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.

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.

When The Levee Breaks

Where would we be without our support systems? Not just in reference to the mentally ill, but in general. Whether you are a doctor, head engineer or drooling idiot... we need support. We rely on it, or them, as the case may be. I have mentioned before, that a support system is the key element to my survival... so say, the men and women of white coated fame. Living with Schizophrenia is not something I can explain or something anyone can really learn about from reading... you have to live in this nightmare to begin to understand the madness. Sure, lots of people know lots of wonderful things about us, the afflicted, but how clearly is that all defined? Yes, these are the symptoms... A, B, 3. These are the treatments... pills, support, therapy. But what does that mean? Now that you know the symptoms and treatments... are you prepared to understand what all of those things mean? Auditory hallucinations for example... you hear voices that aren't really there, but you think and believe they are there. Simple. "Snap out of it you fucking whiner and get over it already!! There are no voices talking to you!"... move on, next. Oh, if only that were true. Yes, technically the voices aren't real... but to those that hear them and are crushed daily under their thumbs, they are real. They are there... and they don't want to leave. You can't wish it away... there's no "snapping out of it" bullshit here. Taking medication can remove the voices, but in my case and for many others, I am certain... this isn't an option. We have lived this way for so long, that living another way isn't possible. The last time I went on medication to remove the voices, I became even more so depressed and suicidal. They may not be good company, most of the time... but something is better than nothing at all. The point is... I can't explain to you how severe of an illness this is... it's something you have to live with or witness to begin to understand.

Forgive the side track there, we were talking about support systems. "Technical support, technical support!"... I fucking love that movie. Why can't it be that simple... where is my Vanilla Sky? Without support, things begin to crumble... thrashing about themselves like fish in shallow waters. My doctors told me not too long ago, that the reason I was as functional as I am, is because of my support system... without them I would be homeless, living under a bridge in a dampened cardboard box, covered in my own feces and proclaiming my undying love for rotten meat. Well, that is really the whole point of it all isn't it? The long stories and explanations... every road is leading somewhere. In my world, trust isn't easily obtained... yet, I am forced to trust and rely on people every single day. My family members and the other interlopers that dwell within these walls from time to time, are supposed to be protecting, helping and watching over me. Lock the doors, check for fire, water leaks, running appliances, computers, lights... please! If they don't, it takes me hours upon hours to do all of these things... checking the entire house for issues and security breeches. When you see me scratching at my arm, searching for something... please come look at it and assure me it's okay before I start cutting chunks of flesh out. If I haven't eaten in a really long time, don't sit there and yell at me about it and accuse me of having an eating disorder... help me get some food. The the road leads here... my support system is failing. They don't understand and aren't helping me... they live with me most of the time and yet they don't understand. I have a house full of checks to do, I forgot to take my medications on time, I don't remember the last time I ate and right now I have blood pouring out of my arm because I can't stop cutting at it. I sit here alone in my room suffering, while they sleep... waking them isn't an option, this night is for me and the choir to handle. It's just us, we and them... watching the water spurt, as the levee breaks.

Schizophrenia- One Moment Of Many

Received Text Message:

"I want you to know, that you mean a ton to me. I love you very much and so does the entire family... never forget that!"


Internal Commentary and Reaction:

"NO! Not that... don't surrender. Venomous whore... not after what you have done! They'll never love you! I love you... WE love you! Just us... just me. It will never happen! WE should kill you for entertaining such drivel! YOU should kill yourself... this isn't for you! Do it... DO IT! Rip it out... rip it out! Stop it! Not now... not NOW! Taste the bleach... DO IT!"

The vibrations become so intense... like ribbons of flesh dancing in pale light. The plague is spreading throughout my chest... violent vibrations pushing bile into the back of my throat. Confusion. I want to believe this... I want to feel it. I need to feel it, just this once. The screams become louder... more haunting. Like the victory grunt of a rapist's orgasm... the final thrust cleaves me in two. I flinch at the touch that intended comfort... with teeth pinned tight against my inner check, I taste the warm, salty blood fill my mouth. I can't do this... I can't feel this. I must go... fading dark now, I step aside. Someone else must deal with this... not me, not now. Shhhh, I'm here... go to sleep. Go to sleep.

