Devoided

Devoided of any inspiration or creativity, I'm still trying to find some kind of stability that will take me to new waves and forms of compatibility with the world. Needless to say... no new deviation.

... I feel deep hatred towards those who I once loved.

Is it Christmas approaching that makes the sublime smell of deep dark Tartarus so irresistible?

me, the winter lover, lives now in contradiction; for as my most natural and defining event of the year nears closer (the winter solstice) I find more and more hatred towards me and those around me.

My nature contradicts the artificial environment I've been placed. Either that or I am really helium's strayed disciple...

Has the sun and summer really been my home all along?

Can’t help but admit that I have always wondered about the light in long blonde hair and the look and taste of wet bare skin.

If summer is my real nature, I can’t help but say that my true nature in fact makes out of me feel most alien within my surroundings; for I have not felt more inadequate than under the light and heat of our systems central star.

For now I can only say that as days grow shorter, my despise of those around gets bigger... and I yearn for loneliness, snow, and northern lights almost unbearable.

I hope hell is cold, for is where I most desire to go... since in the warmth of heaven I would just feel like a smashed cockroach on the wall... disgusting, out of place, hated... and still moving my little antennas, keeping the attention of those who have murdered me, all in awe and puzzled with the mystery of how was it that without any part or limb working, I managed to keep on holding to my fragile sense... smell..

I smell the sublime dead heavy fog from Tartarus calling on to me... yet I see no entrance, or way to say good bye to those once loved and are now hated...

I repeat myself. 

(40 days late)

Medellin

The prince has asked me to join him a in a little trip to Medellin... which I think  means something like going to Vegas or something... lots of drinking parties and orgies. And I think that’s what he wants (except for the parties he is no the party kind of guy) I already told him, I’m too stressed over to go... but he insists. I like it he insists... 

So the problem is mainly that I am torn between my rational wanting to go (I do want to be the kind of guy who goes on a trip with someone... sometime)... and the mood of going (which I’m honestly not into most of the time). I keep debating with myself over this issue...

(80 days late)

December starts

December starts, people are celebrating… the prince and I are crossing the bridge, the light reflected on the smooth water… fireworks are going off… all colors, they are awesome, some in shape of hearts…. the price says: look Xag… look where we are going. The air was moist, it was going to rain soon and the street is damp from rain earlier… Xmas lights from all the houses nearby and their reflection on the dark damp streets. Suddenly, there’s this need… this scene… someone has to kiss there, it just makes sense. I stop dry, turn him around, and go for it. We kissed. I need to remember this; I need to write it, not looking for beautiful words, just stating the facts for my broken memory. Because it actually happened. Things like this actually happen… and I replay them out. Then I read him my love letter, most of it was rambling, but well that’s what love letter are… rambling on and on for what are just three damn words… I love you. 

I love you my prince. Just as you are, I don’t know if my love letter was clear on that point… I love you with the prince costume, the costume that shows who you really are. I’m finally in vacations; it’s sort of a relief… to know I can just sleep for hours and hours on end… I am depressed. The prince once asked and I said no. but I am my prince… I think I’ve always been.

I was born crying, lived crying… and probably die to let someone else to cry. I was born in a small little country in one farfetched corner of the world… a place devastated by war… where no one really does anything. 

I know what my role in the prince’s life is. I… am the angel of death. He knows it… I break his soul… “Xag… you are killing me” he says.

My prince, what were you doing today? Did you breathe? Did you blink? Did your blood pulse through your veins? Then everything is ok.

It’s some sort of emotional stupidity..

It’s some sort of emotional stupidity... why can’t I just fall in denial? Don’t be hurt by who I am? Like the prince does (in a very special way)... like everyone else does...

This is what it has come to isn’t it? Maybe I don’t wish I was normal... I just wish I could blend in... In the beautiful life everyone sees... I’m sick and tired of being ink spots... I’m sick of being cuts on my skin...

I’m sick and tired of being that person people always wonder... "What’s wrong with him?"

My mask... the best mask... is damaged... I forgot to put it on, my mom saw it... and I saw myself, a hypocrite a liar... a wreck... a mean human being... someone who is not only ugly on the outside is ugly on the inside...

(1 day late)

I’m 13 again am I 13 for good?

I’m 13 again am I 13 for good?

I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful 

So unloved for someone so fine 

I can feel so boring for someone so interesting 

So ignorant for someone of sound mind

I was going to say today I couldn’t ever love him if I didn’t love myself… I was going to break up with him, because of irreconcilable differences… he liked me… but I didn’t like myself… I felt like I had to say good bye because I feared we were just going to get bored of each other… and that was the problem really:  fear;   I was completely and utterly afraid of him… of us… 

Why was I so scared? He had complete access to my dirty laundry and he liked it… but he hasn’t given me any access to his… why? What was the sick game we were entering? And if he saw the worse of me and liked it… today I tried to flirt with him… he hated it; I stopped… he then asked what I hated about myself…. I answered my body… which to what he had a moderate polite reply… and all I could think was… god I’ve had more passionate replies from YouTube freaks!

