Tag Archives: Prose

Call me a sweet tropical fruit smoothie, ’cause I wanna put my thick head through a fucking blender (and other neurotic diatribes)


ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ʳᵘᵇ ᶦᵗ ᶦⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ
ᴺᵒ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵉʳᵉ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵃ ᶠʳᶦᵉⁿᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵉ
ᴶᵘˢᵗ ᵃ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵃˡˡ ᵐʸ ᵐᵒᵛᶦᵉˢ
ˢᵗᵃᵇᵇᶦⁿᵍ ʸᵒᵘ ᵈᵉᵃᵈ ᶦⁿ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸ ˢᶜᵉⁿᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᴵ’ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ˢᵗᵒᵖ ᵘⁿᵗᶦˡ ʸᵒᵘ
ᴿᵉᵃˡᶦᶻᵉ ʰᵒʷ ʸᵒᵘ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ᵐᵉ ᶠᵉᵉˡ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᴵ ˢʷᵉᵃʳ ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵃᵘˡᵗ
ᴬᵗ ˡᵉᵃˢᵗ ᵗʰᵃᵗ’ˢ ʷʰᵃᵗ ᴵ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ·


The very first time I talked about not talking about things, I hypothesised regarding my sheer inability to open up more and stupidly concluded that perhaps it was one of my greatest weaknesses (yeah, disgustingly yucky, I know). But after a couple years, several hundred other pretentious, maundering posts, and far too much obnoxious, exhausting drama with the wrong people later, I’ve come back with a better understanding of my overbearing privacy and to refute my initial statement. Because oh boy, was I ever right and wrong. Right in the sense that I was right to keep most things to myself, and wrong in ever thinking that that was inherently going to be a bad thing for me.

But before anything else, I would like to go on record and say that this is not targeted at anyone or anything specific. It’s just a crude pastiche of all the incredibly-minor annoyances that’s been silently digging into my brain these past few years, thoroughly compiled into another off-the-rails rant that no one really cares about. It’s therapeutic for me because my broke, third-world, lower middle-class arse can’t afford actual therapy, so y’all have to cut me some kind of slack for that, right? Pretty pretty please with a xanax on top? And really, this is just what happens to the degraded brain of someone who hasn’t interacted with anyone (and I do literally mean any other human being, this is not another piss-poor attempt at severe exaggeration) besides their damned, suffering cat for almost a month now. Long story short (but it’s only ironically about to get longer), there is no personal vitriol intended in this for anyone except myself, and getting affected by it is beyond my liability at this point. And please for the love of Zaphod Beeblebrox’s second head, do take everything I write down with half a grain of salt because these are just my personal angry, self-sabotaging, misanthropic opinions and it should never have to apply to everyone else. Alright, moving on.

Here’s the thing, then. Attempting to make connections in *that* extreme personal way, i.e. talking about literally everything to someone no matter how trivial or private the topic, is a very dangerous minefield to tread. And it’s not as if you could even tell if the person on the other side is completely willing to reciprocate it. Most of the time, you’ll come out of it barely alive with your intestines casually hanging out your bloody camos and wanting of a few limbs here and there, and all the exhausting effort you undertook will simply feel unnecessarily pyrrhic. Risking a thousand detonating devices for maybe possibly not really just one or two fake diamond bullets to shoot yourself in the foot with??? Wow, sounds like a fucking steal to me! And believe me when I say I’ve been there far too often than I’m proud to admit, otherwise I’d still be out there, blindly trying to convince myself to get my entire spinal column blown off to high heavens like forbidden enamel popcorn, just one last time for the sweet hell of it. Advice: save yourself and the other man and keep some defunct minefields in your pocket all for yourself, please. And make sure it doesn’t accidentally jostle or fall out and make you another fool’s casualty. Or if all else fails, just chuck it back to their smug sneers and take cover. Effective, and at least you won’t get hurt.

Here’s how the grueling cycle usually goes: slowly open up about deeper things, some people suddenly arrive, it’s all mac and cheese and good Kraft-brand bliss for a while, but they start overstaying their welcome, cause a lot more petty tantrums and inane misunderstandings as they end up tracking dirt and mud all over your already-messy mind, all before ungraciously storming away from you and never showing their face ever again outside of sleepless nights and cringeworthy memories—but not before knocking down every vase and window and fragile ornament in the house, just for good measure. All you’re going to be left with is more unresolved issues to clean up after and a stranger’s pile of secrets that you don’t have a use for anymore. And worst case scenario, some stranger out there now has your secrets that they might just intend to use to their own means. Not in every case of course, when these things come to a colliding head with a thermonuclear meltdown, it should be for the best for both parties to simply leave things behind and move on. But there’s just far too many entitled, patronising, self-pitying, victim card-holding, choosing beggars out there who would burn the entire solar system to offer their utmost trust and concern to you, just to do a complete 180° as soon as they start to sweat when the climate feels awry, and finally twist your head off and dance on your cremated remains. The sad part of this is, there’s sometimes a strange, lingering, irritating urge to crawl back and have a second go on the classic human burn machine for old times sake, just to fuck things over colossally again ad nauseum. I’d soon as well rather fend off for myself and get well hammered in an Applebee’s carpark at 3 AM on Sunday and throw up in someone’s drive-through meal and get beaten up to a fleshy pulp just to entirely avoid all that nonsense, ta very much. And several well-intended shots of tonic and Robitussin to wash off the terrible hangover aftertaste would also be such a fine treat. Bottoms up, lads.

