Looking For Tuesday

Forsaken by my own thoughts... the ebbed sensations replaced by shadow, stick figures seeking for lost dinner plates. My conscious has been replaced by the flaky paste of dried saliva, mucous and tears. Like stained teeth gnawing through dried, cracking lips... the empty gaze of puzzled thoughts, only this one remains void. Existence breed with chaos. Dignity lost among the mannequins. Whether a Shepard's crook or the Devil's hook... the destination, has only but one name. Can you still see me, as I lay here in this soiled grave?

Full Length Mirrors

Recently, I've learned the difference between feeling alone and actually being alone. Because of my disassociation with people and emotions, I've felt alone all of my life... whether or not people are in my life or my home. I could have someone in the very next room, yet I would feel all alone... like there was no one to care or even feign their compassion. As most of my readers know, I've been having difficulties with the people that I live with for several years now... constant stress, betrayal, and theft. Recent events led to the removal of these people from my home... the tension had grown so immense due to the constant discovery or more thefts, that I finally snapped and a physical altercation arose. I've been living in this house completely alone for almost two weeks now... well not completely alone, because my companion animal is still here. These people had been in my life for the past 12 years and their removal has been both good and bad. In their absence, my stress and the tension have been significantly reduced and the comfort in knowing the thefts have finally stopped has been like a weight lifted from my shoulders. For the past 12 years, these people have been family, and even though they held that title, I still felt alone... unwanted, unloved, unappreciated. Over the course of those years they would attempt to tell me otherwise, but the nature of my feelings never changed. Despite their efforts and my own, I felt alone. Now that I am living here all by myself, things feel different.... I'm starting to notice the difference between the feeling of being alone and, in fact, being alone. Now that the "family" has parted ways, the feigned affection has also disappeared. At the beginning, several people including other family members, "friends", and my doctors, expressed concern and compassion... telling me such things as, "we care about you..." and "we are here for you...". Despite their words, no one has taken the time to check in on me or return my efforts to communicate with them. I find this strange because everyone expressed great concern for a number of years, on whether I would be able to live on my own... the concern was that I would get lost in my delusional world and the hallucinations and neglect would ultimately end in my death. Surprise, surprise... even with my recent return to drug addiction, I am still very much alive. Now that the basis of such "promises" and concerns" walked out of the front door with the people that once lived here, I am experiencing what it truly means to be all alone. I spend my days still locked away in this room, even thought the entire house is empty. For years, I've expressed that this room was much like a prison cell, and it appears more so than ever before, that it in fact is one. I'm not experiencing any increased sorrow due to the lack of warm flesh within these walls, nor do I feel lonely. But there is a difference, to be sure. For all of those years, I felt alone, but it was accompanied with words assuring me that I wasn't, despite my feelings on the matter. Now that those "assurances" have disappeared, even though I never believed them, things feel completely different. Now I understand the difference between feeling alone and being alone.I'll admit, even though I never believed those words being expressed to me or the "feigned affections", it does sting a little to know they were only words all along. Conformation can be a bitter and cruel mistress, indeed. I guess the most discouraging thing I'm experiencing, is the realization that all of those people may have been right about my inability to survive alone. My hallucinations have increased significantly as has my drug consumption and the neglect to my bodily needs has also increased. Even though I spend most of my time in bed, I'm not really sleeping all that well... it's more of a drug induced incapacitation. I've always forgotten to eat on a regular basis, but now even when I am reminded by hunger and distress that I need to eat something, I won't because it involves a lengthy and stressful ordeal of counting and verifying that the refrigerator is closed and properly sealed. I do eat eventually, usually when my stress is low enough to handle the series of checks and verifications or when I am too fucking high to care to count. It is a problem. It's things such as this, which has me wondering if they were right all along. Either way, there is nothing I can really do about it. This realization of the difference between being and feeling alone, has been enlightening. My emotional stability is about the same as before and quite honestly, I'm not struggling with the change and this realization. I'm not writing about it because I feel sorrow or even confusion, I'm writing about it because I recognize the difference now. In a lot of ways, the two feel very much the same... yet at the same time, there are some differences. I guess the biggest one being conformation. However, after several years of wanting to be free and having the opportunity to live alone, I do believe the good out weighs the different. Change has never been something I've felt comfortable with, but this change is welcomed and long awaited. It can seem a bit daunting at times, but the peace of knowing I shall not be subject to more betrayal is comforting, to say the least. I can only hope they're all wrong and that this is something I can do... that I can survive on my own. As much as I crave death and departure of this world, I need to make this work... I just have to.

The Powder Room

A perverse amount of time has passed since I have been able to come here and document the pathetic nature of my life... or what passes for the excuse of living life. I am indeed not living, rather I am nothing more than a slave to addiction, torment and debauchery. Within these walls of script, that have outlined the nature of my various failures, crimes and transgressions, you've become familiar with the monster that wears the face of humanity and mingles among the living. Most of the events written within, require some deduction and thought to fully appreciate their significance and meaning. This will not be the case today. For the message I have to share today, needs not the lattice and veiled approach... the dirt upon my face and the spittle foaming in the corners of my lips speak for itself.

About three months ago, I returned to the rabbit hole and the denizens within... once again engaging in the dance of substance abuse. They welcomed me passionately, as I returned to the embrace of lost lovers... the orgasm of flesh and mind, as the drugs consumed any remaining remnants of pride and self-worth. The affair did not end there, for it has become a daily exercise of humiliation and debasement. The seductress of choice this time around is opiates... more specifically, Dilaudid. Once I awake for the day, within moments I've ingested enough to send my body into a nodding delirium. The ecstasy washes over me and the foot race ensues... running frantically from the stress of the day and the demons that devour my remaining sanity. Once the slightest sign of sobriety approaches, I return desperately to the bedroom floor of my mistress and expose my milky flesh in exchange for another dose of orgasmic bliss. The dance continues all day long, day after day, without rest and an endless amount of remorse. I've become a whore to my drug and myself... a junkie and an established author of failure.


Of course, all of this is a descriptive way of informing you that I have once again starting abusing drugs. NO, I am not whoring myself out for drugs and there is, in fact, no mistress or drug dealing rabbits. As you already know, I suffer from chronic pain due to some injuries to my back, neck and leg from long ago. It is also well known that even though I was sober for over ten years, I still displayed behavior of a drug addict by hoarding my pain medications. So you see, there is no need to sell my body for drugs or even associate with a drug dealer, because I have a near endless supply of opiates at my disposal. I suppose that's why I chose to abuse that particular drug... availability. As for what lead me down this path, that's a different story entirely. Yes, there were circumstances, but the biggest factor would be weakness. Yes, things were said and certain event transpired, but the decision was ultimately mine and mine alone. No one forced me to start using again... I took that leap all by myself.

When I stopped using drugs before, it became a common occurrence to have people tell me things like, "It won't last" and "Once a junkie, always a junkie". I suppose part of me became accustomed to this attitude from others and their cruelty and ignorance. At the same time, I suppose part of me always remained very sensitive and hurt my these thoughts. Perhaps that's why what followed had such a profound impact on my decision to start using drugs again. For a little over a year now, I've had a very strong desire to have a child of my own.... to raise a family that I had a role in creating. This idea, this thought, has become something that I yearn for greatly. Not too long along, someone very close to me, at the time, told me something very callous and cruel. They said they would never even consider having a child with someone like me, a former drug addict, because they would only return to that lifestyle and ruin the life and childhood of their child. Hearing this, broke my heart and shattered my dreams and desires... as if my face were brutally thrust into a mirror and I was force fed the shards of broken glass. This person supposedly cared for me and called themselves my friend... to hear something so hurtful really had a profound impact on my fragile and limited self-esteem. I was fueled with anger and rage... all of the voices came running back to the front line. "Once a junkie, always a junkie!". I thought to myself, "Why not? Fuck it! Let them be right... I don't give a fuck anymore!". The stress in my life had become unbearable and my hopes of leaving this apartment and living on my own had only become more and more complicated and delayed. So I needed an escape. I needed a way to leave all of this bullshit behind me. So I did. I closed my eyes and said "Goodbye" to my ten years of sobriety and returned to the place I once swore I'd never see again.

So here I sit... three months into this addiction that has a firm grasp on my soul and testicles. I have no one to blame but myself, and truthfully, I don't. I did in the beginning perhaps. But now, it is very clear to me that this was a decision of my own making and design. I'm not comfortable with it, by any means. In fact, I fucking hate it. At first, I was hoping it would just kill me... then I could finally say goodbye to this pathetic excuse of an existence. However, as I've stated countless times before... nothing is ever as simple as we'd like it to be. For now, let's just say I'm no longer satisfied with the idea of dieing from this addiction... it's something I wish to remove from my life, so that I can begin a new chapter. A chapter worth living. But that's a story for another time.

For now, this is all I have to share on the subject. For those of you that consider yourselves my friends... I am truly sorry that I've let you down and become something less than human. For those of you that desire to judge me on my short comings and "knew this day was coming"...  go fuck yourselves, you self-righteous, mother fucking leeches.

Backyard Mechanic

It doesn't matter how many different vehicles you bring over to jump start your car... it will never work. Your car will not start. It's not the battery... it's your starter. It has a faulty solenoid. Take a flat-head screwdriver and bypass the solenoid by touching the two terminal posts... your car will start, I assure you. After conformation, remove your starter and replace the solenoid... you'll be back on the road in no time. I apologize for watching you from my window for the past few days... I could have helped you and saved you much time and effort. I just couldn't. I couldn't stand the thought of talking with someone new. I couldn't break the chains of insecurity and anxiety. All I could do was watch and hope you'd find the answers you were seeking. The fear is crippling... much like your solenoid.

