The well

must.fictionalize.blog.

Posted on

"You should write some fiction again. You're too much into your personal stuff right now"

And? I don't have a fucking contract. No assignment. I vomit or cry or laugh or cum here. Do I bore you? Well, tell someone who fucking cares.

Funny thing is, I don't write fiction at all. Nothing is made up. Created at best. From the reals, the truths, the days. Reflexions and thoughts brought to life through Words that sometimes make no sense, or too much.

I hate that idea that a blog must entertain. Must adress the reader. I must nothing. You must? Good for you. When I stumble upon your blog and I read your musts, I won't judge you. That's what you like to do, must. When you stumble upon mine, and read my musn'ts, please keep going if that's not for you. I swear I will not loose any sleep over it.

I want to tell you about a fantastic fuck, a miserable evening, a great walk. Blog, whatever that word means, to me it means I can come here and be. Whoever, whatever I want. In the form I choose or feel right for the moment.

Dear diary, tonight, I wrote about you. 

Bring in the old

Posted on

I miss my wine glass, ashtray, window with a view.

I miss it so much, I’ll work on my first template I had up here and incorporate it.

I miss it enough that I almost posted on Blogspot just to see it.

The cliff

Posted on

No matter how I looked at it, the height stayed.

A thousand hours spend thinking about how and why and is this really necessary.

A millions words, not meant to harm, not meant to push away.

Thrown before me, in the hopes that they would dissapear.

But they floated. They waited. Watched me as I pondered how badly I needed to jump.

There is no other side. No invisible bridge that will take me across the gulf.

Only… I still hoped you see?

All my Words, waiting for me. Like smiling demons. Like crying angels.

And as I jumped I put my hands up in the air.

They couldn’t figure out if I was reaching out or giving up.

So they watched me fall.

And I watched them watch.

One day I’m sure I’ll reach the bottom.

I don’t know when, I haven’t looked down yet.

The bill

Posted on

I figure I’m entitled to something. Anything. Just entitled.

Whatever I get usually has a price tag on it, and sometimes includes some of my blood as currency.

If it comes free, it usually is a payback from past actions. That I’d rather not be reminded of.

As it is, my life at check out will fit in a lunch paperbag.

Straight ahead

Posted on

I jumped off one of the last cliffs on my present path. I’m terrified. Relieved. Sad. Afraid. Proud. At last.

The hours

Posted on

Ohhh things are piling up again. Avoid looking at the clock, that helps. No matter how much I know, understand, I manage to fuck up good once in a while. I wonder if it isn’t intentionally. Some way to cling to… what? It’s just stupid and doesn’t make any kind of sense. Being good should be simple, according to every single tv show I watch. I should be ashamed, no? Shame. Ugly, ugly word. Belly cramps word.

There is no comfort. No respite. No reason. I live my life like I’m trying to get out of freezing water. Numb yet hurting. Out of breath.

The moment. It is now. I remind myself everyday. Now is the time to live.

I can’t escape. Not because there is no way out.

Because I belong here.

Place your bets

Posted on

There was this time when I walked into a room and felt immediately at home. Regardless of the squalor. The buzzing of a million flies. The stench. I knew where the good spot on the sofa was.

I'm still sitting there. Transfixed by the decay I've let happen. Everything is so old now, it has dried. No more flies. No more smell. They've cut the power. The window is opened, a light breeze is moving the dried shit around, not quite strong enough to do any real change. And I still sit.

Maybe tomorrow, I think. Maybe tonight. I mean, so far, it has served me right. In the sense that nothing has happened. Nothing good, but nothing bad either. How can it get worst? As I swing my feet, making circles in the dust, inhaling my bad memories and regrets, I understand that I'm wrong. That my thinking is paralyzed by fear and cowardness. That all this non-action will never kick me in the butt, but rather sooth me back into a coma I once left.

When it's dirty, when it stinks, when I'm close to throwing up, when my gut is turning into a bottomless pit of pain, when my spit tastes like acid, why is it easier to accept than a single moment of happiness? How much can I take? A whole fucking lot. I know. That must be the ultimate bet. What are my odds? Well, I'd be a fucking goldmine in Vegas right now.

This post was inspired by Moonwart's Soup Opera. If you haven't done so, go read it, and the rest of his blog. Now.

Deeper than the pond

Posted on

I will never loose sight of your declarations.

Once, I thought, would be heaven.

Twice, I thought, we died.

Additions could only make them fade.

What is it about the strenght in words, that never quite make it in reality?

“Quite frankly, I’m a little lost right now”

Monologues, masquerading as conversations.

Each on their own island of contempt for life and what it hasn’t brought us.

Half assed attempts at building rafts made of cum.

There is no salvation in your skin, nor in mine.

I will drink from your body, the last drop of hope I drew from your smile.

You will eat from my heart, the last crumb of will you drew from my soul.

We will fade. But remember.

Broadcast

Posted on

And let me stay
I can be small
I can be invisible
But let me stay

—–oOSOo—–

I’m so tense these days, I can’t stand still. I blog for a while, then move to the couch to read a few pages, then go tidy up the kitchen, then come back to the computer, then watch some tv. Spin cycle. Yet everything is a mess.

—–oOSOo—–

Fickle. Too many pulls. Not enough will. Even this post tears me apart. A mountain of words. Can’t seem to settle for one. I want to say, write, sing, chant, whisper, implore for fuck’s sake. I belong here. I belong here.

—–oOSOo—–

It’s not block. It’s confusion. About every single stupid decision I’ve made. I’m not second guessing myself all the time. But I feel like I forgot something at the crossroads. Nothing, no one can bring it back for me. Because every one has moved on. What’s left behind is my bad judgement.

—–oOSOo—–

I’m hungry. Again. Always. I have to be fed.

Incubation

Posted on

I write my posts in Blogger. Never use spell checking. Never save a draft. Never go back to change. Anything.

I sit, I write, I post. I don’t work the sentences. I don’t rearrange the paragraphs.

I do use dictionaries, sometimes for help, sometimes for inspiration.

I don’t ponder about, I don’t think ahead.

I sit, with a worry, with a pain, with a smile, with a desire.

I write, I fly, I live, I breath.

I post, I give, I surrender.

——-oOSOo——-

I read my past sometimes
I have regrets sometimes
I am happy sometimes

——-oOSOo——-

A very generouse writer showed me the beauty of working with words, the movements of inspiration, the pleasure of constant company.

I just can’t explain the abouts and hows. I can about the whys.