Also notice that most (keyword is most here folks, I swear I’m not that entirely heartless. yet.) of the longest-standing friends I currently have are the ones that are more so cheery fun and mucking around with each other, and little to no excess baggage dumping. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, I do love that rather silly, affectionate, no-strings-attached sort of tango about them, and I highly appreciate my friends for still putting up with me even when I’m an insufferable prick. I’m always there for them even if that sounds terribly subversive, all that sappy yet genuine stuff and so forth. But even then, I’m already beginning to lose grasp of them as I start to think that I’m irredeemably unworthy for them, as they grow up to find newer people and lead better lives and my crummy puzzle piece falls away from their bigger picture, as I realise just how much I never really knew them at all. Back to professional-level sterile kind of friendship, almost. Soon enough it’ll all just be mass-produced cheesy Hallmark greeting cards every birthdays and Christmas and the occasional awkward water cooler small talk about Chad and Stacey and paramour Davie from the next street maybe having their fifteenth baby whenever we run into each other. Welcome to adulthood, bellend. Everyone’s too busy to care.

Even my oh-so kindhearted family’s been doing their very best recently to try to blatantly alienate me and stay out of my way. I say blatant, and I mean every time someone even tries to reluctantly approach my room, they have a twisted grimace poised on their pious faces like they have their own bleached arsehole hairs stuck in between their fingernails and couldn’t wash it out because I greedily took all the soap in the house and shoved it down my filthy trachea. Not to mention my doting mother’s Oscar-worthy pantomime of her third child’s pure nonexistence since two weeks ago for no particular discernible reason, not to use a dead meme but bitch I got Thanos-snapped out of her dense spacy braincells innit. Maybe because of my shallow, repressive, self-absorbed problems, maybe because they just can’t be bothered anymore after 19 years of being forced to put up with my emo angsty horseshite, maybe because more and more they’re resenting the festering fact that I’ve really done nothing good for them ever since I was forcibly carved out of my mum’s belly like a sentient tumour. Yeah, thanks, ’cause I fucking begged to be here guys, I totally wouldn’t want to be aborted off into Satan’s left armpit if I had the choice. Alright, distasteful tangents aside, the point is that there is simply no solace in talking to anyone anymore. Everyone’s got their own worries and difficulties they’re trying to work through, so what makes your pathetic fucking trauma any more special than theirs? Don’t be a whinging pussy about it. Be like the rest. Suck it up and deal.

If there’s one thing I’m finally starting to learn about life after years and years of idiotically bumbling about contrived people and repeating the same embarrassing mistakes, it’s to just shut it the fuck down and shut the fuck up. Complain quietly. Cry where no one can see you. Indulge in a hundred distractions and vices and coping mechanisms if it would give you some form of relief. Scream at a wall, at a black void, on the internet towards apathetic, faceless pixels who won’t give half a washed-up mermaid’s fishy twat if you killed yourself with some cheap petrol and a blowtorch immediately the next day, before deleting it forever. Hide your abrasive goddamn scars behind a million layers of whatever because who honestly wants to see that grotesque attention-seeking slut (slut is me I guess), and put on a grand show of your useless life if you really need to. There’s absolutely no use in broadcasting emotions and airing out your dirty laundry—except perhaps beyond an occasional societally-acceptable grumble about some trivial matters—anymore. Unless of course, if you’re paying someone thousands of dollars per session for it. Ohhh, what a fucking fantasy.

I do get that it’s nice to have an occasional deep conversation with someone every now and then and I will never mind that sort of refreshing discussion with the right company, but hey, just don’t expect to teeter close to the edge and walk out bone dry, is all. And don’t even think for a second that you could always just dip a tentative toe in whenever you so blithely wish, without one day accidentally slipping and drowning on your own blatant folly; and all before stupidly dragging in the other person with you because your untied shoelaces are so incredibly entangled up with each other. So for both your benefit and for the others, deception and suppression is an acquired skill that might feel rather counterproductive at first, but soon becomes a normalised, familiar, welcoming change all in due time. I don’t know about you, but permanent numbness is better than perpetually-constant sensory overload. That, to me, is the definition of engineered paradise. Call it jaded, cynical, poisonous thinking, grab your violently-optimistic torches and pitchforks and scream hellfire while shivving it straight into my shrieking throat for being overtly negative, but damn, that wouldn’t change the fact that it’s more realistic than simply tossing a rusty bottlecap in an old empty well and wishing for the opposite until your fingers bleed out and your jaws seize up from tetanus. If you’re irreversibly tired of existence anyway, might as well just use that to your highest advantage.