The Scar Tissue Incident

Something needs to give... whether it be my will or the relentless assault on these cursed emotions. I'm broken... the chewed toy buried in the backyard. Slowly digested by time and these acidic thoughts... the poisonous neglect of those claiming to care. I am alone. It's nothing new... in fact, I should have been hardened to this truth long ago. Yet, I believe those sweet words when uttered in my leprous ears... all the while knowing those eyes have become callous and filled with deceit. The venomous beauty... my sweetest torment. It only serves to fuel the already overwhelming hatred I feel for this pathetic mass called a man... I am neither a man, nor the moppet. I am the willing bitch... a whore to desired affections and the centerpiece of insecurity. I hate you... I fucking hate myself. I spend my time rocking in the womb, weeping for the things forgotten and running from those remembered... strangulation and humiliation, the comforts of this diseased edifice. I still yearn for those possibilities at night as I clutch my pillow... the echoing words of what was shared and desired. Though I now see the words for what they are, slivered glass embedded in a cancerous gullet... my heart aches for the veil to once again shroud the deception. How I long for it...fuck! The irony is thick, for now I take on the role of the fattened calf... to gurgle and spit, over and over as you thrust and penetrate my throat with your rusted, forked tongue. The daily ritual, of you, the unsatiated sadist... my captor and false prophet. Filed in line, behind the others... to claim the place as my muse and infection. Seeping through my skin and bubbling my blood black... the deepest cut upon my soul. It cannot heal... lest I refuse the candied scabs you offer me. Why? Fucking why? Is it so tasty... does curdled blood moisten that cunt you call a heart? I suffer your words and the lack thereof. Why do I cry? Why the solemn and wounded expression on my face? Because I've return to where I was once before... before the time of hope and desire. A time of misery and despair, torment and sorrow... just as you found, only this time, broken beyond mending. I understand now, Layne, those words of fighting all alone... more so than I did before. Praying for safe passage, as the shroud of companionship rots. Richard insists that the only comfort and love that will ever reach this heart, is the sultry drip of a needle buried in my arm... the thickened saliva and sweaty teeth of the dirt filling my chest and powdering my nose. The brick that bathes my gullet... warm whiskey and soiled cotton. The boot offers an erection... the salty, metallic taste escorting my orgasm. I need the release. I need the numbing nod. I need the escape. I need the end...

Raise Your Glass

I've been trying to figure this out... the sorting of odds and ends, little children and decimal points. If two makes three, then why would a fourth make only one? Lots of things in my sheltered, little world have been changing rapidly... the razor swam violently through the folds of that bloated neck. There was no blood or squirming... only a whimper, accompanying the pus and bile.

Richard came and visited me last night... it has been awhile since he displayed the strength and resolve to speak his mind unhindered. He poured me a glass of bleach and offered his opinions with malice and buttered toast. He told me to drink and to forget... forget this madness of emotions and purpose. That the road that awaits me has nothing more to offer... just the worn soles and blisters upon my feet. For once, I think he may be completely correct... there is nothing waiting down there for me, only more regret and heartache. If I were to die today, right this fucking moment, there would be nothing to prove my worth or existence. Perhaps some photographs that could be anyone really, no accomplishments or achievements. I have these scribblings on digital paper and a cardboard box of tangible delusions... nothing more, not respectable in the least. I have skeletons living in boxes.. more fingers and toes. Just waiting for their release... my secrets would come undone when the vultures come to pick through my carcass and memories. Letters and bits of hair, wrapped in shame, and the clothing they once wore... and finer too, are the cotton few, that line those photograph's tomb. No one would come to my funeral... for there wouldn't be anyone that would arrange it. My grave would shallow and unmarked, much like my life... nothing to remain when the dust comes home. My only "friends" and "companions" are in the digital world... no one touches my flesh or dries my tears, just the cracking skin of my own hands. Richard knows well, his words paint my empty canvas... but his resolve is nontransferable. I reek of cowardice and I lack the strength to end this mockery of an existence. I fucking hate it here... and I hate you, for fucking bringing me back.

Run Away

I've failed, yet again. Disappointment washes over my swollen limbs and fevered heart. I wanted so desperately to write here often and I can't seem to accomplish that... these pages have been becoming more and more neglected as time creeps forward. The only reason I'm here now, writing, is because I feel so fucking lost and broken... I need the distraction to stop me from just giving in and ending this pitiful existence.

Things have continued to fall apart... despite my efforts to live my life without the echos of guilt and shame. The mirror reminds me, family reminds me, and even now the one I hold closest in my heart is a constant reminder of my short comings and past. It wasn't so long ago that I was so enthralled and encouraged to be a better man... that dream died the moment I shared my past with her. I am now unfit and untrustworthy to be a man worthy of a life and family... I'm forever scarred with the man I used to be. Truthfully, people generally don't change... they just become better at hiding their dirty little secrets and compulsions. But it can indeed happen... I'm proof of that. But what's the point of changing if people will only remember what was... forever clouding their eyes to what now is and the things to come? It weakens my faith and purges any hope of redemption and solace.

I just want to be happy... is that too fucking much to ask? How those elegant and captivating eyes have turned to dull, rusted daggers... stabbing at my throat and drowning the children in curdled blood, as my gullet swells and overflows with yesterday's bile and shame.Why? Why can't it? Why can't we...

Fingertips & Bruised Lips

I apologize for the lack of entries... life has become, complicated, once again. My goal was to post on a regular basis... everyday in fact, if that would at all be possible. It's no surprise that things seldom turn out the way we expected them to be... life has a way of dry fucking you, despite the copious amounts of lubrication on hand.

It's been about two weeks now since I rebelled and rejected the poison... the Choir has returned to full strength and I've left the chains of center stage behind. It was decided that we should also discontinue the anti-depression medication... not a choice made purely by myself. They all had a hand in this conclusion... two fingers per sandwich and one always left dry. Richard has remained in the background... praying and chanting in rhythm with the Choir and restless screams. The children continue to rot in the gasping gullets... the blood quenches their thirst no longer. The definitions of suffering and torment have stretched like the bellies of fattened calves ready for slaughter... rocking back and forth in the middle of the night, as the faces leap single-filled from the closet. It's not a matter of adjustment... it's the fallout of evolution. The more I try to realize some measure of value, the images shift their perspective and innocence... there is no "I" in team, but there is a "Me". Self-preservation... the cautionary tale of genocide. Part of me is still clinging on to the promises and assurances of Richard... the destination is the same, it's only the path and his companionship that is of the question. His strength has been proven in the recent past, so his wrath is a continual concern... he may be still for the moment, but he is very much aware and waiting. With Diana's continued absence, my support has dwindled considerably... the majority of my support has been reduced to the internal, for my resources and companionship in the real world are beyond limited. My cat and my doctors are the extent of my social reaches... digital and delusional persons excluded, of course. Perhaps I need to widen the horizons... venture into the real world and sink my toes into the earth. Replace the X with 0808 and do what was once denied...

Bury One, To Birth The Other

Once again, time has been altered... this time due to a fault of my own. The Devil's pills and festered wills... that quelled the din within. There is little doubt that my appearances have once again become scattered and my style somewhat altered... the stage was cleared and I was left alone to swim through the emotions and vibrations of day to day living. Writing had become difficult... almost torturous. I would have to actually sit down and calm myself and focus before I could write even the simplest form of expression. Never before had this been a problem... the blood was backing up in my throat, and the children began to drown. After much thought and several breakdowns, I stopped swallowing the poisonous pill. It has only been but a few days, but already I feel The Choir gaining strength and Richard his resolve. The breakdowns were triggered but all of this overwhelming emotion... new and old ones alike, I'm just not equipped to interpret all of these incoming transmissions. One Station with a magnitude of operators... that's how things have always been. And so they shall be once more. I was terribly lonesome and afraid... with no one left to council or console me in my time of need. When the waters became too high there was no one left to steer the ship. I could never leave center stage and escape into the quiet... the bitter, sweet torments of the quiet. Stillness was removed. Richard had all but grown quiet, but never fully gone... he demonstrated his true will and strength the day of my last breakdown. Filled with rage, he made me realize that you cannot run from who you are... it's always there, waiting. Enter the breakthrough... it's time for a new game. It was then that I realized, truly and fully, the real problem... it's not Richard or The Choir, the problem is me. All of this time I've been focusing my thoughts and energy on the past and how terrible of a man and human being I truly was... was, being the operative word. Sure, I have a past... several in fact. I've done unspeakable things and committed heinous acts against God, Nature, and Humanity... these things can never be changed. No matter how much blood and sweat I spill, there is erasing the past... it is written and it is done. What I didn't understand was that I am not subject to live in the past... I must live for today. The man that lived for the flesh is gone... his deeds may remain, his guilt, his shame. But that man was buried long ago... it is time I let him rest and forget. Instead there is myself, taking his place and moving on in this world, in life. Despite the past, I realized that I am a good man... the man that is here now. An honorable, giving, thoughtful and respectful man. I may not be perfect, but what I am... ain't all that fucking bad.

Awaiting Dawn

The road is long and winding... the cracks in the earth cause my body to waver, unsteady in my new shell. The excitement is exhilarating and terrifying at the same time... each breath becomes a new experience, a new sensation that must be savored. I find myself oftentimes, sitting along the roadside, dwelling in those moments of bliss and wonder... those moments when we are together and the pieces nuzzle tightly together. I spend hours there, just lost in all that is your splendor... without care or caution, I bathe in the grass and downy feathers. Then when night comes, like the villains of yesterday, and I'm left exposed... no shelter, no solace, just the idle hands and tongue lashings in disguise. My footing is lost, as I cower at the sound of my own voice... a new Master to whip and pick the flesh. The dark is long and without mercy... as my knees further grind the tears into their sockets. I wanted a voice, I wanted the pasture... but in those hours I question my resolve. We can slither among the cracked and dripping glass or we can remain until the green sun rises once more. I met Yesterday last night, as I waited... she didn't look quite the same.

