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...