So please, just no more flimsy, annoying, uncomfortable support systems gingerly patting each other on the back like fragile little prissy snowflakes for being ‘oh-so brave’. No more “please go find someone to talk to!” bullshit and other sickeningly banal reassurances. No more actively seeking out extremely toxic codependent relationships in hopes of finding temporary comfort and false redemption, and being dumbly surprised when it all starts to inevitably fall apart. It might work for some people in very certain situations and good on them for seeking help in the proper places, I’m not going to condescendingly lambast them for that, but I just personally find that it’s simply always easier to deal with everything alone. And if you can’t do even that much, then well…at least no one’s going to miss you.


ᵂʰᵉⁿ ʸᵒᵘ ˢᶦᵍⁿᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵒᵗᵗᵉᵈ ˡᶦⁿᵉ
ᴰᶦᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵏ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉˀ
ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ʳᵘᵇ ᶦᵗ ᶦⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ
ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ’ᵗ ʰᵉˡᵖ ᵇᵘᵗ ˡᵃᵘᵍʰ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒʷ
ᵂᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ ʷᶦˡˡ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉ
ᴵᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵇᵘˢᶦⁿᵉˢˢ
ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵇᵘˢᶦⁿᵉˢˢ ⁿᵒʷ·


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a cold slice of toast (with pb&j)

Hullo. It’s about 1 AM as I drink my room-temperature coffee and jot this down on my notes app, and I’m in that usual Schrödinger’s midnight state of being simultaneously tired and hyperactive (while also procrastinating on another ugly painting. again.), so it’s due time for a bit of a lengthy reprised overpersonal contemplation once more. Heed this warning and turn away now if you don’t want to get bored with all my bullshit once more, nonexistent reader.

So. 2019. And another decade come and gone. 10 year-old me was still innocently bumbling around with their elementary best friends without much ado of a care in the planet, but then high school happened and college happened (barely but yea yk) and shit went down hard when reality put a .44 Magnum to my head and forcefully led me to the kerb to kick my teeth in; and here we are now, bordering on the verge of adulthood and ready to grow out another set of molars for merciless reality to painfully crush it all under its heel once more, just so it could watch me bleed out. Fun times. Reality is a filthy mob boss and y’all know it. But hey now, let’s not talk about that. Because if I spent my time whining about the past ten years of my life (and trust me, there’s a lot to complain about), this post will probably never cease and it’s already fucking long enough as it is. Shut the hell up @ me.

I digress. Let’s just have a little chit-chat about 2019, shall we? It feels like that past year was somewhat more of a year of unexpected discovery for me, I think. In the sense that I finally got to do some of the things I’ve only been desperately raring to accomplish for the past eight years or so. Taking the time off to focus my energies on what I actually enjoy doing, which was honestly a breath of fresh air. I’ve only spent two semesters in college, and it felt to me like every single day I was there alone and haplessly lost, I mostly loathed it with a burning passion (friendly reminder kids: stupid and lazy and antisocial put together does not make for a good academic career, take this from personal experience). And this sounds pretentiously cheesy to the point of stomach ulcer cliché, but I think maybe I’ve also grown a little more, even if just a bit more, this year??? At learning new things. Getting better at them. Wanting to get better at them more. When I read back on the previous new year’s journal entry that I wrote, I feel pleasantly surprised at how much of it I’ve actually accomplished and then some—well, maybe sans a few things here and there, but not much big losses to me. It’s not like I even held myself to it in any way. On the contrary, I was already classically jaded and hopeless from the get-go, as the final lines blatantly suggest. But things just happen if they do and if I let them, I suppose. And if they always happen like this, then I can’t really say that I mind it at all.

But just like any other year, this one wasn’t without its downs. And when I say I hit rock bottom, I mean that I hit it so hard that I got charged for several counts of battery and assault, no bail. E.g. the whole disappointing failed college fiasco that gave my entire family a relentless migraine and left me very literally nearly dead on my dorm room floor. The obnoxious dramatic three-way fallout with someone who I once used to respect a lot but just had to go and fuck everything up to an unfixable extent. The uncontrollable, exhausting, emotional torture that my stupid arse accidentally fell victim to and am still somehow irrationally putting myself through for almost a year now(!!!). The opportunities I willingly missed out on because I didn’t think I was worth all the trouble. Starting to slowly drift away from people I care about a lot. The incredibly destructive sense of feeling worse and worse about the way I look. The deadbeat, desolated, pointless kind of hellscape living for endless months at an end that probably helped build up an irrefutable case of spite and ingratitude against me. The usual (if not higher) doses of anxiety and depression and mania and crippling insecurities and whatnot that constantly loves dropping anvils down my skull without remorse whenever they feel like it. Growing older in general. The ever-present thought of not really wanting to live anymore. Why fucking bother, eh?