Maybe I am not much into self-loathing and more of a diva…

Maybe I put this entire thing out on line, because I deep down know… even my dirty laundry s worth for the world to see? 

Nonsense, I write because I have to… the same way I breathe, I have to write… and I publish it online, because I need to… because I need help… because I need to connect to the world in some way… because I know I can’t bottle this inside without hurting the people I care about…. I need to blow off some steam, so I can smile every morning, wear my masks calmly… I need to say all of this now because tomorrow I have to see the prince and I want him to see someone that’s not case of charity… but someone he can learn from… if he wants to… god I don’t know… he says so little about himself if I’m not asking…

(3 days late)

Woe, woe, woe...

 Woe, woe, woe... in a little while we shall all be dead. Therefore let us behave as though we were dead already.

- Raymond Chandler

I take a step back ... I stagger.

 2:45 AM

There is no pain at this moment

only the tormented silence of this vast space,

of this misunderstood loneliness.

There will be no more sunrises in our lives ...

Just like the chimeras that we desire,

and like the afflictions we hate

were born from what's dead of our souls.

Dead are our hearts,

incinerated by the flames they once loved!

The earth will kiss our bodies

welcoming our last breaths ...

Only in this moment that we hold on

can we recognize our past.

A feeling floats in the morning haze ...

For an instant its shape is recognizable ...

And between the coldness of our bodies without passion,

fades and dies.

For the agony of not being animals

our hand can take the initiative

and trace a strip of suns

where fear is greater than our hopelessness.

A gag on the soul

a knot in the throat and ...

Only the clouds that contemplate us

can know the dark of our history.

The breeze carries our laments

more in the depths of our emptiness

something urges us not to give up yet.

Today the black storm clouds

will not be a promise of life,

and lost childhoods will not be restored.

On the precipice of our abandonment

nor the thick forest of yesteryear

nor the cold current of the years

may prevent our last blind step ...

Our body shudders against something infinite,

something that does not listen to explanations.

I can see the waves hitting the rocks!

I take a step back ... I stagger.

The pounding of the waves is so vigorous ...

A strange calm invades me ...

Where fear and anguish abounded

now the white foam highlights everything;

where hatred and insecurity lived,

now the breeze softens everything ...

Only the rays of the Sun, which give us life

can know the beauty of our death.

For Miguel Ángel Villegas,

with love, from his father.

Christmas is a stupid holiday

Christmas is a stupid holiday, not as stupid as New Year’s but stupid enough.

First we must admit it’s all about the money and the presents, like one broke girl said.

“The holidays are totally about money! It’s about spending money to buy things to stuff into the giant black sucking hole in the center of each of us that reminds us life is hard and then we die.” 

It’s not about love, joy to the world, or the celebration of the birth of Christ... It’s a huge commercial complot to exploit us and taker our money.

But who am I kidding… this is not why I hate Christmas...

I hate Christmas, because it’s supposed to be perfect and never is. This time of year comes, and it’s in our subconscious that this should be a time for happiness and sharing with our families. But it’s never like that…

I personally don’t love my extended family, with whom I have been forced to share this dreadful holiday. Why you wonder? It’s a nice family… a good looking, a wealthy family, a kind family… I don’t fit. I just don’t. 

The people closer to me is the people I’m more distant emotionally, no one in my family knows me, and the only person I depended in making Christmas better is across the ocean having the time of her life. 

As I sat alone in the middle of the crowd drinking Colombiana I realized how alone and pathetic I was:

First the only person I was expecting to hear a merry Christmas from was a 60 year old in England.

Second, that the only person I could ask in a date was not very good looking 15 year old ameinian boy I met online… and knowing that if I ever meet him, he’ll be so disappointed; I’m much uglier than what you see on webcam.

Everyone else is gone… just gone… And to think this promised to be such a great Christmas season. 

(29 days late)

Bang bang!