Project Humanity Update

Yesterday marked the 100th day of my photo project... I know, I know, everyone is so excited about viewing 100 fucking photos of this pathetic retch of a creature. On the plus side, I'm not posting any of those photos here, so you are free to just read my mindless chatter for the moment. Thank God for small miracles, right?

Seeing how 100 is a perfectly round number and a modest accomplishment, I was faced with a decision to either continue or end the project. I never stated how long this would continue, but rather purely focused on the healing part of this journey. Sadly, the healing never came... or at least nothing monumental. I still think I'm hideous, disgusting, and extremely overweight and pathetic... thank you, Mother. Of course that's not to say other unexpected paths were discovered and some truly inspiring and wonderful events have been uncovered... vague, always so fucking vague! It's really not a mystery, my friends. If you've read along and followed the project... I would say things are quite clear. So after much debate and a few conversations with some of you, someone else, and my therapist, I decided to continue doing the project. I'm still not putting a date or number on it, but rather just taking it day by day. Perhaps if I focus less on the actual miraculous healing I desire to discover and just continue traveling this path... then maybe, just maybe, the wounds can begin to heal in their own time. For those of you that would like to witness this spectacle first hand, I will add a link to the fiasco at the end of this post.

Before I go... I would like to take a moment to thank all of you for your support, encouragement, comments, devotion, and inspiration. Knowing that I'm not alone has made this journey so much easier to stomach. Be well and with peace... more madness will follow shortly.

Project Humanity

One Thing

If you could do anything, or have anything right this moment, no delay or price... what would you choose?


Personally, I stick a fucking knife through my throat until the warm blood spewed across my bedroom walls...

Sweet Surrender

Living as a monster was easier... the daily task of hating myself was almost natural. Trying to live now, feeling, is exhausting... it hurts and my fingers are chewed to the nubs. Why can't I lay on the cold pavement, pretending none of this has happened to me? Can't I just assume the fetal position and welcome the dry, cracking shafts back into my body... as they feed on my musky blood and self-worth. Why must I continue to feel something that only promises more suffering? I never thought something so wonderful could cut so deeply... I was a fool. I understand better why people do the things they do to throw the pearls before the swine... it's for sanity's sake. I'll cut off my own arm, before the rats have a chance to gnaw it clean through. Perhaps it's cowardice, perhaps it ignorance... but I feel lost in this new open world, where terror and insecurity lurk around the shadowed corners. I know I've stated it before... for everything is a cost, a price that must be paid. I surrendered my old life for a new one... the price was the new life would be short lived, if it even lived at all. I can't make sense of this... there is no one in here to ask, no guides or voices to shelter my heart. It's a vast, open arena of torment and heartache... for the garments are too thin to shield the tender. to be reminded of the things I can never have, never touch, never experience... the taunting reminder infused with power. I gave my life, to another, in exchange of the memory that I'm not the one to hold our life together.

Center Stage

Time has been altered.. a new format arises to the occasion. Standing before you, is only myself... withered and weeping. For the past several days, I've been trying to get used to the idea of having a voice... searching desperately to deserve this passing into a new era. The damage is severe and I find myself wavering between moments of extreme joy and abysmal sorrow...the tipping scales have turned the balance from one extreme to another. I'm still lost and the fear is settling into view. I know very few people, and those that are considered trusted are even fewer still... the opinion is that I somehow deserve this new found joy and gateway to redemption. Yet the mirror casts the same image it always has... suffering in guilt and shame are hardly a reasonable price to pay. I am the fool that would tear his own leg off, to serve as a weapon to beat themselves into submission... I need not a Choir, for I am the myriad of enemies storming these castle walls. Still throned, as The King of Shit and Ash. When all is lost, every remaining scrap of dignity, I find myself staring into those precious green eyes, dusting myself off, and finding the strength to stand once more. Those windows welcome the warm air and breathe fresh life into me all over again... reborn every morning to stand on center stage and forge my own destiny. I never dreamt that I could truly feel this way... now I just need a reason to truly deserve it. My Love and My Throne... and the distance that separates us.

The Empty Crowd

I've been away... wandering through the fields of feelings. It has become somewhat silent since I started the medication.... Richard is slipping away and The Choir is still, once more. Already I feel such a loss, the despair tearing through my heart and ripping it out of my chest. For the first time, in a long time, I'm all alone. One bitter sweet occurrence is the emergence of emotions... with things quiet inside my head, I'm able to feel all kinds of terrible emotions. Terrible because I can't control the force in which they spew... terrible because I hurt so bad. Tonight was the first night that I actually cried tears... not a dry, reluctant sob, but actual tears flowing down my cheek and running into the sides of my mouth. A few days before I decided to take the medication, I had a breakthrough in my emotional growth... it was unexpected and shocking. I felt a warm sensation burning within my stomach and up into my chest... it was a birthing of positive emotions. Those long awaited feelings had become to awaken inside my heart and opened a never before seen world to me. But now looking with clarity, I know the price of such joyous emotions... nothing is free and without cost. Yes, I felt something unknown... it was love. And now that the voices are slipping away, I can hear my own thoughts and fears as they turn those beautiful emotions into suffering. This my life really better now... feeling what I feel and knowing what I now know? It's different. It's difficult, to say the least. But those moments of happiness and love, when they come, are so moving and earth shaking in my core being. I really don't know. If life remains void as it has been, then perhaps the price is too high. But if offered a chance to dwell in and out of those moments, even for a short while... then perhaps, yes. Indeed yes. Though life may never be liveable... at least I am living now. That's worth something...

Swallowed Greetings

Over a short period of time, Richard has taken control of the stage... growing stronger inside in both voice and influence. He has silenced the agenda of the choir and now leads them with one voice, one direction... the finale that shall either be my end or rebirth. My will is subject to his authority... often making me do things I have no desire to do. I've become the puppet, and he, my Master... pulling my veins, the bloody strings of delight, moving me into position for the dance of a lifetime. I now have a decision to make... continue the dance or silent Richard with medication. The decision seems easy... silent Richard and continue living my life. You should know by now, life isn't easy and the simple path often ends in destruction. I know Richard is out of control, but he does have some valid points... opinions and theories on how to change the rules and end the enslavement I suffered for so long. Our ideas differ, I'm sure... Richard often talks of storm clouds that shall rain down it's red, thick vengeance. But he also takes of escape... tearing down the walls and feeling the sun on our frigid back. If Richard goes away, then so shall the choir, and the few lingering visits of Diana shall been ceased entirely. I could lose my passion and the creative force behind my torment... for certain, I will be alone. That in itself is terrifying... finding the strength on my own to build a new life. I know things need to change, I need to step outside of the past and present, so that I may reach the future... one that I know could be if I had but the chance. I've seen the future and what hides behind the curtain... something wonderful and beautiful, things I remember from lives in the past and the pages of literature. The question however remains... swallow the pill and make my destiny, or refrain and let Richard take me there? The bottle is sitting, sealed, on my desk, just but a few inches away... what should I do? Please...

My Shoes For Silhouettes

If I could choose one point on the wall... it would be to stare through it and become free once and for all. Life is quickly becoming complicated in various avenues, but the distance that has been covered is staggering... there may be a destination to this cruel and bitter footrace. Something inside has stirred, something unlike before... this part has no worms, ash, or debris. It is pure and innocent... something that was long forgotten and undeserved. The gears that meshed and the eyes that bleed, now serve a purpose in this grand design of flesh and torment... though the journey has been treacherous and filed with the constant urging of suicide, I feel some hope returning. Unexpected and welcome, this has made every shredded ribbon and screaming, dry thrust worth the pain and sorrow. Trading nightmares for pillow kisses and fresh linens beneath my quivering skin. It shall be a moment to last a lifetime... the moments together, finally.

An Empty Table

I can't find the words... the will and strength have been sapped out of my entire being. I've feasted on myself for so long, dinner plates for scavengers and violators, that I've lost the urge to pull away when they come for me... the willing victim, a predator's delight. I stalk, torture, and murder myself every night... in the name of progress and redemption. The other day, I held something precious in my hands, something real and sincere... unknown before to me, and it altered every fiber of my being. I thought perhaps I had final earned a piece of redemption... I had eaten enough, split enough blood, snot and semen to deserve what other people so easily take for granted. It was there, I know it was... growing inside my chest, like a newborn twisting in it's mother's womb. It was warm and inviting, pure and delicate... it was the most beautiful experience in my life. For a moment, I felt human... I felt real and of value. The spoil returns to turn all goodness in my life to rot... the worms and the dead have no tolerance for forgiveness. I lost it... crushed before my very eyes as the strawberry viscera spewed violently on my new summer dress. It was the most delightful green, like the grasses I would tuck and roll across in the parks of childhood. I felt my back break under the weight of sorrow and loss, my wings were clipped and I returned to the ash. Now all that remains is a pit of despair, a hollow cavity unfit for anything new. It has gone away... retreating into the night to recover from the hands that knew no better. Despite the loss, despite the sorrow... it was a revelation. Although I find myself among the shit, ashes, and ruins... I know it is still out there, and I must find it once more. I know what I have to do now... I just need the feet to stand upon, for mine were eaten long ago.

Nothing Left

  I find myself to be not the puzzle, but just one piece. Swollen with blood and drool, snagged in the throats of children far too long... to be spat out as unwanted waste and debris. Nubby fingers stumble along the edges, trying to grasp and place the missing dialogue... my sides are cramped and disfigured, never to fit smoothly into place. Now withered and worn, I've been placed aside as the final piece... the one that has no place or companion, it's sits alone to be forced into it's final resting place. I stepped outside the box, and ran for freedom... only to find other puzzles already completed or sealed. Without direction, we rested our weary edges on the callous, cold pavement... waiting to be swept away.

I know now without a shadow of a doubt that I have a heart and can indeed feel something... because it's fucking breaking into a million pieces.

