Lets throw in some semi-old writing so long as I am throwing out some semi-old sketching.
I am a clean, systematic piece of a human being.
Visually fresh but not quite ripe, I rotted away long ago from the inside.
I am managing this disease called life with eyes wide open and blind.
A cycle has been broken.
It knocks on my door knowing I am home, hoping I come back.
How long it stays will be forever unknown.
It may die at my doorstep alone, sick and unfed.
I comfort myself knowing that I am not dieing at its side.
I once placed my comfort in that thought.
I still find it illustrating a beautiful unification within my weak mental condition.
Though happy, and building strengths I thought were digested and defecated long ago, sadness still finds me and overpowers my will…
I slaughter it before it’s too late.
Next time will be too late.
The poison escapes from the lesion.
An invisible gaseous desorption, overpowered by this newly shaped force, hovers over my psyche.
This makes me even stronger.
Aiding me to build a strata of tools for our next encounter.
Without the toxins flowing through my existence I am lost.
Lost, I design this aesthetically innovated path.
I can not determine its closing, I leave it unfinished and instinctively sought after.
Every step I take is unfamiliar but activates extreme arousal triggering a new high.
One can not put a price to this high but I have paid dearly for it.
I wish I could extract the substance, find its blueprint and somehow concentrate the organic properties that allow you to feel such reality.
A substance that exerts reality.
Will I ever just be mentally within the norm of society?
How is it that I can not just instinctively live life?
Instead, I must either escape reality through my love of chemical release or work so painfully hard towards finding my reality that I begin to feel ill and defected. Either way, I am sick.
I remember, however, that this sickness continues to dispose as I massacre it repeatedly.
My new cycle.
Old customs find their way in and I cautiously tread lightly around them.
Though cautious, I am infatuated and provoked.
As if those customs are alive, knowing of their influence, they taunt and tease me.
I am learning to control my impulses and it liberates me towards new inspiration.
Old ways surface and leave me anxious, those are the signs.
The signs I once was so turned on by. The signs that left me wanting more.
I now want less.
‘Fire of my loins’
The left foot was nothing. Pure bliss and happiness, no thoughts, just doing. It was the right foot that brings me to this dramatic, baneful happening of self reflection and euphoria.
A sick euphoria that I only understand.
At least I tell myself that I am truly the only one who understands. Deep down I know this is false.
The hottest bath I have ever drawn. Not purposely. I just happened to be hopelessly caught up in finding the perfect depressing lyrics to accompany me with this soak that the amount of cold did not compliment the full blown heat nearing the rim of the plain, generic, ‘let’s pretend it’s porcelain’ bathtub.
Accidentally filling to capacity yet intentionally tormenting and inviting my body and vulnerability. The two go very well together…testing me.
It was my surrender.
My resignation to the defective complex created by something special.
A breakdown, a defect, a love story.
Eating away at my surface and my mind.
I hand my comfort over to the reflective alloy beside me as if it were my friend, telling me that this will go away.
This bath is my conflagration and I am only two feet in.
Slowly I subject myself to the purity before me ready to murk it up.
I suppose you can say I am just as well taking away it’s innocence in return.
My intentions are not as vulgar.
I force my skin into the burning pool.
A sigh of pain and pleasure prematurely escape.
I am never as strong as I presume and I am becoming increasingly aware that it is for my own safety.
This alloy slips below to remind me that everything is okay.
Reminds me that I am in control.
Something has to.
I am aware of it’s invisibility, that’s okay.
It takes a particular strength to release that admirable wavelength on the visible spectrum reflecting the paint to my existence.
It will never happen.
It would be so beautiful. So beautiful.
Mesmerizing and unlike any drug. Hypnotizing and sexual.
I am in a stupor.
It’s become too much I tell myself, though I know it has not.
My tresses drenches and the aching sensitivity running across my skin and lathering my scalp urges me to arise and come back to a life I have purposely tortured and teased yet fight for daily.
Collapsing is not far from reality.
So good. So legal.