I’m destroying myself for him.

Right now I feel I’m destroying myself for him... I’m writing love letters to him... and as they go on and on...  I am more and more convinced that I don’t love him or that he doesn’t love me... I’m falling out of love... and I will go back to being doomed...

I should be telling him how much I love him, how much I want him, how much I wish he will be happy. How much I don’t want to hurt him, how much I wish I was his confident, how much I wish I did not make a video of everything we discuss.

He needs someone that would make him smile, not exasperate him, he needs someone who he can make love to every so often... someone that can invite him over his apartment all the time. Who can drive him to school.... ok maybe he doesn’t need to... maybe he just deserves to. Someone who can spoil him. If I was him... that’s what I would aim for, he deserves it... and he can get it...

I’m doing it his way, I’m going to have random sex today, for the very first time in my life, I just called someone for sex... someone I don’t really have feelings for. Just someone for sex... get it over with. Just not be passionate, not be in love... don’t make a video out of it. Why do I wish the prince the will call me and say... no Xag, don’t do it... or better yet... here: take this advice...?

Violently reconquering myself

 

“If I commit suicide, it will not be to destroy myself, but to put myself back together again. Suicide will be for me only one means of violently reconquering myself, of brutally invading my being, of anticipating the unpredictable approaches of God. By suicide, I reintroduce my design in nature, I shall for the first time give things the shape of my will.”

― Antonin Artaud

All and all, I’m tired of asking questions...

All and all, I’m tired of asking questions... always, the same questions over and over again. Questions that wear out the soul... stain it.

Why do I hate myself so much? When will it end? Will I die tomorrow? What should I do next? Why can’t I do what I want to do? Why am I not happy? Where am I? Is this the right choice? Where did all go wrong? How could I have made a difference? What if I was someone else? Who am I? How did I let myself fail?

I now see failure not as a persistent fear, not as threatening menace... but as the bleak reality. 

THIS IS IT.

How do you react to failure... well most people will say, you should learn form you mistakes and start over again till you do it right. 

I don’t think I can start over again... and believe me I find myself now staring at the ceiling for hours at a time thinking how would I have lived in a better way, and how I’d give to go back and do it all over again.

Wasteful thoughts indeed.

Now I find myself writing this journal, almost convinced that this will be the only thing I’ll ever write.

This dear reader. Is a story of failing, the story people are too afraid to tell, the story people hate to hear. The story a loser, a depressive freak... my story. The story of accomplishing nothing, losing friends and alienating people.

(4 days late)

Ameinian

Ameinian

For a long time, I've always found some kind of linguistic injustice towards men, specially referring to homosexual men and women. 

You see, the word commonly used to denominate an homosexual woman is the word lesbian which I personally think it’s a beautiful word, it just sounds beautiful but also has this cool etymological background, the word comes for the inhabitants of the island of lesbos in Greece where the most famous homoerotic poetess lived thousands of years ago (now this sounds great for us occidentals... not sure how the people over at lesbos in Greece right now feel about it). Meanwhile men are stuck with the word Gay which, not only lacks the thousands of years in history, it is also used on girls.

The word lesbian is never used to refer to guy relationships is it? So I've been searching for a while looking for a word that would match the equivalent of "lesbian" unfortunately poets who wrote male to male relationships in ancient Greece are guys like Theognis and Anacreon who self-identify are pederasts... so taking their names would not really help the ameinian community, since pedophilia is even further away from being socially accepted.

However other more famous poet touched the subject, Homer in the Iliad mentions the myth of Ganymede (god I love that name) The young boy who was kidnapped by Zeus to make him his servant (because he was so darn beautiful) yet again... old Zeus and a young boy do give some remembrance of pederasty again. So I kept searching... along the way, I remembered narcissus that was in love with himself... now of course we couldn't call ameinian men narcissistic of course. Yet however reviewing the myth, there is this little known part.