 "depressed . . . without phone . . . money for rent . . . money for child support . . . money for debts . . . money!!! . . . I am haunted by the vivid memories of killings & corpses & anger & pain . . . of starving or wounded children, of trigger-happy madmen, often police, of killer executioners . . ."  - Kevin Carter 

The authentic details of the extraordinary suicide of Miss Moyes

The authentic details of the extraordinary suicide of Miss Moyes

The Times, for example, fully described the gory details of the appearance of the body but used Latinate terms like "cranium" and "integument" to sound clinical rather than sensational:

Upon examination of the body, it was found that the spine was fractured as also the back of the cranium, but the features are in no way disfigured, save by the appearance of coagulated blood forced from the nostrils, eyes, and mouth by the sudden concussion; the left arm is severed just above the elbow, and is only retained in its place by the integuments and the sleeve of the dress. (LT, 12 Sep. 1839, p. 435, col. 4)

The Observer, though an upper-middle to upper-class paper, offered its Sunday readers something far more dramatic than such dissecting-room language: [39/40]

Her left arm, near the shoulder, came in contact with the bar, and was so violently severed that the part cut off flew over the iron railings several yards into the square. After striking the bar, the body fell an a tub containing a lilac plant, which it broke in pieces, as well as several flower pots, placed on the right side of the door. Not a sign of life, except some contortions of the muscles of the legs and arms, was discernible on the body when it was picked up. (Observer, 15 Sep. 1839, p.1 col. 6)

http://www.victorianweb.org/books/suicide/03.html

In an old family album

In an old family album
Ever again you return, Melancholy,
O meekness of the solitary soul.
A golden day glows and expires.
Humbly the patient man surrenders to pain
Ringing with melodious sound and soft madness.
Look! There's the twilight.
Night returns once more and a mortal thing laments
And another suffers in sympathy.
Shuddering under autumn stars
Yearly the head is bowed deeper.

-Georg Trakl (1887-1914) "The Prophet of the West", as Heidegger called him, listened attentively to the "Songs of Death" and yielded to its spell on November 4, 1914 (others say three).

It is believed that the prophet died, as I myself would like to enter death, of a cardiac arrest consciously caused after an overdose of cocaine.

Biblical Suicides

52 Abimelek went to the tower and attacked it. But as he approached the entrance to the tower to set it on fire, 53 a woman dropped an upper millstone on his head and cracked his skull.
54 Hurriedly he called to his armor-bearer, “Draw your sword and kill me, so that they can’t say, ‘A woman killed him.’” So his servant ran him through, and he died.

Judges 9: 52-54

Biblical suicide... because hetero-patriarchy means telling your servants tp put a sword through your  rather than letting the world know a woman threw a fucking boulder to your head.

Rhyme Against Living

Rhyme Against Living
Poem by Dorothy

Parker If wild my breast and sore my pride,
I bask in dreams of suicide;
If cool my heart and high my head,
I think, 'How lucky are the dead!'

Sorry... I want to be with my father.

Suicide note of Charles G. Jr. (24 years old) his father had jumped  off the golden gate four days earlier:

"Sorry ... I want to be with my father"

Resume

Resumé

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.


BY DOROTHY PARKER

I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad.

Here I am with my pants down to my ankles writing again

Here I am with my pants down to my ankles writing again, I don’t know why. 

I had this unbelievable dream, with Daniel, one of the guys I hang around in school, he is really skinny and has this tan, and well, he is not very cute, but has a very nice body built, when I see the waist band of his boxer briefs at school it just gives me this feeling. Last night I had this dream where I was at school with my 'gang', and suddenly I turn back and Daniel is kissing this other very tall guy which I don’t find very cute, kissing, passionately, I was so shocked that I turned to tell Aiacos, but he was not surprised at all, he told me that he knew Daniel was ameinian from a long time ago. I was still more shocked and then without thinking, I just went over Daniel, and whispered him I was bisexual, I’m not sure if he heard me but then suddenly James, another guy form school was now openly ameinian too. With my head spinning I just went straight to Daniel again and kneeled before him, and told him to show me his underwear. then there is some spacing because later I’m kneeled before James he has his pants to his ankles and I’m holding his orange and gray boxer briefs down to the knees and I look at the underwear a second and close my eyes, I don’t dare to look at his balls. I don’t want to, I feel kind of nauseous... then we are all sitting right beside the basket court and there is Ana Maria and another girl I know, (I think is someone I know though I’m not sure) and they are talking to each other, at my side is Daniel, he is excited and as talking me about being ameinian and Ivan is kind of supporting him, though he is quite the homophobe in real life, but I’m not listening to them, I just keep staring at Ana Maria and wish so much to join their conversation. Then he stands up and goes towards the buildings and shouts something I can’t remember right now… I just know it made sense.