Crossroads

No matter how far we come in life, there is always another turning point... a crisis, a reckoning, an awakening. It's those pivotal moments that define us... our character, our resolve, our will and determination. Some of those times, the choices, although clear, are neither without consequences... sometimes a little blood must be shed, and sometimes, just sometimes, it gushes forth uncontrollably. Those moments, more than others, really define who and what we are... a martyr or savior, make your choice. The lines have been drawn and I find myself standing in the middle of the road... crippled by which is the better "right" and lesser "wrong". Clearly there isn't a "better" to be chosen... this time, the street will turn red. I can turn around and remain standing on the side of the road... looking into the road, yearning for something unseen and imagining my face plastered on the heavy traffic that separates the living from the dead. Or I can decide to run, grab the little that remains inside and run... never to look back or doubt the decisions I've made. More than ever I know who and what I am, the problem lies in what I want to do about it and continue living. Do I answer the call or listen to Richard? Do I finish what I once started or bury the past and begin anew? I'm faced with truth and honesty and trying to determine the fine line of destruction they both have to offer... we over-share, over-confess and those eyes never quite shined in the same fashion. At this point, I'm willing to leave everything behind... all the sorrow and torment, all the memories and collections, never turning an eye to what would be lost. I can choose to live or continue to rot... to where someone told me and from where I was led. Time is a funny thing... there is never enough it seems, to complete the tasks or live in the moment. But one thing that remains the same, is the gut piercing cry when the clock strikes... a time to move on, ready or not. It always cuts deep... and sometimes, it cuts twice.

T.O.D. - What Once Was, May Be Again

Tonight, despite the many things churning inside, I decided to share another piece of T.O.D. . This selection is from a long time ago, perhaps 20 years or more... a time when I was hopeful but already wounded by the sting of rejection. I smile a crooked grin when I look through these old writings... wishing life could still be so simple. Sit back, prop up your feet, and witness another fine example of failure... fucking pathetic, really.


One More Day Will Pass”


    One more day has passed, and yet my lips are still sealed. A silence- a peace? Yea, it’s but a shattering in my soul. This silence, my pain, is longing to be broken; only if my words are spoken. Words of love, words of passion, and the words of my emotions. Words on how I long to hold you- a gentle embrace. Words that would turn my wounds into fallen petal kisses.
   
    One more day has passed, and yet my eyes are still closed. A blindness- the dark… keeping me a child. My blindness, keeping me from seeing that you do not care for me. For once before, I tried to speak, and lowly was I brushed away. Not seeing that there is no love in your eyes for me- only for others. Once again, I stand here alone.

    One more day has passed, and soon I’ll be dead. Not resting, but weary- from the sadness within my head. All I ever needed was love, all I ever wanted. Without love, a man shall die. In my blindness, I see that I am not worthy of any ones love. For so… on and on it goes- and one more day shall pass.

Again, It Turns

Here I am again... sitting here in the early morning hours, dying inside. So much has happened so quickly... things I never planned on happening. One became two, and the two divided the group... birthing new pools of ripples and sensations, the agony of confusion and unknowns. As terrified as I am  right now, as lost as I've ever been before... I want this. I need it. The possibility of seeing the dawn that was never promised but always dreamed for... to feel the sun on my flesh and have all of the filth washed away. Richard says it can't happen and he won't allow such a tragedy... but what about what I want? What I need. I found something almost two weeks ago, something unique and precious... the moss covering the earth in delicate fabrics. The things I've always longed for, the possibility of redemption and closure without a brutal sacrifice. The bells are ringing and the platforms are set... the end will give birth and the sins shall be shed. It's a matter of time now... I cower in terror at the thought of air. It is crisp and fresh and the most beautiful torment I've ever witnessed. Wash over my face, over my aching body... release me from this prison and welcome me into the things unknown. Forever.

Resident Fear

Today, I lay here broken... torn to ribbons from the inside out by my captors, both old and new. I am bruised and beaten... I feel terrified and alone. Richard demands retribution... his previous attempts to unwind the fabric failed. This is somehow my fault. I am the reason and his betrayer... yet nothing was done by my hand. Leaving me to clean his soiled linens. When I close my eyes, all I can see are the images flooding my mind of me killing myself... Richard taunting me, assuring me it's the only way out. My death is the only form of redemption and closure. He's grown stronger, and now I'm the weakest one in here... captive, it's my turn now. I fear not the thought of death or the act itself... I've died twice before. What terrifies me is something new... an itching in my chest, unfamiliar feelings and sensations. They cause me brief moments of happiness, and that scares the ever living fuck out of me... happiness is something only found in books and movies. Richard claims it will be the final blow and will surely lead to my undoing... yet he warns me of it? One moment pushing the blade closer and the other running from it entirely... I grow weary with confusion. Diana hasn't been around... not in quite a long time has she whispered words of strength into my ear. I need her to come back and help me determine what is real and deceit. If I stab myself in the chest, I could remove all of the pain... Richard would be pleased and the itching would cease. I've tried to understand this... placed all of the pieces in a row and called them by name. Roll call every hour till noon, then we go inside and play. I just can't do this anymore... something is breaking down. Is it the walls... who's walls? Where's my fucking lullaby?

Father's Feast & Pickled Beast

It's been sometime since my last post... not for an immediate purpose, just the continual suffocation that is life. Today is no exception, Father's Day... oh how I loathe this day in particular. Not so much for the thoughts of my own father, I've come to terms with that. Yes, the relationship is rocky at best, but I do love him to the best of my abilities. True, I still see his teeth gnashing in dreams, with foamy spittle flying through the gaps... screaming how he'll give me something to cry about. It was brutal. I got the every living shit kicked out of me on a regular basis... either for my sins and transgressions, or simply because my mother thought Satan needed to be knocked out of me. We live, we grow, we break, we mend. No, my hate comes for a special little place in my life... the parenting aspect, or the abusive motherfucker I was to innocent children in my life. We learn what we are taught. I'm not making excuses, there are none... not a single thing could ever be uttered to convince me that I did my best in those moments or that it was ever okay. They saw the very same monster I saw as a child, and I see him still every night in the mirror. Thankfully, I'm no longer in a position to raise children. I was too young to have that kind of responsibility. A child raising children is what the scenario actually involved. They are all grown now, some better adjusted than others... and perhaps they made peace long ago as well, forgiving me for my actions. I haven't forgiven myself, and I don't think I actually ever will... I don't deserve to be let off the hook so easily. Maybe if I ever create a child of my own, and see them growing inside a woman crazy enough to spend their life with me, perhaps then I can be a decent father. Maybe I would even bond with them and develop true feelings of untainted love and compassion. Maybe that will be the pivotal point in my diseased understanding of human emotions. There is also the risk that I just continue with the cancerous mindset and pervert another generation of youth. Either way, it's not on today's dinner plate... there is only ash and severed shit. So for now, we will continue hating this day... ignoring any gestures of forgiveness those children try to express. I know who I am, and so do they... somethings should never be forgotten.

Photographs & Psilocybin

I spent some time today looking through old family photographs... pictures of my brother, sister, mother, father, and various family members. Some that I knew well and others that escape me entirely. You see, several years ago, my sent me all of the family photos... I was given the task of holding on to them and preserving their memory. I suppose no one else would take them, or wanted them... to be reminded of all of sick, fucked up things from our childhood. I can look at them and remain calm... actually, almost completely without any emotion whatsoever. During this screening, I stumbled upon some photos of my sister... a crooked grin flashed across my mouth as I was taken back to a time of memorial and closure. It was a memory of me going into the mountains one afternoon. When I had reached the appropriate spot, I constructed a fire mound and ate a fist full of psilocybin mushroom. I settled into the earth, waiting, as I starred into the fire and the accumulating ash and embers. Several hours into my journey, I stood up and began dancing around the fire... channeling some part of my Native American ancestry. I remember seeing my mother and sister before me, tied up like beasts ready to be sacrificed. I slit their throats quickly and laid them on the ground. The ritual was far from over, over the next hour I danced around and through the pile of burning embers, chanting in some foreign tongue as I placed them inside the earth... returning them to a place of balance. In there, they could no longer hurt me... I was finally free from the wrath and wickedness. There was no Jesus standing over this day, it was just me... a God of my own self. The sun had settled beyond the mountain range and my body became weary from the chanting, crying ,and dancing. I placed some more wood upon the embers and rekindled the fire, laid down beside the flames, and rested my body as I awaited the return of my spirit.At the time, I guess I didn't realize how healing this experience was... how much hurt had been carried around for all of those years. When I look back at it now, I realize it was one of the most profound spiritual experiences in my entire life. It was a turning point in my healing and mental illness... I had ridden the snake, and there I found the end.

Dancing With Him

Monday is upon us, the day of shedding and appearing closer to human. After hours of laying in the tub, listening to Richard preach, I feel completely lost. What if he is right... what if his plan is the only needed avenue? Should I abandon all hope and desire to feel something, just so Richard can raise his arms in conquest? His joy, purchased with the flesh and sorrow of myself and others, above all, is motive... Lambs to the slaughter, the unrecognizable stalker watching it's prey... removing my will and eating it whole, only to retch it forth unto the masses. Innocence be damned... his appetite is far deeper, it will consume everything without prejudice.His dominance and strength are alarming... how did he claim the seat of power and direction? Whom did he overthrow? Was it Diana... was she sent to me as a savior? If so, where has she gone... for I've not heard from her in so long. Only Richard and The Choir, and he has bent the will of many of them as well. The drums are beating, and the imps are scampering into place... the dance is beginning, and I've lost my face.At night, when he demands we speak in tongues, I have no choice but to pray along... to whom and for what purpose are futile concerns. It's like a trance, my will stripped away like the restrictive undergarments of innocence, lasting for hours... each passing moment removes my desire further. I haven't cried in months, and I've tried all manners of release... cutting, starving, and drugging have no effect. I'm beginning to realize it was Richard that took that sliver of humanity away from me... as I desperately cling to the scraps I have left. I can't allow him to take everything away from me... becoming the victim and hunter, serving my flesh on silver platters night after night.I want to feel, it's what we've always wanted more than anything... but Richard demand we cut it out. I don't know what to do... I've become powerless, a drone to the overlord that cracks his flowered whip. If I lack the strength and courage to save myself, who will come to my aid? Will it be Diana or the rivers of green... finding something worthy, something unseen.