Many were those who fell in love with the beautiful lad. Even when he was a baby his nurses swooned over him, and by his sixteenth year every man and woman in town pined for him. None of them however were good enough for him, he felt. One day his neighbor, Ameinias, could stand it no longer, and told Narcissus how much he longed for him, and asked him to be his lover. Narcissus said nothing, but merely sent a servant to deliver a dagger in response. Ameinias understood the meaning of the ' gift,' and with that dagger took his own life, calling down the wrath of the gods upon Narcissus, and cursing him to ever meet in love the same disdain that he had for others.

While most of the myth centers on the conflict of narcissus an echo, Ameinias seemed to have been somehow obscured. Ameinias' tragedy is... well... really ameinian... maybe even corny. BUT it really says much more than the word generic word: Gay... Ameinias could be the perfect word. Except for the similarity with the word Anemia which is a disease, however its use on people would not be Amienic but Ameinian - if there wasn't an already established structure for the English language that probably regulates this stuff -.

So yes... I spent my day today trying to make up a word. Imagine what I can do tomorrow…

(8 days late)

Liar

Liar

You are a liar, a fake phony false human being... if you can call yourself human. Deception disappointment, in everything you do and say, nothing is real, nothing is true, nothing is authentic.

Liar. Masks all over yourself, makeup... actor, pretender, wannabe...

The truth is I can’t do it, the truth is, and I’m incapable. The truth is I sabotage myself constantly, which part of me is real?

(14 days late)

The end of our elaborate plans

"This is the end, beautiful friendThis is the end, my only friendThe end of our elaborate plansThe end of everything that standsThe end
No safety or surpriseThe endI'll never look into your eyes again" 

- Marilyn Manson

I can see it so clearly

I can see it so clearly, in 2 or three years, right after finishing collage... I am going to be so lost; I’m no journalist, but that’s my career… and people will ask me "why don’t you change? Why don’t you change your career? Why don’t you make new friends? Why do you finish your book?" 

And I’ll have to answer something lame like 

"It’s like being lost inside a forest, a thick forest, and I’ve been shown a path, not a clear path but like the trace someone left behind, and I’ve been following it for ages and it hasn’t got me anywhere, now, impulsive, decided and strong people would notice that and would leave the path and make their own way, but me, I’m not smart enough or brave enough to leave the path I’ve been shown, even if I know it’s only going in circles... I just can’t"

(1 day late)

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"

Chanson of a Lady in the Shade.

Chanson of a Lady in the Shade. 

When the silent one comes and beheads the tulips:
Who wins?
Who loses?
Who walks to the window?
Who’s the first to speak her name?

He is one who wears my hair.
He wears it much as one wears the dead on one’s hands.
He wears it much as the sky wore my hair that year when I loved.

He wears it like that out of vanity.

That one wins.
Doesn’t lose.
Doesn’t walk to the window.
He does not speak her name.

He is one who has my eyes.
He’s had them since gates have shut.
He wears them like rings on his fingers.
He wears them like shards of sapphire and lust:
since the autumn he has been my brother;
he’s counting the days and the nights.

That one wins.
Doesn’t lose.
Doesn’t walk to the window.
He’s the last to speak her name.

He’s one who has what I said.
He carries it under his arm like a bundle.
He carries it as the clock carries its worst hour.
From threshold to threshold he carries it, never throws it away.

That one wins.
Doesn’t lose.
Doesn’t walk to the window.
He’s the last to speak her name.

With tulips that one’s beheaded.

 

Paul Celan committed suicide by drowning in the Seine river in Paris, around April 20, 1970. 

“Talking about art is like trying to French kiss over the telephone"

“Talking about art is like trying to French kiss over the telephone"~Terry Allen"

Lately what I want and don’t want to do has been present in my mind in many ways: career planning, deepening projects in other areas, etc... But in reality I have no idea what I want and that makes this difficult.

About art I feel, like everyone else does, that have my own unique taste and philosophies, everyone has their own. The more I think about it, I realize that when I see as beautiful is that which it’s created from a perspective that is not mine.

When I see my life and the world like "outside" of me, There, in that moment everything seems so beautiful ... so perfectly planned and put on stage. But when I’m back to seeing it through me… its… well disappointing. 