Rethinking T.O.D.

Today I found myself swept away and in thought... perhaps I should reload that dream and inhale deeply. People tell me quite often, that I should write a book about my life. My usual response is, "Did that once... fucker wouldn't print.". Reminded again today in casual conversation, the notion actually stuck against the back of my mind. Bouncing around inside with the choir debating furiously, I thought perhaps maybe I should give it another go. After all, the last attempt was more of a chronological collection of my writings and poetry over the years... not a real book about my life. Every time I see my therapist and I spin the tales of old, he is either in utter shock, tear bursting laughter or cringing empathy. Someone told me today that I could perhaps touch a lot of peoples' lives in various ways... their reactions to the events in my life would inspire an onslaught of emotions ranging from fury, anguish, sorrow, contempt, joy, peace, encouragement. These are not my words... personally, I don't think people would care to read the ramblings of an ex-junkie schizophrenic. Still, the thought lingers. Finding myself in a state of delusional bliss... what if I really could just touch one person? Change one opinion? Inspire one dream? The notion sounds terribly insane as I write these words down... I can't even remember to eat everyday, how the fuck am I going to make a difference? The debate is ongoing... the choir and the cat are disgusted and relentless. Regardless of their opinion or any of my own personal feelings about the issue, I need to make an appointment with a lawyer and ask some questions... my only concern is my safety. If I decide to attempt such an adventure, I thought it would be nice to add some of my writings and poetry within the book... perhaps at the beginning of each chapter, something relevant. The original T.O.D. was my dream to have my poetry published, so it seems fitting. It's just a thought... one of many.

Solace

Is it too much to ask, for me to crawl inside of you? In there, feeling warmth and security... I could feel something other than myself. So many emotions bottled inside, bouncing around with no exit or interpretation... flat are they, with no purpose or sensation. Together, we could give them purpose and understanding. So close we'd be, your could impart your feelings unto me... giving them life as they nestle inside of my heart and being. At last, I could give a face to the flat and a voice to the silent screams... feelings I could express freely and receive without indifference. "Wake up child, for this is not your place, there are no burrows in which you can erase. It is time to go home now, inside the silent, dark and deep. You have your company and friends to keep, skeletons to nuzzle and hold as you sleep. This is your home and you need no more, certainly not that dream you so adore.".

What We've Become

A lot of things have occurred over the past week, non of which can be analyzed and processed. It's as if, all data flow has been halted because of you... the tears in my curtain from which I boyishly peek through have turned into a sucking void. Why did I go out on such a limb to disclose some of my most intimate of feelings? I can see now that given the inside information, all of your future actions will be judged based on secret knowledge. The paranoia will swell and the thoughts will carry me away in a whirlwind of what if's and could be's... this isn't speculation, but witnessed first hand. Twice now and soon to be once more, you will walk through those doors and the worms will start digging... how they move so quickly and dig so deep will forever seem to be a mystery. Analytically, I suppose things would have remained torturous had I not started this peep show into my world... at least there is potential for a positive change, however the clarity of this possibility is from far within view. We talked months ago when things were disclosed and I had stated out of haste, that I am glad we could talk freely and focus on repairing some of the damage done by my tainted hand... how I wish I could really feel the words of relief I displayed. Even more so, I wish I could feel those words you spoke in return... the gestures, affection and desire. This event has become a mountain of impassible design. I find myself looking upon it and wondering how I could even conceive such an attempt... my face is flickered with debris and the sands of time have become wedged in my eyes. There is no sight or comfort as I stand before this obstacle you have become... just the twisting in my gut and the scratching sensation in my eyes. Tears now flood my eyes and they begin to roll off of my cheek, but the emotion behind them is empty... why didn't you just run when you had the chance? Am I looking up at you... or are you looking down on me?