Gone To Seed

The last few days have been difficult, fading between fantasy and reality, two worlds colliding together like rotten melons... the stability is fading equally from both, as the cancerous thoughts pull us back and forth. I don't image things getting an easier for quite some time... my therapist is on vacation this next week, therefore I have nowhere safe to collect and ground myself. It's times like this, that I wish I could really understand emotions... how they swell and fade in nothingness as the needed information and stimulus are supplied. It's just a mass of vibrations swirling inside, ripping at my chest with deceitful unfamiliarity... I can feel something growing inside, and in fear I strangle it and grind it's fragile skull into the callous, cold concrete. Must. Rip. It. Out. I could set it aside, delete the images, and turn the other way... Richard would be pleased and the games could continue on schedule. What pleases one, infuriates the other, as the Choir sings in divided unison... every time I look in there, the swells of green, part of me screams in terror and the other swims in delight. There's life and death in those eyes, and for once it's not a mirror... but which price affords the prize, the summer embrace, the childlike cries.

The Back & Neck

Nothing is right... my body and spirit are shifted two feet apart. The mind hinges on stability, arguing reason with timetables... the impact was far more severe than we originally thought. How did this happen... what caused the flux of space and distance? The ripples formed and the edges melted, washing dry the remnants of routine... all because I saw the light. That beautiful, distant light. How quickly it enveloped me, making my heart ache to be bathed in it's wonder... beyond understanding and experience, this change was necessary. The walls, my captor, shook in anticipation... without bending, time was known to be limited. The charred seams of tapestry unwind with desire... the fabric that held this rag-doll existence,  molding a heart, mind, and soul. The thought consumes me, the absence withers new hopes and dreams...how quickly we become addicted to breathing. The feast unending, was threatened with bloated bellies and soiled napkins...satiated to the last, it's will had started to come undone. I'm at a loss, one steeper than all the sums totaled... in the dark, crawling, waiting, weeping. Not for today, not this time... it's not coming. I must remember tomorrow, and the things that grew... unexpected, true, but now vital. Wait for it... it's only a matter of time now.

Walk Of Thought

Why does it have to be this way... isn't there another avenue or format? Waking to the stale air birthed by nightmares, unmoved and undesired... crawling on the floor like a driven beast of burden. I yearn for the taste, the essence, a desire once known. The cutting eyes and razor tongues of man... forcing the survivor to pry flesh from the bone. I can see it, it's there... one foot be 10,000 miles of thought. It's in her eyes, the delicate touch, a fire burning... the heart is yearning, as the fears are turning. Awake. Rise. Step forward... the masks are withered and crusted of salt. What will it be, when the hands touch the sky... another moment of lapsing or perhaps misery of what would come. It doesn't matter, not really... there's no one home to answer the door. But I watched her... as if I was never there.

Debbie's Little Lamb

It has become a constant struggle to remind myself that I am human, someone in the world that has valid thoughts and feelings... the obnoxious daily mantra, "I am real, I am real...". It's an awkward situation, thick and dripping with irony... absence from the world causes disassociation, yet mingling with the people induces reticule and shame resulting in, you guessed it, disassociation.I've become the town's walking freak show... "there's that guy again, fucking nut bag!". Though the worlds may differ, the sentiment is the same... the shifting glances, children pointing and starring, the egotistical, wealthy and righteous teenagers laughing. One of the downsides to living in a small town... not to mention a stuck-up, wealthy town. My economic worth is already a symbol branded in my flesh... the lowly and indigent, the cesspool of filth and muck not fitting for such delicate features. Bitter? Me? No, I'm just tired of fighting myself and society to find a wee bit of self-worth... just a fucking scrap man, let me have that at least. The few people in town that know me by name and have taken the time to look upon me with non-judging eyes, see me as a good man... this is equally disturbing I suppose. How fucked up is that? They've seen me opening doors for the elderly and for the women in general, helping people with their packages and satchels, and always using please and thank you during any exchange... always followed by "Have a nice day", in closing. What kind of person doesn't say "please" and "thank you", let alone open a door for a woman? That qualifies me as a good man? I don't get it... people confuse me. Truth be told, there is just no winning situation. If I'm shamed or shunned, I lose... if I'm looked upon as a good person, I lose. "You're a special piece of fucking shit, and God has mighty plans for your ugly, worthless ass!"... I get it, I do.

Embrace & Become One

While I was on vacation from reality, I spent some time thinking about an embrace... during the cascade of captivation, we imagined fingertips and bodies pressed near. What would it be like, to experience the intimate moments of romance novels? Those fairytale moments people spend their lives searching for and some have obtained... regardless, nearly everyone has felt the tingling sensations of passion and love. I have written of those feelings, emotions, and culmination of events a thousand times over... but my actual experience is less than zero. The trust involved to feel as such is beyond my recognition... the needed platform of passion in it's highest form. I speak of passion in an intimate element... passion is not always a loving, sexual emotion, it can be hurtful and reckless, insincere and seeded in impure intentions. Passion is the unseen force that moves the figures in place and initiates the dance... fueled by irrational desire, only the avenues change, not the momentum and drive. The divine embrace of heart and mind, piercing the skin to the depths of our very souls... the vibrations shifting as two bodies melt into one. I'm talking about an embrace so intense that it surpasses orgasms, ego, ecstasy, and selfish motivations... something only true love could birth in climatic moment of expression. The warm breath on your neck, the blurred vision from being pressed too closely to focus your sight clearly, fingers weaved lightly into loose tangles of hair, the salty sweetness of desire secreting from your skin, and the dancing fingertips as their burning caress tingles your core through your spine. In that moment, true love and an intimate embrace... those are the moments taken for granted. Something I've never experienced, but rather longed for endlessly in this life... what a beautiful moment, bitter sweet in the corner of my mind.

Bathed In Grass & Downy Feathers

It wasn't long, but had been long coming... for a moment there, I was actually almost what would be considered happy. The choir had quieted themselves, the memories and guilt faded, and I forgot about the prison I dwell in... no mortal or moral chains, no illnesses, no what if's. I was there. It ended suddenly, I remembered who I was at first, then the limitations... Richard began laughing and I felt a disconnection. Perhaps it was an error in judgement, some foolish lapse of reason, or perhaps a weakness developed from years of running scared... the reflection came into full view and the little future I have to look forward to. It may have been stupid on my part, letting my feet leave the ground... but for that moment, I saw something, I felt something. Now it's gone and I can vaguely remember the sensations. The sorrow and reality consumes me now... but for just a moment, I was free. Free indeed... it was worth the price and the moment I felt it leave.

Succulent Spider-Man & Breastfed Batman

Therapy today, in a word, was intense... digging deeper to further my understandings of the monster I became and loathe. Putting aside what I may be now, or what I believe myself to be... the corner's cobwebs have mysteries unseen, when the light fails to the reach through them. I shared with him today, that I've been thinking a lot recently about my childhood and the sexual events that consumed me over the years... trying to find a place for these memories and understand the impact they had on my fragile mind and tainted innocence. It's unlikely that I will ever fully know all of the details and instances of my abuse... what lies beneath was laid to rest because the child inside needed to hide from them. It's this "not knowing" that consumes me now... not the events or the trauma. Like notebooks awaiting to be filled with lines of code, I yearn for the data... each touch, each penetration, each ejaculation. Answers I may never know need to be mourned... the ripping flesh and violent thrusts left more than mere scar tissue, it left an empty void of knowledge.

When I was a child, my father would have "parties" at our house... while my mother was away at school or work, he'd invite over men and women alike to indulge in drinking and other such carnal delights. I remember very little about these gatherings, but the little that remains intact is disturbing... leading me down a darkened path, with hazards unseen and void of foreknowing. It's hard to remember an age, perhaps 4 or 5, if memory serves well enough... how moments bleed without discrimination. They would gather in the den, just off the kitchen, at the end of the house and fill the walls with laughter, drinking, and stale smoke. I'd be among them, always being fondled by someone, men and women alike... I remember no direct touching or contact with my genitals, just the constant fondling of my warm, young flesh. Drunken embraces may be a more appropriate description. Always in my "underoos", my uniform of childhood, and sometimes without the top... which was always my favorite part, a badge of courage and shield of strength. My guess, is that someone else had removed it from me during the gatherings... I can't recall the details, but I wouldn't have removed such a treasure on my own. I remember being passed around, from lap to lap, each one taking time to embrace my youth and encouraging sips from their bottles of beer... I still remember the scent on their breath and the taste within my mouth, a drunken child as entertainment. The clearest event tattooed in my mind, was sitting in a women's lap, facing her as she kissed my face and rubbed my bare back... questioning me about "playing doctor" as a childhood game and pastime. I can't recall if she said, "Have you ever..." or "We are going..." ... all I remember is simply, "playing doctor" and her laughing as she fondled my skin and kissed my face. After a time, we weren't allowed to be home with my father alone anymore... when my mother was away at school or work, we would be brought with her. I remember seeing a lot of university hallways, laboratories, and countless Godzilla / King Kong movies in the staff room of the Rescue Squad.... a thousand quarters spent on Zaxxon and Frogger and endless cheese crackers. I can't remember ever being told why, all that was certain is that we were not to be left home alone with Daddy.