But even if I hate to admit it, there were also good things. Spread thin, far and few in between, but still there somehow. Getting back on this site and writing some more. Making bad drawings and paintings and hoarding art supplies I barely use. Slowly but surely getting back to reading books again. Music; learning it, playing it, listening to it, loving it with all of my heart and soul, bands and band boys and band fics and band blog shenanigans, oh my! Having better friends who made me laugh the misery away and haven’t completely scissor-kicked me out of their life even if my socially-inept self hasn’t been the best to them. Actually getting noticed by the very people I look up to the most (?!??!! this one still horrifies me to this day, it feels like a fucking fever dream to me sndhdk). Hanging with the fam. Getting a dumb but cute pet cat out of the blue. Exercising for some extra happy chemicals and penny-boarding, despite all the bruises and scars I get from it. Getting into trouble after a few impulsive drinks and other random misadventures. Wearing the stupidest outfits, probably looking like an underpaid hoe in the process. Laying on the soft grass alone every night after a long exhausting day and watching the stars flicker beyond the skylines, as Los Baños breathes easy around me. Daydreaming childishly with them. Feeling a little more okay, at the rarest moments of tranquility. Cautiously hopeful. Starting to accept life, despite how insanely out-of-character that sounds. I mean, I am writing this on an off-day, so I’m bound to change my my mind about it in probably…ehhh, I’d say five minutes, allow the spiteful inborn cynic in me to fully kick in and spit in my pathetic face. Ah shit, I just ruined the entire thing, didn’t I. Whoops. Rewind. Where were we? Oh yeah, the whole “starting to accept life” conundrum. That one. Gross. Whatever.

I fully well know that I just can’t stay stuck in this strange limbo, though. The pressure’s boiling to a painfully-scalding degree and it’s high time for me to get back on my atrophied feet now. Take tentative dips into the things that terrify me out of my wit’s end. Stop holding myself back too much and take the plunge, even if I know all too well that I’ll inevitably drown. I have to take risks. I have to do things. I have to be useful. I need to, I guess. It’s a fucking capitalistic travesty, but that’s the unfortunate way things work around here and I can’t do jack about shit. I’ve had my quiet repose, seven gracious months of it, and by god if people have been extensively patient with me. I really don’t want to test their breaking point as they did mine. It’s rather silly now, because despite all the free time I had to think (and mostly overthink) about it, I honestly still don’t know what to do with myself. I have the vaguest idea of it, but I’m at a total loss with how I’m supposed to arrive there. Hell. I just don’t know anymore. But I’m turning 20 soon for fuck’s sake, and if I really want things to change, I know that I just can’t sleep away all my problems forever.

It’s time to wake up, Allen.

(or not at all)

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Impossible Year: Haze

The eventide stars, Spencer Smith decided, were more beautiful when their iridescent light coalesced softly against the glimmering snowfall.

Holding a freshly-bought cup of coffee to warm his hands, he wrapped the scarf around his pallid face a bit tighter, his cheeks already a pleasant shade of pastel red from the cold. Finding a nearby park bench to rest on, he placed his bag on it and gingerly sat down to stretch his weary legs.

It had been a long day.

The dim sodium lights above his head overhead flickered once, twice, before completely blazing bright, gradiating his shadow farther and making the darkness seem a little less lonelier than it was.

Lonely little life…

Intricate whorls of vapour escaped from his mouth in a lost sigh. He gazed thoughtfully into his untouched drink, languid mind turning to reminiscing as it replayed old memories like damaged black and white film reels, visions rolling through his half-closed eyes like a fast fading dream.

He thought about his best friend, the clever idiot. Spencer hadn’t seen him in…years? Had it been years? Most likely. He already stopped counting, and he was pretty sure they had done the same, as well. They’ve all been separated for a while and doing their own things now, after all. That was just a part of growing up.

But suddenly remembering those old moments of madness and melancholy alike; the dumb interviews spent joshing each other around and the absurd-looking costumes they put together with thrifted clothes and dollar store supplies, the way they constantly joked around together and made crazy music that left a lasting legacy to always be proud of, the hell-high youth that intoxicated them and, for one moment, made everything feel deathless—it all came crashing back to him and made him feel rather blindly exposed. The frigid breeze suddenly started to pick up as it blew past his rusty bones, making made him shiver slightly.

Best friends, huh…

He hugged his jacket a little tighter towards him as he felt a slower chill run past his skin again. This time, he wasn’t quite entirely sure if it was still from the cold weather.