I’m tired of me being bisexual, ugly, depressive, neurotic, ugly, sick, and numb

I’m tired of me being bisexual, ugly, depressive, neurotic, ugly, sick, and numb, rejected…. Now it seems all I need is love, from a boyfriend, from a girlfriend, from a true friend, from a loving pet, from a Tamagotchi, from a plant, from me. Could my life be anymore pathetic, guys my age doing really great stuff, and I am barely passing through high school. It’s not fair. 

But, why is not fair? It’s my fault after all. 

I met this boy. He is form my school bus, and has this strange cuteness, he is not my style, but he’s got a fine body and lovely arms, big eyes, and speaks in such a beautiful way… I had a crush on him. Today I talked to him… and… he is a jerk or at least that what I saw… I am disappointed. Maybe it was my fault… what “maybe”? It was my fault, I didn’t act as I am, and provoked the wrong behavior on him, and I was the jerk

Mortal silence

[…]  At about 2:45 am I heard a shotgun. It was like nine, the street in mortal silence. After I got to sleep again I dreamed, I met Cloud 9 again, she was a cute girl form school, I really liked her but I never told her. There I took her hand and told her "If the world would end up tomorrow, I must tell you that I love you, but I wasn't able to tell you before" we hugged for a long time.  […]

(2 days late)

100 years of loneliness

Some boy in the bus tried to psycho-analyze me once. He said something I'd never forget, "you fake a giggle once in a while, but you haven't really laughed in a lot, lot, of time"... It makes me think if I have ever really laughed at all.

Not long ago I wanted to be bullied really hard, having someone to push me, wedgie me and rip my underwear, kegging me in public. I was drunk with the idea of falling… low, wanted to fall as low as it was possible. Then I realized that I didn't want hate for hate’s sake, if someone wanted to keg me and wedgie me it had to be my friend. I don't want to get hazed by hate, when I got to execute my plan, I got gum in my hair, insults, comments at my back, thrown some spit papers… and realized I don't want that. Still, I want to show my underwear in public, but I want it to be with a soul mate.

What am I, An addict to rejection? Just to remember that I leaved Camilla flat proves it. I just don't help myself. I have no personality at all; all I am a copy of people I like (plus a lot of lies) you got me. I don't have a life either, because of my lack of friends I don't go out, don't know anyone, and don't do anything.

Nocturne

Nocturne III by Silva (translated by Luis Zalamea) 

It was evening,
a night filled with perfumes, whispers, and the music of bird’ wings;
A night
when fantastic glowworms flickered in the nuptial, humid shadows,
at my side, ever so slowly, close to me, listless and silent
as if prey to premonition of the most stinging pain
that inflamed the deep secret of your fibers,
over the path filled with flowers that stretched across the plain,
you were walking;
and the full moon
in the sky, so infinite, so unfathomable, spread its light.
And your shadow,
lean and languid,
and my shadow,
by the moon’s rays silhouetted
on the path’s sorrowful gravel,
were united
and were one,
but one long and lonely shadow,
but one long and lonely shadow,
but one long and lonely shadow…
Tonight,
desolate; my soul
by your death so bitterly pained and anguished,
torn from you by time, distance and the grave
upon that infinite blackness
where our voice cannot be heard,
lone and mute,
on the path I kept on walking…
And dogs braying at the moon came to my ears,
at the pale face of the moon,
and the croaking of the frogs.
I felt cold; the same chill that in your chamber
numbed your precious cheeks, hands and brow
amidst the snow-white linens
of the funereal shroud.
It was frost out of the tomb, it was the ice of the dead,
and the chilliness  of the void…
And my shadow,
sketched out by the paleness of the moon,
walked alone
walked alone,
walked alone upon the prairie;
and your shadow, lean and graceful,
pure and languid,
as in that warm spring evening long ago,
as in that night filled with perfumes, whispers and the music of bird’ wings,
approached me and walked with mine,
approached me and walked with mine,
approached me and walked  mine… Oh embraced shadows!
Oh the shadows of the bodies mingling with the shadows of the souls!
Oh shadows that search each other in tear-filled and somber nights!

On the morning of 24 May 1896, a housemaid found Asunción Silva dead in his bed with a gun near his body; he had shot himself in the heart the night before.