Why the change in routine? Why couldn't we be there anymore, sipping beer with all of those happy people? What happened behind those walls while my mother was away and did she discover something that warranted our departure? I'll never know... and that cuts the deepest. No matter the answers, part of me must know. You'd think I'd be accustomed to disappointment... it's just something I can't accept.

Medication Musical Hour

It's been a few days, the waters were high... too high, to don my crown of ash. I would like to take a moment to thank the new readers that have joined this spectacle... the horror show of neglect, abuse, and torture. Yes indeed, I'm the main attraction and the ringer leader in this twisted version of reality... I've been both victim and the tormentor. I take no pride or joy in the things I've done... the choir might perhaps in some fashion, and I know Richard enjoys ribboned flesh. I am human, regrettably, and I am prone to making mistakes... some out of grief, some out of confusion, but all riddled with disdain and guilt. As for the viciously delicious things done to me, by the hands of friends, family, and trusted adults, I am not ashamed or frightened to speak of them... some are more intense than others, we have many ways to assault the senses. It's my hope that by sharing things about my life, in some sick way I'll deserve some measure of redemption from the hideous sins and deeds of my spirit, mind, and flesh... a pound for a pound, and a sliver for a sliver.

Things have been unusual lately, although my body is still crippled with this maddening, fucking depression, my mind has been acting out... decisions have been made without my approval and several projects have been set in motion. I alone, can not stand against the Choir and Richard, and ensure these plans go unfinished... when the body sleeps, the mind creeps, and rats will have their way. Diana has been missing for a time, I have no idea what happened and the others won't confess to her disappearance... my only hope is that she returns soon and helps aide the integrity of the walls. Stone by stone, brick by fucking brick, these inhabitants are rearranging the natural order... projects and theories, inviting advances of social dignity. Tomorrow I visit with my therapist... I will be forthcoming, as always... perhaps we can stop the gears from meshing further. If Timothy loses his leg, he'll be sent to bed without supper... no soiled linens on which to dine. I must find a way to remain on center stage... it's beyond the idea of survival.

The Matchstick Lullaby

The depression has taken a severe toll on the little grasp of humanity I clutched closely... separating the halves further, deeper still, within itself. The few people that I could converse with on a regular basis or at a given social gathering, have become tainted... the flock flees towards the cliff's edge, as lemmings on a sacrificial run. Withdrawn... withdrawn is the word. What a fascinating illness... it takes our self-worth and spirals it downward, only to further cleave us away from the loose fibers of social construct. So this is the bottom... oh, no wait, this is. Even to someone such as myself, that prefers the solitude and quiet that suffocates me in the absence of heartbeats... I'm never lonely when I'm alone, only when someone is near me. Still, it creeps in... lurking, clawing, pulling every loose thread until the tapestry unfolds upon itself. The casual conversations have become increasingly more alien to the ears within my head... our head is within my head and when they speak, they're all dead. The vermin and interlopers have worn our spirit so thin, that I must flee within the deepest parts of myself... withdrawing further away, from the lecherous, cancerous fledglings that invade any peace I might obtain. Healing is slow going, when the puss is flowing... as we grow weary of their awed, stale crowing.

My Wilting Womb

Today was my first day of therapy for the week... much needed it was, a haven of sanity and understandings. I mentioned to him, that today would mark Day 50 of my photo project... he expressed approval and said I should feel proud of myself for continuing thus far. Of course, pride is something foreign and prohibited by the Choir... I wouldn't even begin to understand the elements of such an emotion. Nonetheless, for those that are new here, here is a link to my ongoing photo project, Project: Humanity... please do not feel pressured to witness this spectacle, I only mention it if anyone is interested. Over the course of this undertaking, I've yet to experience much healing, if any... I still hate looking at myself, seeing the worthlessness and disgust seep from my face. I realize healing takes time, so I'm trying very hard to continue this experiment. As an added benefit, no one has left an upsetting comments about how putrid and ugly I am or any references to my deteriorating hygiene, or lack there of, as it were. Every time I see myself in those pictures, I'm reminded of my mother's disgust and hurtful words spewing their venomous assault on my fragile mind... how my body would become the playground of the adults that should have protected me. I suppose even hideous people in appearance are still targets of sexual abuse... I suppose we are looked upon as less valuable as it is, so what is a little more trauma in the grand scheme of things. We spent a good amount of time talking about my mother today in therapy... how she calls me every weekend as my role is to uplift and validate her as an upstanding person and prized parent... the blue ribbon beauty, at the feasting table of innocence. I told my therapist that it's very upsetting to constantly be put in this role, as well as the role of a father to her... it's a continual mind-fuck that cripples me from the needed acknowledge and her lack of responsibility. I'm always telling her, "Yes, you were a wonderful Mother and you never did anything to hurt us... ever! You only protected us with absolute love and acceptance.". Like for example, my brother upset her recently for talking about how she'd spew forth obscenities at us and throw dishes and anything else she could hurl across the room in pure ire. I had to tell her that my brother was wrong, and she did no such things... although, I remember those moments quite well. It's sickening, but what other choice do I have? I love my mother and I forgive her, so feel like I need to protect her fragile world of denial. Nothing good could possibly come from condemning her and lashing out, so what's the point? I don't have a relationship to speak of with my brother or sister, so I doubt they care what I have to say on the matter... my brother has disowned both parents and my sister is rotting from her hatred of her sexual abuse she inflicted and endured. Besides, what right do I have to judge anyone... I've done my fair share of robbing innocence and hurting and abusing people in my life... whether the attacks were of a physical, spiritual, or mental nature. Fuck. I fucking hate myself... everything about me is distasteful. I wish, now more than ever, that I could lose myself in a swell of tears... to be washed away in a tide of blood, as the glass protrudes from my ribboned flesh.

T.O.D. - Hopes Of Yesteryear

It's been awhile since you've witnessed the milky dribbling of a time now forgotten... I take you back to the age of innocence and hope. Where I'd wake to face the day with desire and passion... a man yet beaten and forgotten by time. It's pathetic, really, that I believed such vomitus bile and spewed it from my lips... it's no wonder things turned out like they did. It was an invitation for cruelty, malice, and rejection... I can see that clearly now. Here you are, have a good laugh... it's on me, at my expense. No wonder they refused to publish my "work"...


“Grain Of Sand”
    In nature’s life, many miles of failure I have passed. ‘Twas a lie birthed in a phantom’s mental demise, that my failures cry. Thus in nature’s life, you live a mirrored lie. A birth of truth was all I asked-instead shuttered out… all I asked.
   
    Have you ever felt the wind from one’s bosom it blew, knowing you’d never live in that heart? Have you ever felt the sand trickle down and off your fingertips- as an hourglass toils with your life? Have you ever had the water of Heaven roll down your back, to soothe the Devil’s flame- only to be left with your tears still not washed away? To grasp the wind and where it came. To hold that sand to stop the time in nature’s life. To stand firm and let Heaven pour down upon you, washing your tears all away. Just dreams they seem. Dreams of the world, life, and love of nature- never to be filled. But out of these dreams, none are greater than the dream to live in love. Not to be conquered alone, but with you. All in a grain of sand…
-Excerpt from T.O.D.

Exhale

The comfort escapes me... even now, sitting at my desk smoking a treasured cigar, I feel it slipping away. There is very little in this world that offers any bit of peace or comfort... all I had left was my cigars. The old means have long vanished... playing music, making music, playing video games, or watching DVDs. At night, all there is to be found are the relentless screams and pleading for death... the imagery of of thrusting broken glass into my throat or hacking off my penis in a fit of self-hatred. I want peace, I want love, I want companionship... I'm just too fucking tired of rotting and inhaling the stale overtones of failure, disdain, and putrid memories. Every night it's the same... hours on end, begging for it to just fucking stop. Then I'll awake after some twisted nightmare and 2 hours of sleep... to curse the sunrise and another day of nothing.

Teachers Of Delicate Features

Casual conversations become intimate at a rapid pace... without thought or direction, just the simple utterance of a name. It's no secret that, for the most part, I'm terrified by people... their lingering thoughts and judging eyes, rip the flesh from my face and smolder the raw tissue with shame. Over time certain people become less "dangerous", and I can actually have brief interactions and courtesies... the occasional eye contact is made and perhaps a sliver of a smile escapes from time to time. At this current point in time, there are two women I see regularly,  as I mingle among the infested population... Jena and Holly. Jena works at the place where I get my coffee before every therapy appointment, so I see her several times a week... always friendly and even gives me free coffee quite often. We don't share casual conversation, other than pleasantries, but she is a comfortable addition to my routine. Holly works at the pharmacy I frequent for all of my various medications... I usually see her 2-3 times a month. Holly and I do exchange a fair amount of casual conversation, more than pleasantries to be certain... we ask each other about our weekend plans or shared common interests. She is always very friendly and always comes over to visit when I gather my medications... smiles are exchanged and best wishes when we part. I was thinking on night about these two relationships... I wouldn't call them friendships, perhaps more acquaintances. An experiment came to mind, to better understand the social interactions of relationships... any relationships, in this case, fairly small in size and intensity. The experiment was to address these two women by their names the next time i see them to see what would happen... it seemed like a valid thought at the time and certainly harmless. When I went to get my coffee the next day, I greeted Jena by name... it was very odd on my part, almost intrusive. Her reaction was minimal... it didn't result in a boosted relationship or any more type of recognition. All only noticeable difference was how awkward I felt inside... the vibrations started building up a bottle-neck in my mind. I troubled me for the rest of the day... going over the experiment in my mind, dissecting each moment and glance. The next time I went to get my coffee, I omitted the recent addition of her name and all returned to where it was before the experiment... no harm, no foul, but no further understanding either. The next trial would be on Holly a few days later... our relationship, whatever it is, was a bit more friendly and comfortable. I thought perhaps this time it would be quite an interesting experiment. I greeted her by name and instantly I felt my guts turn and my heart pounding in my throat... she glanced downward instead of smiling and seemed to be putting out some vibrations of her own. The rest of the visit was increasingly more difficult and the vibrations became so intense that I started to clinch my jaw and gnash my teeth... as the experiment came to a close, I wished her a good day and closed with her name and departed. I felt so terrible for what I had done... even though I didn't understand what I did was wrong. I was very disturbed... I felt like I had jumped over the counter and forcibly sodomized her in a fit of rage. I was disgusted and ashamed. I went back to the pharmacy the next day to pick up my pain medication and I was literally shaking with fear as I approached the counter... this time, I didn't use her name and everything returned to normal. The smiles, the friendliness, exchange in casual conversation... once again, I felt comfortable and enjoyed seeing  Holly. The various results of this experiment had me baffled... I was completely thrown. How could using someone's name change everything and make the vibrations so sickeningly intense? I talked to my therapist about this experiment and asked for his help in understanding what happened. In his opinion, nothing really changed on Jena's or Holly's end of the relationship... it was more than likely all in my mind. The intensity of the differences between the two women had to do with my different levels of comfort with each of them... the violent and nervous reactions were due to allowing someone closer to the real me inside. It was threatening to myself and the structure of my fragile existence... it gave them too much power over me, by allowing the to become more personal in my mind. I'm still struggling with understanding this all, but I do realize that the experiment's results were less than desired. I spend so much time, wishing I could feel emotions and have relationships with people... yet, my mind won't allow it. Neither will the wounded child inside...