God knows there are right now three cuties in my school, I can’t stop looking at, and they are all from sixth grade. The first one is the one his classmates call by the most horrible nick ever, so I call him Sebastian.  He is just so god damn good looking. He’s got blond -light brown hair, these amazing blueish eyes, perfect build, and his face is just so cute, he is always looking good. besides is kind of a bully at school, I’m almost sure he wears briefs because his underwear waistband never showing, and the other time I was walking up the stirs when I saw him coming shirtless from the corridor downstairs, I wanted to see but I was with James and Ivan, and had to remind myself not to stare (another reason why I want them to know) he is just the reason for me to go to school. The other cutie pie is the opposite, also very skinny and great body built but he is always with the big school jacket on, though that makes him such a great little god when I get to see him just wearing his shirt. He has ebony black hair and dark brown eyes (but I’m not sure sometimes they look like they are dark gray) with long eyelashes and has the most beautiful freckled face ever, his smile is just way to cute, but best of all is his voice is just so filled with childhood, Sebastian has a gorgeous voice too… but his is just spectacular. Besides unlike Sebastian he looks like one of this mature boys that I like so much. On third place is this cute boy, who has the cutest face and eyes and tiny cute nose but he is overweight I think, but he is just so cute can't help but I keep staring at him, his face is just perfect. Maybe he is not over weight but has like a kind of big boned.

I'll try to take a picture of the boys, damn they are so cute.

To end this shallow entry I’m must say that I feel lonely; I can’t even keep a cyber-bully. - If anybody is interested just contact me I just need someone close even if is just for a kiss or wedgie - (look at me! asking for someone online... pathetic).

(21 days late)

No one is alone

At this very moment 
there is a man 
who suffers, 
a man tortured
only for loving freedom. 
I ignore where he lives, 
what language he speaks, 
or what color is his skin, 
how he is called, 
but at this same moment, 
when your eyes read my small poem, 
that man exists, 
he screams, 
it is possible to hear hi harassed animal weeping, 
while he bites his lips not to denounce his friends. 
Do you hear? A single man,
handcuffed, screaming, 
exists somewhere. Did I say alone? 
Don´t you feel, like me, the pain, 
the pain of its body repeated in yours? 
Isn't your blood flowing under the blind blows? 
Nobody is alone. 
Now, at this very moment, 
You and me are handcuffed too.

José Agustín Goytisolo 

On March 19, 1999, The poet  José Agustín Goytisolo learned to fly, forever,

by jumping into the the void from the balcony of his house.

A note to a certain old friend

Probably no one who attempts suicide, as Regnier shows in one of his short stories, is fully aware of all his motives, which are usually too complex. At least in my case it is prompted by a vague sense of anxiety, a vague sense of anxiety about my own future. 

Over the last two years or so I have thought only of death, and with special interest read a remarkable account of the process of death. While the author did this in abstract terms, I will be as concrete as I can, even to the point of sounding inhuman. At this point I am duty bound to be honest. As for my vague sense of anxiety about my own future, I think I analyzed it all in A Fool's Life, except for a social factor, namely the shadow of feudalism cast over my life. This I omitted purposely, not at all certain that I could really clarify the social context in which I lived.  

Once deciding on suicide (I do not regard it as a sin, as Westerners do), I worked out the least painful means of carrying it out. Thus I precluded hanging, shooting, leaping, and other manners of suicide for aesthetic and practical reasons. Use of a drug seemed to be perhaps the most satisfactory way. As for place, it had to be my own house, whatever inconvenience to my surviving family. As a sort of springboard I, as Kleist and Racine had done, thought of some company, for instance, a lover or friend, but, having soon grown confident of myself, I decided to go ahead alone. And the last thing I had to weigh was to insure perfect execution without the knowledge of my family. After several months' preparation I have at last become certain of its possibility. 

We humans, being human animals, do have an animal fear of death. The so-called vitality is but another name for animal strength. I myself am one of these human animals. And this animal strength, it seems, has gradually drained out of my system, judging by the fact that I am left with little appetite for food and women. The world I am now in is one of diseased nerves, lucid as ice. Such voluntary death must give us peace, if not happiness. Now that I am ready, I find nature more beautiful than ever, paradoxical as this may sound. I have seen, loved, and understood more than others. In this at least I have a measure of satisfaction, despite all the pain I have thus far had to endure.  

P.S. Reading a life of Empedocles, I felt how old is this desire to make a god of oneself. This letter, so far as I am conscious, never attempts this. On the contrary, I consider myself one of the most common humans. You may recall those days of twenty years ago when we discussed "Empedocles on Etna" - under the linden trees. In those days I was one who wished to make a god of myself. 

This letter was left to a friend by Rynosuke Akutagawa before committing suicide, at the age of 35. Pill Overdose.

Leaping tiger gorge

The Naxi people in china...

"Couples used to plan their suicide well in advance, to take care of all the details ... [...] The lovers dressed in their best clothes and went to a nearby mountain, where they built a simple abode of branches and flowers: They spent their last moments drinking, singing and dancing. And then committed suicide by throwing themselves from the mountain, hanging themselves on a tree or ingesting poisonous substances. "