t been strong enough. strong enough to resist.
earlier, he had taken the knife to its left calf; just a quick cut. not too deep.
he had longed for it.
craved it.

he had cursed himself for not being strong enough to resist, but after seeing the precious, deep dark Red welling up, trickling down pale skin, he had forgiven himself. earnestly.

after all, he was only human. he had his faults, his weaknesses.
life blood.
divinity.
all mortals falter, facing the divine. he was no exception.
******

he checks his arsenal one last time, runs loving fingers over every single piece.

syringe.
butterfly knife.
tweezers.
his variety of scalpels.
rubber tube.
bandage scissors.
razor blades.
rib retractor.
soldering iron.

cleaned and polished to perfection.
he had even oiled the serving cart’s little wheels – last time, the squeaking sound had ruined the mood. he would not have it this time.

one last, deep breath.
anticipation causes his fingers to shake, but he steels his nerves.
he would not let it see him tremble.
it might laugh, might scorn him… and he doesn’t want to make quick work.
no… he waited too long for this.
he will take his time.

he steps over to the door, swings it open.
he flicks on the lights, keeps his eyes on the ground.

not yet. do not look at it yet. restrain yourself!

the wheels of his serving cart do not distract him this time.
he did a good job. no squeaking.
perfect.
he maneuvers the cart with his precious tools over to the operating table.
slowly, he lifts his eyes, takes in the sight.

it hadn’t soiled itself… yet.
good.

a little spittle had escaped the corner of its mouth, running along the gag, down the side of its face.
not bad, it can be wiped away.

the fastenings at its wrists and ankles hadn’t broken the skin.
the padding has done its job.

learn from your mistakes.
he smiles.

carefully, he removes the small bandage he had applied to the small cut in its calf a few hours ago. a faint whiff of dried blood makes him shiver briefly.
it winces at his touch.
the cut looks clean, barely visible.
he sighs in relief.

it isn’t spoiled.

he stares at it for a little while, takes in the delicious scent of fear… sees it thrash, the movement limited by the firm grip of padded steel… enjoys the terror, the agony, reflected in its eyes.
naked perfection.
a clean canvas for his artwork.

he picks the smallest scalpel of them all, takes it into his now steady hand.

start slow…
right side of the navel. what an intriguing spot.

to its muffled cries, he begins his work.

he would paint the world red.
he would bathe in divinity… tonight.

*******************************************************************************************************
I am surprised to encounter the disgusting things that seem to be hidden in my mind. Too many Horror Movies perhaps… but hey, allowed on Halloween, right?!  Hope you “enjoyed” this twisted piece – as much as something this disgusting can be enjoyed…

photo credits: placentalyposuction.bandcamp.com

run.

feet pound on pavement.
his eyes, wide with fear; haunted.

do not look back!

his breath comes in gasps as he rounds yet another corner; as fast as he dares.
he can still hear him. him… The One Who Lurks Behind.
his trembling legs scream for a break, for rest, for relief.

not far now… run! RUN!

the freezing night air makes it hard to breathe; he sucks in breath after breath, feeling the icy knives dig deep into his straining lungs. sweat stings in his eyes, makes it hard to stay focused on the soft, warm lights in the distance.
terror.
sheer terror resides.
terror keeps his body functioning, keeps him moving; ignoring the exhaustion gnawing at his bones, his mind, his heart. the will to survive is all-consuming. stupendous.

please, don’t let me falter… please…

a loud crack echoes through the night; the source not far behind, bouncing off the narrow alley’s grimy brick walls. he stumbles, blinking.
his legs no longer able to bear his weight, give out from underneath him. he sags to his knees, gasping.

what happened? i don’t unde……

there.
a dark red spot appears on the front of his shirt. small, wet… slowly extending.

no…

heavy footsteps behind him.
a low, smooth chuckle.

and then… blackness.

addiction

smoke billows lazily from her slightly parted lips. the nervous tap tap tap of her long fingernails on the table draws his eyes, again. her eyes averted, she slouches in her chair; her expression… unreadable.
he wishes she would stop.
he wishes she would stop hiding behind her mechanisms and face him – but how could he force her?! he would never.
the haunting tick tock of the kitchen clock rings in his ears, adding eerie frequencies to her fingernails’ rhythm.
coffee, black. long gone cold, but he clings to the mug, holding on for dear life, needing to feel something solid, and yet fearing it might break in his sweaty palms.

how could she do this to him?
how could she face yet another trial and have nothing to say?
he can see the mockery – purple, taunting, on the side of her neck.
he can smell the cologne on her skin, her clothes.
he can see the color of her lips, just a shade too red… raw, from kissing someone else’s lips.
and yet, she sits there… silent, numb. not offering one word, not even trying to mask her failure.
he watches her put out her cigarette.
he watches her pick at her chipped nail polish.

will this ever end?

the fight, long gone from their postures; only helplessness remains.
to the sound of the judgemental kitchen clock, they endure yet another endless night… with no hope for a brighter tomorrow.

flight

snowflakes drifted from the sky.
it was too early for such cold weather, yet it was there. snow. unmistakably.
his breath steaming in the cold night air, he drew his jacket closer, gathering what little warmth it would give him.
everything seemed so… quiet. muffled. his footsteps, crunching, crushing the white crystals on former dark gray pavement.

am i the only one here?

alien. so alien. in just a few hours, the world had transformed.
transformed into an uninhabitable environment… beautiful and deadly.
a butterfly, halfway covered by the drifting flakes, lay quivering on the sidewalk. he stared at the fragile body, transfixed, considered picking it up, but before being able to even finish his thought, the butterfly shuddered – one last time – and its wings lost color forever.
he resisted the urge to cringe and hurry away; instead made himself look a moment longer at the motionless form at his feet… once, so perfectly vivid; gorgeous.

all things must die. is that what this means? all things must die?

his gaze lifted to the wild and furious tumble above, and before his heart could adopt the cold that was spreading through his body, he hurried away, determined to find artificial warmth and comfort.
all he left behind were his footprints, slowly filling, fading from sight.