Empty Tears

At times, I use the words that imply that I'm crying actual tears over something... this is very misleading and I apologize for that. Yes, I have cried my heart out before and shed so many tears I thought my body would wither away... but I haven't shed one single tear in quite some time. It's gotten to the point where I am desperate to cry... to feel that release as the tears roll down my cheeks and how my lungs would quiver in between breathes. They just won't come... no matter how hard I've tried. Over the past few months, I've taken drastic steps to make this happen... and the end result is always the same, nothing. I've watched all of my favorite tear-jerk-er movies, given into the voices and agreed how pathetic I truly am, inflicted physical pain such as burning or cutting, listening to sappy music, thinking and talking about the things that always make me weep like an infant... they just won't come, no matter how hard I try. Last night I even dusted off my guitar and played for the first time in several years and still nothing... which is odd considering I stopped playing because the emotions were too powerful and confusing and I would weep endlessly. I lay in bed every night, begging for God to kill me and take me away from here... feeling so sorry for myself that the tears should flow easily, but they won't. My therapist believes this is because I have disassociated myself too much... driven into a severe state of isolation as a means of self-preservation. Simply put, I'm to withdrawn to cry... too depressed, too separated from reality. I still feel other emotions and vibrations at times, brief moments of excitement, lust, shame, guilt, remorse, etc... so this makes it even more confusing for me. I really wish it would happen... I feel like I need it more than words can possibly describe. Like part of me is missing, a huge gaping hole in the chest that could only be filled with the tears of sorrow bursting from my soul. It may sound stupid and make me appear even more pathetic than usual, if that's even possible... but I wish I could cry. More than anything... the feeling of release and closure. That distinctive piece of humanity.

Beauty And The Beast

I've spent a lot of time lately thinking about my lover and the affair we shared so intensely and deeply, all those years ago... rejected for years, she has sat in a dusty corner. Untouched and untamed. I miss the way my fingertips danced along her neck and how my thumb pressed firmly against her spine... my other hand slapping gently against her delicate curves in rhythm as our souls spiraled into endless ecstasy. The way she sang and echoed sweet sounds in the rooms... as my fingertips tickled and tugged her heart strings. Feelings I've never felt since, nor do I dare I shall ever feel again... even in my limited understanding of emotions and vibrations, I knew this must be love. The days of love now gone, and the sorrow that I felt as I locked her out off my life... living life through distant memories.We'd make love for hours on end, until we body shook in weariness and utter fatigue... never once did she shudder away, but stayed faithfully in the moment. Those precious moments ended as I clutched my chest and ripped my heart out... the intensity had grown too strong and I couldn't bear the emotions stirring inside. I needed to hide and run away from the only love I've ever known... now aging in my room, filled with regret I weep. My lost love, my inability to continue those timeless moments... stripped away by the very hand that i trusted most. They say it was for the best, that all things happen for a reason... we grow and strengthen over time. I snarl at those words of fools... knowing love once and to never know it again is a hell endless in torment. Even though time is cruel and we can never go back and undo those moments we regret... time has a funny way of turning itself around and changing hearts. I saw her today and without word I approached her and took her gently into my arms and warming embrace. I needed to cry and release these unknown and complicated emotions... I laid my head softly against her cool, tender, body and shivered in fear. All those things I wanted to feel again were now foreign and distanced... we couldn't go back, but we could remember. On looking eyes wouldn't see the sorrow and regret, nor the love we once shared... it would look commonplace to those separate from this experience. She is without name, and without face... just pressed wood and hand framed body. To others just an old, worn guitar... but to me, the love of my life. Those passionate webbings once spun, now only exist in memory and time... never to felt again.

The Hunger And Defeat

When the walls are void of all other life, the gears inside mesh and turn at an increased rate... more apt to move around and focus on certain projects. Overall, we just function better... no outside energy sources or vibrations to confuse us further. The floorboards creak as they are slowly lifted upwards... the children slither out upon the floor and begin to chant excessively as they shamble around the room. Loneliness withers away and is replaced with eagerness to explore the cardboard boxes and warm, pulsing collections... the loneliness is greatest when surrounded by other people. Perhaps it's the disassociation and confusion that arises around family or company... the stage must be set and the lines are in place. Action! There are no performers here, just the ones in chains and the children that watch in horror as the flesh flies... the bits and pieces are of the same source. Separate of body, but together in mind. It's a time to shine and be ourselves... no need to pretend or worry what others say and think. Reality and humanity breed without discretion... together in the dissection, it's our time to wander and smile. These occurrences are extremely rare and valued immensely... I can escape the madness, although temporary, and listen as our thoughts digest the troubles of yesterday. Regardless of the occupancy, the flood gates will rupture and those demons come in full force... swinging the meat and memories. The area shifts in shape and these empty walls become bricks of stone... notches that tear the nails from our fingertips as we scamper for an exit. That very peace becomes a prison and the people that left, to offer me sanctuary, are needed to return home to offer grounding reality... it's a battle for time and sanity, pacing the floors for new life and discomfort. As much as I enjoy and thrive in the absence of people... I can't live on my own. I need people to keep me grounded in reality... in a place where people feed on food, rather than flesh. 

The Pen And The Pain

They say we write our own stories... our lives and the events which take place and unfold. Where is the medium... on what do we write? Is it cellular, in utero, the traces and creases in our hands... it's the flesh, to be certain, as it always was. The ink which scribes our paths, be it tears, sweat, or blood, is endless in quantity... secreting at the times of elevated emotions, we write in automatic trances, unaware of our choices and their destination. When and where are left as mysteries, it doesn't remove our responsibilities tied to the ink and wrinkled parchment... no choice is still valid in the end, in the world of nothingness, nothing must be something. You chose to hurt and suffer, just as I have... it was part of the arrangement and the terms are past discussion. We remember not, the origin of the first note... but it was our thought that birthed it into reality. Now the pages flow, day after day how furiously we write... each action provoking the next chapters ahead. We can live our lives aimlessly, thinking not of our scribblings and character... or we can choose to reflect on those past events and use those thoughts to pen something new for ourselves. Being aware is the first part, and some may say the hardest... wiping the crust from your eyes and looking at one photograph at a time. For myself, the following is more difficult... reading what has been written. The shame, the fear, regret, silence, isolation... accepting the things we have done and deciding to move past them. Even harder still, would be the implementing of change... to dwell deep enough inside ourselves to find the courage and strength to steer our lives on a better path. Some say no man every changes... and perhaps that's correct. I haven't changed, despite the suffering and sorrow of my actions, I sit here still buried in grief and disdain. I am aware, as some of you, yet my heart and mind can not forgive the mistakes of yesterday... keeping me tied to the whipping post of self. I must move on... stop reading the ridges in the flesh and pen something new. We need to step outside ourselves and remove the cracking walls of shit and ash... the earth and my ankles have been one for far too long. Can you set aside the chapters of year washed away? Can you find the strength to stand free and rattle your cages? If so, then tell me how... for you are far better than I. The I and We of me... and all the things that it could be.

Beneath The Floorboards

It is the same. As it was, so has it been... each morning a reminder and disappointment, laced with disgust and rage that I'm still alive. When my eyes become as heavy, as the burdens upon my shoulders, I curl into a ball and pray for death... every night, over and over, begging that it will be my last. The release never comes. The long awaited peace and serenity of death, dangle before me as the carrot before the mule... our strongest desire and blood quenching plea. Release me, God... take me from here. Our eyes swell with anticipation and a thirst for tears to be shed... but they never come, they cried themselves dry long ago. I feel the sorrow, the desperation, drowning in an endless sea of anguish... how they torment and mock every gasping breath. Gagging on the liquid memories of remorse and self-loathing... turning, as the worms in the earth, rotting in my belly moment after moment. The cowardice cripples any urges or compulsion to slit my throat with the pieces of this broken mirror... their only purpose is to instill more fear and misery. The sins of yesterday ache for the bloody release of ripping flesh... to be cut out over and over again, for the root is too far within. It never ends... the struggle, the loss, the lack, the feast. The growth has become stagnant and river of dharma is unsatiated... the purpose is without clarity and the ash has become too thick. Among the myriad of tasteless emotions and the relentless ire, I wrestle with the loss of death... the final rap on death's door should have echoed so many years ago. Instead, I am here... robbed of my destiny and an end to this madness. Forced to live a meaningless existence filled with burnt photographs and scar tissue... those faces screaming in torment no longer comfort me. Razor edged faces, digging deeper each morning... and hers cuts slower and longer than his. What used to burn our hands with desire and spewed with little encouragement has now become the thorn in paw... in a mind that is diseased with mornings and mirrors.