Spencer smiled dolefully, ignoring the quiet pang of ache that made its way under his ribs. He was happy for his old friend, he really was. That man had helped him through so much, carrying him throughout his worst relapses and his painful withdrawals and even the most hopeless moments of his life, god, they’ve been through so much together. But it couldn’t always be a fairy tale ending for all of them. Sometimes clocks simply stop, and cogs simply fall apart, and after everything that’s happened, time couldn’t ever be turned back and everything has to go on. Happily ever after wasn’t ground zero, it was simply another fork in the road.

But it’s alright. That’s just life. And it was fun while it lasted.

Despite himself, he still can’t help but badly miss everyone. He wondered if they also missed him, as well.

Spencer sat by the very corner of that fragile cardboard town for quite a long time, resting beneath the sinking lavender haze of the early winter afterglow as he let frail snowflakes blanket his tired body; waiting for answers he knew will never come to him.

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In Moratorium


[ ∅ . ]

“ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ sᴛᴀʀғᴀʟʟ
ʙʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴀɪɴ
ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ʜᴜʀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ sᴏʟᴅ
ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ’s ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀsᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ
ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ
ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sᴛᴀɪɴ
ᴡᴇʟʟ, ɪ’ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʜᴏʟᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ…”


[ I . ]

You are arcane desire, and influential mania, and the sweetly vulgar taste of expired novocaine hanging above my quivering tongue like eden’s forbidden fruit. You are the contagious, infected swelling beneath the base of my throat that I madly vain to scratch away with both trembling hands, that I constantly want to carve out with a blunt scalpel in a resolute fit of psychosis. You are the deliberate misspelling of a foreign name that sounds frustratingly familiar, but only ever-so vaguely. Not close to a centimetre, teasingly grazing tiptoed silver slippers and half-buried memories. But not quite there yet.

ARE YOU LISTENING?


[ I I . ]

The resonating scream beneath my temples is starting to taper off into a sound akin to the mewling of a crippled fox; gunpowder and bullet hole smouldering in one leg, a rather patient hunter quietly praying by its burrow, steady fingers clasped tightly to the trigger as it sets up the final triumph with a whispered amen. It might just be from the severe blood loss, but my darling hunter, your gentle trilling call sounds almost alluringly enticing to me now. Me, a clever, cunning fox. You, a foolish, bumbling hunter. And yet you always seem to victoriously capture your kill in the end. Am I your final trophy head to be displayed in your cabin with the grandest fanfare, or shall my carcass simply be ferociously gutted and the scrapped remains fed to your rabid, starving dogs?

WHICH ONE SHALL IT BE?


[ I I I . ]

You are convoluted ecstasy and LSD and heroin in its rawest form, a most potent kind of prescription drug that instantly presses through my arm like hot steel and directly flows into my veins—though the hypodermic needle is missing and the vigil candle has completely melted away into stained tears hours, perhaps even weeks ago. But it is incredibly easy to lose track time with you, is it not? Every inch of the rampant hallucinogens traces highways back and forth on my scarred flesh and all over the wrinkles and grey matter of my deliquescent brain, smoothening out track marks and neurons alike as it gradually transforms me into an obedient porcelain mannequin. Just for you, I’ll forget to exhale, so let your guilt swirl through my charred lungs for all it’s worth, and I won’t suffocate. I promise.

DO YOU?


[ I V . ]

There is a new emotion blustering within me as you speak; something that feels like crudely sewing obscure adjectives on the underside of my clavicle, something that I don’t think anyone else with four chambers in their heart is supposed to ever feel; lest one of it inevitably clogs up and withers into paralysis. It renders every paranoid afterthought blindly unresponsive to the rest of my starving body, and sleeps right next to the nerve that could send me straight to comatose if pressed the wrong way. It takes the tiny spots from below your right cheek and collides it together into an explosive myriad constellation, an overwhelming universe that barely begins to abstract the way your unfathomable soul works. It is you: ad infinitum, deathless, enraptured. And me stumblingly trapped in the middle of it all, mere insensible creature hysterically perplexed by your stark impossibility. Dare I ask…dare I ask you why…why this is and should never be? And if I do—god help me if I do—

WOULD IT EVEN MATTER TO HAVE EXISTED AT ALL?


[ Π. ]

“ᴡʜᴀᴛ’s ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀsᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ sᴀʏ?
ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴀʀᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ɪғ ɪ sᴛᴀʏ
sᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴏᴏᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ
sᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ
ᴄᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ? ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ?
ᴄᴀɴ ᴡᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ
ᴡᴇ’ʟʟ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴀʀs ᴄᴏʟʟɪᴅᴇ…”


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Cathexis

It’s really nice, to simply throw myself into a pastime I enjoy and completely forget what it’s like to be worryingly unproductive and incompetent, and be someone else somewhere else, even for just a few hours. To do stuff a little more flawlessly without even realising how much I’ve already learned from past experiences, and how much I still have yet to learn. To finally apply everything I’ve been constantly struggling with for a good several weeks and months and years altogether and somehow have it all make sense in the end. Or some semblance of sense, at the very least. Anything counts for something.

