/ fitter / healthier / and more productive /// a pig / in a cage / on antibiotics /
Yesterday was a beautiful day, now the sky is gray and the ground covered with dirty snow. Everything pushes me away. Last night I marveled [again] the softness of his skin and the sharpness of his bones against my body. This keeps me going. It's all an illusion of perfect beauty, but nevertheless an illusion I don't want to break into pieces just for the sake of finding the truth. Illusions are what my world is built upon. If they crash, I fall. Then there are nights when everything is all too fake and unreal and I just want to smash it and rebuild my existence on something steady instead. I know though that if I do it I'll throw away half my happiness. Sometimes I feel Amélieish, wanting to surprise someone, anyone, and make his day. Wanting to do all the small things just to astonish. Then, in the evening, I would watch my own funeral on tv and pity myself. I died so young.
I'm confused because someone wants to make my days better, leaving trails of understanding, soft reminders that there still is someone who knows, but just when I'm about to grab her she slips away into the shadows again, and I stand there wondering who she was. An angel? Although I never put any faith in those pretty, frail creatures, except in a perverted way when I drew all the archangels as thin, long haired boys, innocent and pure and good hearted and, above all, sexually frustrated and begging to be satisfied.
This mess around me is a heavy contrast to my inner situation. My mental room would be white, round, filled with soft warm air and a scent of summer, without any furniture, just me and the high walls and the roof through which I can see the blue sky. When I keep it simple enough there is no way I can mess it up.
I'm confused because someone wants to make my days better, leaving trails of understanding, soft reminders that there still is someone who knows, but just when I'm about to grab her she slips away into the shadows again, and I stand there wondering who she was. An angel? Although I never put any faith in those pretty, frail creatures, except in a perverted way when I drew all the archangels as thin, long haired boys, innocent and pure and good hearted and, above all, sexually frustrated and begging to be satisfied.
This mess around me is a heavy contrast to my inner situation. My mental room would be white, round, filled with soft warm air and a scent of summer, without any furniture, just me and the high walls and the roof through which I can see the blue sky. When I keep it simple enough there is no way I can mess it up.