Fevered Fetus

I've been giving some serious thought about altering my photo project... not abandoning it, just expanding the general theme. For those of you that are new, if you would like to follow along or view my photos... they can be found here - Project: Humanity. You see, the whole purpose is that by taking and posting photos of myself, perhaps it will allow me to gain some minute piece of self-worth... in addition to making it less offensive to see myself in the mirror.  What I've been considering is to perhaps take some full body photos and photos of specific parts of my body that I hate or find less offensive... something along the lines of my severed penis on fine china served to a host of stuffed animals. Well, it's a thought... somehow it would be poetic and fitting. I never promised myself, or anyone for that matter, that this project would be inspiring, creative, or artistic... it's purely for a therapeutic purpose. However, perhaps the few people viewing my photos day after day would like to see something other than my hideous face... let's display the entire piece of shit, rather than one kernel of corn. Insert laughter and elegant flourish. At the very least, it would make it a slightly more intimate journey of growth and self-discovery... exposing myself further as the sweaty toothed, deviant fiend. As always, your input would be appreciated... please share your thoughts and opinions, freely.

"I wish to give, to take, to make, to shake,
 I wanna see it happen.
 I want to see, to be, the one that plays the game,
 Without no fears and regrets.
 I want to know you,
 Better than I know myself.
 I want to feel the end,
 And to enjoy the consequence."

- I Wish, Infected Mushroom

Dancing Fingertips

Again, the Monday ritual... washing off the sickness from my wilted skin and matted hair. We can scrub away the filth, but we are still known as the man with a cane, who wears the same clothes everyday, and stares at the ground instead of looking people in the eye... that creepy fellow, that looks like a Manson Family reject and smells of BO and cigarette smoke. I am the wasted space, the foul air... that pollutes the precious view of those more important than I. Stand in line, grab your rotten fruit... for here I am. The eater of children, rapist of romance, and harborer of sorrow.

I spent some time this week reflecting on the sexual abuse I endured as a child...discussions in therapy, understanding the roots of some of my social isolation and confusion. My therapist was shocked to see it all laid out upon the table... the sexual assault from the hospital staff when I was 4 or 5, the years of molestation from my sister, the rape in the dentist office. It's a small piece of the puzzle... not including the vast amount of despicable and deviant sexual encounters done by my hand. He said it was amazing that I'm as well adjusted as I am... putting aside the spiritual, mental, and physical abuse and neglect. I told him that I can't really believe it myself... so many encounters and trauma, festering inside feeding upon life itself. It makes me wonder how people would possibly believe the story I have to tell... I was there and remember those things clearly, and I can't believe it. I wish I had the strength and drive to write everything down... to share the recipe for disaster and the making of a schizophrenic. I don't care about attention or making money from a book... all I want is to be heard. Even if everyone read it, praised it, and talked about it... I would still wonder if anyone actually heard me. Most listen and allow the words to echo in and out of their minds... never giving a place to each emotion. Hearing is different... not many can hear, it requires sacrifice and empathy. It's a Vasoline world, and the chapped skin is it's people...

Photographs, Tea, And Me

Here we are again... another month has passed and I feel the same. The medication hasn't really helped all that much and the difficulty in following through with this project hasn't lessened either. Although, today will be my 31st day of taking and posting hideous pictures of my gaping maw. It's hard to see this project and follow-through as an accomplishment... yes I've been diligent, but I still hate looking at myself. All I see are flaws and how disgusting and revolting I must appear to people... fat, ugly, worthless. I imagine most people are wondering why I'm only taking pictures of myself instead of other people or objects... they must think I'm incredibly vain. "Oh wow! I'm so fucking handsome! I must take more and more pictures of myself... I just can't get enough!". Truth be told, I'm surprised my lens hasn't shattered due to the constant exposure of my despicable features. I suppose in that regard, this project has been a complete failure... I hate myself just as much as before and I can't seem to find one likable piece of flesh. Someone should just kill me and put us all out of our misery... then picture wouldn't have to look upon this mess.

There has been a slight amount of success in contacting strangers to be friends... recently, two people agreed to take a chance on me. Something is missing though... it seems empty in a lot of ways. Perhaps it's just a matter of time and adjustment. At least someone took an interest and I wasn't rejected as usual... there is something positive in that I suppose. Every time I try this experiment, it seems as if the communication and writing happens only because I initiate it... if I never write to them, then there would be no contact at all. Is it an unreasonable request that I find someone that writes me because they want to, rather than just replying? Perhaps it's just a matter of perspective? Maybe it's just an inner reflection of the emptiness and lack of self-worth. It makes me feel even more pathetic... wishing someone would show eagerness and interest in getting to know me. "Hey, I was thinking of you today and..."...something like that. I'm so fucking stupid and hopeless... I suppose it wouldn't matter anyway. No matter what someone tried to do, I'd find some way to negate it and infuse myself deeper with paranoia. Fuck...

Redemption 101

While we sleep, the images creep... lurking two steps deeper into the mind. Was it you or me... they come just the same, easily and without much effort. I am recording this here for reflection... a nightmare which visits often.

I was a young man, of 20 years or so, at war... the interests being only those of old, fat, wealthy men and their Libertine ways. A trusted friend of mine accompanied me through the jungle, dodging the relentless onslaught of those pitted against our side. We survived the jungle massacre to find ourselves stumbling upon the piers behind enemy lines... though our safety was still obscured, this settlement was loosely guarded. As we tread upon the creaking planks of weathered wood, a female soldier noticed our approach... nervously she reached for a canister of chlorine gas and secured her gas mask tightly around her delicate, porcelain face. We pounced upon her and greeted her features with delirious kicks and thrusts of brutality. After securing our masks, I reached for the canister of weaponized gas as her fingers shook loose their lingering grasp. There was little passion left in her, until fear awoke the need for survival... she thrashed violently against the planking as I struggled to remove her mask. Her tears spewed forth and mixed with snot and saliva, as it built up around her cheeks and mouth... the red blushing of suffering in her cheeks looked almost glossy under the film of sorrow, sweat, and mucus. I opened the canister and unleashed the hurling chlorine gas directly against her face... gasping and choking as she wildly swung her arms in a desperate last attempt of escape. The yellow-greenish gas caked around her lips and under her nose, sticking to the wetness and lubrication of her suffering... reacting with the tears and mucus upon her face, as it slowly melted into her flesh, bubbling out pockets of plasma and blood. We laughed... laughed as she struggled to shamble away once we'd loosened our grasp. I remember looking through her eyes and felling nothing... just the irritation from her blurred vision.

It was unclear if we "won" or "lost" the war... the next memory took us outside of a warehouse in the South Pacific. Our tongues had been removed for some unknown violation during the war... we stood outside that warehouse awaiting the next phase of our punishment. I looked at my friend and tried speaking in confusion, questioning what punishment we had so brutally deserved. The commanding officer deciphered my mumblings and replied, "You are to serve as prostitutes."... with that, he pushed us through the windowless doors. I was greeted by the darkness of a dimly lit room, with a stench a depravity, thick with hopelessness. I remember my body feeling numb as we shuffled deeper into the room... every few steps my foot would turn under itself and I would slightly trip. Once through the opening of the main room, I noticed countless naked children... laying upon couches, rugs, and each other. It was an endless pile of naked, young flesh... suited to fill the desires of those same Libertine men. We were taken to a makeshift recovery room and instructed to lay upon the beds... I remember seeing him settle down beside me, looking nothing as he did before. We were a little more than children ourselves, perhaps the age of 12 or so... tender flesh that met the end of a mutilating mind. I looked in horror at my own young youthful skin to discover my transformation and new place in this house of prostitution and immoral delights... I had new swollen breasts, firm and discharging rivers of puss. I reached down between my legs to fondle what I knew was no longer to be found... instead I felt the moist tenderness of my vagina, made from the clippings of my former penis. I wept... and awoke.

Raising Afterbirth

Despite the dreaded occasion... today was a fairly decent day. I met with my doctor and discussed further medication options... it was decided it would be best to give the current dosage another month before raising it to the maximum dose. Afterwards, I went to Target to get some food for the cat and to browse the video games and movies... I need more of either as much as I need a hole in the head! That's the funny thing about addiction... we become addicted to the concept of addiction, not just the things we must have. Movies replace drugs and video games replace lust. After I was finished feeding the child inside, I went to another therapy session for the week. My therapist's hours of business end at 5pm, and today's appointment was scheduled at 5pm... he cared enough to stay after hours to see me for an hour. I can't imagine many therapists would do that for their patients... he is one in a million and one of the most trusted people in my fragile, uncertain world. We talked about several things that have been weighing heavy on my heart... even though I had no idea their impact was so severe. Usual topics that push people's uneasy emotions further into the crashing waves... Mother and Father. We laughed as I screamed out in my Mother's voice, "You're a special piece of fucking shit! And God has mighty plans for your sorry, pathetic, ugly, worthless ass!"... ah, such a loving and sheltered home. I told him that I really believed, "If someone would just take a chance on me, I know my life story would make a best-seller.". I didn't say it as a form of egotism or self-puffery, it was purely based off of the extreme conditions of my life, both my upbringing and my young adult life. He agreed with me and reminded me that no matter how many times he hears the sordid details of my childhood... he is shocked and horrified all over again. Both off my doctors claim that it is nothing short of a miracle and a testament of my courage, that I'm as functional and well adjusted as I am... I can't agree, those types of flattery are removed of all validity in my mind. I was born, I lived, and I press on... the rest is what it is, nothing more. Happy Birthday, you fucking piece of shit...