That last part especially, it greatly baffles me—how much of it makes fucking sense. When it finally does. Even when it doesn’t. When I’m engrossingly locked and loaded on the various compositions, as I’m fully losing myself in head-spinning analysation and connecting odder theorems together, when I put bits and pieces of the faintest memories and deeper information into something more coherently vivid, and pick apart a familiar, creative medium that I have dearly cherished for years to its very rivets for my own personal means and interpretation, it just feels like everything makes sense to me—and that applies not only to the thing I’m meticulously looking into, mind you.

Fuck the meaning of life. Fuck irrational anxieties and peer pressures and growing up. Fuck the grander scheme of the universe and all that cosmic existential bullshit. That doesn’t matter to me. This does. This matters. I might not, but this thing in front of me and my mind right now, does. And it’s all that ever will, until I inevitably exhaust it. When I do, I’ll save it away for another rainy day and find something else of its kin to indulge in; optimistic afterthoughts fluttering a little higher than piqued daydreams, determined pastel eyes set focused as clever words and neon motions burn incandescently behind it, dizzying exhilaration steadily pulsing through my veins and making my buzzed skin quietly shiver at the very thought of finally being able to explore different labyrinthine alleyways and discover strange new worlds behind closed doors with the skeleton key in my hand—and doing everything all over again and again without ever getting sick of the whole process. On to find better sights, a better place, a better time, perhaps.

This certain ardent feeling, rather specifically inexplicable and a million times more potent than falling in love and vicious depression and shallow, fleeting aftertastes of superficial happiness, I sure do hope to high hell that I never run out of it for as long as I’m breathing (if you may pardon the utter mawkishness of such a statement). Being myself. Being content. Being actually excited to live. Is that what passion is like?

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Transmogrify

They spit me out right through the teeth
I can’t pretend, ash in the wind
Won’t blow again, it was a breeze for you
These hurricanes inside of my brain
Let it rain, made it look easy
Can’t look away, you love the pain…

~*~

I’m sick of feeling happy like this.

Like a hollow happy, all fractured sticks and carved limestone facades and a mimicked genuine smile that does absolutely nothing to quell the bitter, devoid, pathetically-quivering feeling viscously building up in my throat. The desperate, acidic kind, the awful one I just want to violently throw back up but can’t. Fake-real happy.

Fuck that, why couldn’t I just be normal happy?

This dangerous selfishness, it’s like a howling werewolf without a full moon, and I’ll always fall immeasurably short of what I truly feel. I only provoke the worst kind of boiling rage frothing against my curled lips, a bloodstained rabid displeasure—but nothing more—at the fact that I’m happy for you, but not really happy to be so. Empty fucking threats. Instantly dying out short and flat. The synthetic skyline glimmers back to me in a derisive snarl; taunting,

What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?

I want it to tear apart my flimsy skin and reveal the perverse goddamned feral beast hibernating inside, I want my soggy eyes to glint a jaundiced yellow and my grotesquely-disfigured mind to lower its inhibitions and reset to a primal scream, my rewired guts are churning corrosively as they crash away at my torso and starve for some more guts, and my grin at this point only resembles a sinister bared sneer, all vicious teeth and reckless abuse.

If I can’t have it, then everyone else will.

I just finally want to shed off that repugnant, powerless, shaky lie I call my own farcical humanity and then completely let go. Of you. Of everything else. Of everyone else. Including myself. Especially myself.

Maybe then, I’ll truly be happy. Please. God, please.

~*~

I paid the cost, yeah, it’s all my fault
That I ain’t giving up my soul
It’s all my fault, watching me bleed
You cut me down on my knees
No matter what you believe
I think we both can agree
That you can’t blame it on me…

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Doubt Is Failure By Design

We’re born to fuck everything up, I guess.

No one asked for this. I’m like a festering scar on the dysfunctional mind of a starving shark who mercilessly shoved me overboard, and my flailing limbs are weighed down with rocks and paralysed with guilt, with shameful culpability, with the handed-down heirloom of a cursed name—a mere letter and punctuation away from completely unpronounceable—come now, black sheep, where’s your fucking wool?

Absolutely deplorable. Every success-story sycophant resolutely cringes away as if touched by the devil’s acid itself, their gold-plated stomachs turning at the mere mention of us, rolling diamond eyes watering viciously at the sight of our squalid hands reaching out to extinct stars and begging for a shred of respite, if any at all, overfed jesters laughing like relentless hyenas at the classic repertoire of victimised beggars choosing to be losers. No change. No mercy. Miserable. We asked for it, didn’t we?

I take a single step into the path I meticulously measured before finally deeming to be correct, and end up breaking somebody’s weak spine instead; clumsy foot easily slicing through vertebrae like a sharpened sword through snowfall. Another mistake. Another cautionary tale. I hear my dead ancestors wail a steady plangent caterwaul, as they eternally scream and admonish me from beyond the depths of inferno and then perhaps some—from where I shall soon be sharing their fate as I join in with their ever-familiar sickly cries. Another generation. Another bad blood. It’s almost comforting, now.

Oh, well. We fucking saw it coming and let it happen anyway, didn’t we?

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Impossible Year: Caramel

(Okay, so I was originally supposed to post a really intense and serious shitty creepypasta-esque story that I wrote about a year back, but since it’s in my computer and it’s being a complete arse that won’t let up, here, have one of the parts from a Panic! At The Disco fic that I’ve been working on for a while now instead. Since all of the past halloweek stuff I posted have been nothing but morbidly dark and really gruesome, we’ll have something stupidly wholesome to end the spooky month instead. Boom, plot twist, happy Halloween fuckers!!! 🎃)

OCTOBER 31ST, HALLOWEEN.

Every house in the block and beyond displayed scary decorations on their front lawn; of plastic skeletons, fake cobwebs, carved pumpkins and other usual novelty spooky items. Squealing kids rounded the streets with their friends and parents, donning various colourful and monstrous costumes as they knocked on doors and yelled a cheerful “trick or treat!”, and teenagers held their own parties and dared each other to do crazy horror-related things that either sent them running away screaming, or laughing, or in most cases, both.

It was a festive night as usual, perhaps even more festive and rowdy than he’d ever witnessed in his entire life, but Jon Walker simply felt like he was getting too old for this shit.

He had just dropped a couple of fun-sized Snickers on the bag of a kid dressed up as a vampire slayer (“points to him for being a notch above cliche,” Jon wanly mused) and was heading back to his living room, a cup of store-bought coffee in one hand and the TV remote in another.

Nursing a headache, Jon tightened his shabby red bathrobe and sipped on his drink, grimacing slightly at the strange taste of…what was it that kids these days called it? Pumpkin spice? Yeah. Whatever the hell that meant.

He groaned as he unceremoniously plopped back down on the couch to continue watching a random B-list horror movie he found on Netflix. As soon as he pressed the play button, the TV immediately died and all the lights in the house flickered off.

“Great, just my luck.” Jon dryly thought, scratching absently at his unkempt beard. “This is so textbook cliche. Next thing you know, I’m going to fetch my flashlight in the kitchen and there’s going to be an axe murderer waiting behind the fridge to hack me into pieces.

Fortunately for him, there wasn’t anything of the sort.

Although, there was a translucent little girl calmly sitting on his kitchen counter, which definitely was not there before.

Jon recoiled back in shock, nearly spilling his lukewarm drink all over himself in the process. He blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes furiously, and determinedly pinched himself on the arm, all before cautiously glancing back at the apparition.

But instead of being gone, the ghostly child was still there, and this time, she was staring straight back at him.

“Oh.” She piped up as she waved softly, making Jon deliriously laugh. “Hullo.”

“Oh yeah no cool, how’s it going? Oh nothing much, just TALKING TO A GODDAMN GHOST.” He rambled on senselessly in reply. The small phantom, however, seemed mostly unfazed by his reaction, probably already used to seeing that sort of thing. She’d seen worse.

“Are you okay, mister?” She asked innocently, stubby legs swinging back and forth and occasionally passing through the closed cabinets. Jon paused for a moment to think about what he was going to do next, and sighed out as he finally decided to give in to the sheer insanity of it all.

“I’m sorry. I overreacted. Let’s start afresh.” He said, clearing his throat extravagantly. “So. What’s your name, kid?”

“…Nic.” The ghost replied hesitantly.

“Nic, sure, yeah, that’s a nice name.” Jon pleasantly appeased. “So. Nic. Why are you haunting my house?”

She blinked a few times before limply shrugging. “…Dunno. I’m bored. And I think I’m supposed to, I guess.”

“That makes sense.” Jon nodded sagely. “Do you like scaring people?”

All he got was the same blink-blink-shrug routine in reply. “Dunno. I guess. I know I’m not very good at it yet.” Nic pouted sourly. “The older ghosts keep telling me to practice some more and if I don’t, some dumb priest or whatever’s gonna send me back to hell or afterlife or something, like they even know if that’s a real thing, they’ve never been. But I just wanna go outside and play with the other scary-looking kids, honestly. I only ever get to do that once a year, and I’m not even allowed to.”

Her eyes began welling up with tears and she turned away stubbornly, trying to hide them from Jon’s view.

Jon had never seen a ghost cry before, least of all a child ghost. For sure, he could definitely check that off his bucket list. Or just throw away the damn thing because for sure at this point, he’d seen it all.

He set down his coffee cup on the counter and carefully approached the quietly-trembling Nic.

“Well, Nic, if you don’t mind, let me tell you a secret.” He began. Nic still had her face buried in her hands and didn’t move even as he spoke to her, but Jon could sense that she was listening intently, so he carried on.

“Here’s the thing I’ve learned. Sometimes, you don’t have to listen to mean old adults. We’re just really cranky and tired from doing a lot of boring stuff. But you’re still a child after all, and you’ve got a lot to learn, and heck, maybe one day you’ll grow to be the best damn scarer in this cul-de-sac and scare those ancient naysayers back to their miserable graves. But hey, if you just wanna mess around, go wild. You won’t get a lot of chances to do that soon, and honestly—what have you got to lose?”

Nic finally rose from her hunched position and was seriously gazing at him now, a wistfully curious look etched on her pallid face.

“They can take you out of the fight, kid, but they can’t take the fight out of you.” Jon concluded with an assuring nod, finding even himself impressed with his whole speech. “Now go out there and trick or treat with all the other youngsters and show those creaky geezers that you’re made of more than goopy ectoplasm and boring boo noises.”

He shone his phone screen down as he fumbled with his ratty robe’s pocket, and managed to fish a piece of hard mint out of it. Secretly picking some lint off the old candy, Jon handed it to Nic.

“Here’s something for a start.” He said with a casual shrug, “I know it’s not much, but…”

But to the ghostly child, it didn’t seem to matter at all; as the bright grin that grew on her face could have lit up the entire house by itself. She excitedly swiped the candy out his hands (“Note to self,” Jon wondered absently, “ghosts can actually eat candy?”) with a shrill laugh and went in straight for an unexpected hug.

Jon shivered madly at Nic’s hold. The sensation was like getting dunked right into a vat of liquid nitrogen. But he tried his best not to show his utter discomfort as he awkwardly patted her on the back, careful not to let his hand completely pass through her.

“That’s, uh, that’s the spirit.” He stammered out with chattering teeth, chuckling at his own pun.

“Thank you, mister!” She gratefully squeaked.

“You’re welcome. Now git outta here kid, yer bothering me.” Jon replied with a playful wink.

Nic simply nodded fervently, visibly filled with a new excited energy. She waved back once again and smiled the biggest smile a ghost could possibly ever have, before finally running on ahead of Jon.

He silently watched the otherworldly child as her glowing ethereal outline passed through the kitchen walls, and faded away into nothing. At that very moment, the lights flickered back on, but Jon didn’t even notice, still deeply lost in his own thoughts.

“Trick or treat!”

A giggling chorus of childish voices outside finally startled Jon out of his trance. Picking up his cold pumpkin spice drink (which didn’t taste so strange anymore) and the half-filled candy bowl, he walked to the doorway, sighed once, smiled the biggest smile a person could possibly ever have, and opened the door.

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Elizabeth and the Zealot

His embittered smile proclaims of an innocently senile man, but his rancid breath reeks of irreparable psychological damage.

Outside, a group of children playing tag in the playground across the street, clambering across loose gravel and joyously shrieking as outstretched hands willingly grab for their shoulders, caught unaware and simply caught.

Inside his shirt, the old crucifix his long-deceased mother gave him on the brink of her deathbed, clasp half-broken and several priceless encrusted jewels missing; a toothless grin, unfaithful gaps. The tiny metal weighs heavily against his unwashed chest, the unpleasant sensation almost burning a hole through his heart. Sometimes, he mutters a memorised creed out of reflex, though no one believes in it anymore. Perhaps not even God Himself. But him?

Mindless gazes. The chipped, mouldy statue of a weeping wooden saint in one dark nook of the living room, rotting food and dusty candles its ever-resilient offering. The mirror, barely reflective, smudged with soot and cobwebs and his tuberculosis-infected saliva. The closed window beside him like a sleepy eye, tiringly wary as it occasionally betrays a resounding laugh or a glimpse of excitedly-billowing hair. He forgets so many things nowadays, but he always remembers. The children. He must watch the children.

Or else?

Or else…

Grabbing his ragged coat from the settee, the man coughed into his fist once, twice, and absently wiped the offending knuckle onto his beige pants. He headed for the door and resolutely grabbed the tarnished doorknob with a shaky hand. The hinges squeaked. A child, perhaps the acting leader of the pack, called out for everyone’s attention as he insisted to play hide and seek.

A countdown, and the palpable air of small bodies scattering. The man decided musingly, that he would humour them and join in their little pastime. He’s always been good at hiding. Though, he sighed out in quiet lamentation, with his old age and raging rheumatism, it would not really make the job any easier for him.

But only one child would win the game that night.

No one would ever find her.

He’ll make sure of that.

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Synapses

My head’s like loopy strings and rubber bands, I try my best to keep it running smoothly but it tangles and snaps and that kinda gives me a migraine something awful, so I just stick pins and needles in my scalp and hope it will at least sew up a nice little embroidery for my dreams to enjoy tonight, or maybe pluck me a song I haven’t heard though these stretchy things aren’t really made for music but still, that would be quite nice now, wouldn’t it?

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