Butterfly

Craving murdering oneself is excruciating. Pondering until the sun comes up, planning the right moment and place, crying while harming oneself. It’s a disease, a repugnant virus I’ve been ashamed of for as long as I can remember.

Weakness is the quickest and the most undemanding path. Showing to be strong, bulletproof, requires an imparalleled effort. I cannot give up, that’s my true ending.

Wanting to murder oneself is still murdering oneself. Of course, besides my several flaws, I’ve got plenty of good qualities and I’m talentous. I can feel the Revolution flowing within me, I’m aware of my value and this rarely comes off my mind. I’ve got boundless plans and I find amusement in shaping my future, just as if then I’m not going to change my mind or as if life will follow my instructions.

When I carved my body, when I saw bruises on my legs, when my tears ran down ’til my breasts, a part of me was to die.

I’ll never get over my grief, it’s a part of who I am.

I’m alone. I’m alone with myself and that’s horrific. I think of shocking thoughts, I imagine ridiculous pictures. They’re scandalous and I’m freezed and I think: have I really just given birth to this abomination?

My scream for help is quiet, it’s a monitored cry which I believe I can always sigh out.

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.

– David Foster Wallace

I’ve never felt so alive.

@layalke 🐍

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Night friend

▶ Do I wanna know? – Arctic Monkeys

Words might help when communicating, but music is in a whole new level.

It’s a torture. I can’t even drag on to the bathroom or to the kitchen to drink a little water, with one eye open and the other closed, that I know I won’t be able to just lay my wavy head on my two soft pillows, close my eyes and fall asleep again. I just physically won’t be able to. I’ll turn to the left side of my lonely warm bed, then to its right side; then my mind will tease me, resting for a couple lucky minutes, and eventually it’ll turn itself on. My mind is a switch I don’t have any power over.

The thing is that I’m not either completely woken up or sleepy, I stand in an eternal hellish limbo for at least the following two hours. So, at this point, I can’t delay his call any longer. Not anymore. I’d be quite cheeky and impolite, otherwise. Plus… what would be my other options? Staying still in my scrawny bed, looking up to the cieling? Carefully listening to the extremely loud clicking sound of my room clock?

Oh, no. I put on a sweater and I go barefoot downstairs, to my garden. As I’m living it, I get dream vibes all the time because everything around me is blurred and opaque.

Here he is. He is so handsomly beautiful without even trying, someone I’ve fallen for multiple times and whom I wouldn’t hesitate a single moment to take a step forward with, if he asked me to. 

While nearly everything my eyes lay on is confused and chaotic, he’s a beacon in a black night. He truly can enlighten my late times; when I look at him, he’s well-defined and neat.

As he lightens up a cigarette, I go and sit next to him on a green hostile bench.

Dwindling, I rest my heavy ached head on his left shoulder, while he caresses the latter of mine. My knees are touching my breast and my feet are mild, just as the arm he’s touching.

He places his cigarette on my lips, I try to inspire as much as the taste of his breath stays within me. My hands are still in my sweater pockets, so he takes off that long blue cilinder from my mouth.

He kisses me. The smell of his smoke pervades my entire rib cage. As he pushes aside a lock of my hair behind my ear, I lean forward. I want more. I want that next step. 

Just like every other night, I won’t get it. Within minutes, I fall asleep in his arms. I feel like a baby, while he strokes my rosy cheeks, my curved lips, my refined nose, my dark hair, with his hands. That feeling, that relaxing regenerative feeling of being loved and cared for, that’s my heaven. It almost fades away the worry I’ll get tomorrow morning, because I won’t remember any of this and still get the memory that something happened. Something had to.

If we could talk, I’d ask him why he’s so afraid of killing me.

Magic sleeping pill

▶ Happy little pill – Troye Sivan

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

In front of my little round bluish bathroom mirror, the dark circles under my eyes seem to be covered in the bluest veins. My eyes are a broke artist’s palette; a bit red, a bit orange, a bit brown. There’s a single small section of them which is yellow. It’s disgusting. Doing this makes me a snake.

I shake my head as if I want to scroll away the gross glance I’ve just given myself, I untie my hair from a ponytail. I quickly take off my knickers and a chemise I’ve been wearing for a few days, not really sure.

I check my wrists and ribs and groin, no open and infected cuts so far. I may not die this time, relieving. Abstinence makes me depressed.

My bathtub is now filled up with the coldest water. I know it because I’m leaving my left arm loose inside of it. Not on purpose, nor do I find it pleasing. It’s quicksand, even dark, filthy. I can’t see or feel my hand.

I won’t waste time, or my grip cracking-bones feelings will come back and haunt me, forcing my stay on that smelly matress over there, and right then I’ll be fucked. I’ll be in a sweat bath for hours, days even and every second passing, my pain will rise.
I take the syringe and put it on the mirror shelf,  lay the magic dust on the spoon basin. Lighter turnt on, my hand shakes while I put its flame under the steel. My right one, that was inside the tub, is black. I actually see everything black every now and then. Soon everything will get its colour back.

I can feel it warming up more and even more and when it’s fluid enough to be absorbed, I take a medium-sized cotton ball and sponge it.

I can already feel. And it’s good, I haven’t been able to feel anything for days. Running through my veins, cutting pieces of my bones and making them shapeless and majestically cracked, all of my blood inside of my head first, inside of my legs then, two separate body parts from my torso.

This won’t be the last time. I didn’t even inject and it’s already making me experience this connection to my soul. Oh no, you can bet it won’t be the last time.

I take off the plastic cap from the needle of my syringe and imbibe the potion through that white candid, still, with bits of dirt, ball.

I took off my ponytail before. Where’s my elastic band? On the side of the tub, which is now overflowed by water. I lean slantwise and forward to stop the tap and I almost fall. I could’ve died, not sober though. I don’t deserve to die sober.
I roll all the way up that blue elastic band to my upper forearm, just a few inches up away from that greenish vein.

It’s time, I’ve wanted to do so, so bad. I almost forgot to push the air out of my syringe. 

I clench a fist and, as I feel it coming and warming me up, it spreads out.

Better than any orgasms in the world. That warmth and strength which sew every cuts, repair those busted bones, lighten that darkening hand. It starts from my throat, like a soft punch and, as a long arm, it goes way down to my guts. I wouldn’t be able to talk neither if I wanted to.

I’m the queen of the world and nobody can fucking stop me now. I’ll take advantage of the power and energy I’m feeling now and get into the bathtub. I may fall asleep.

Holidays 

▶ On the top of the world – Imagine Dragons

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

​The entrance door is open and I can clearly see the peach leaves the wind chaotically stirs. They’ve stopped now. But then they swing more and more and even more.

While they caress each other, they look alive.

Every now and then I can hear the deafening noise of any car. I can clearly hear it; on the other hand, my bed is just a few meters away from the street.

I close my eyes in order to solely focus on the words and the tune I’m listening to through my hearphones.

“And I know it’s hard when you’re falling down

And it’s a long way up when you hit the ground

Get up now, get up, get up now”

It doesn’t mirror my mood. It’s a way too cheerful rhythm and a way too optimistic song to make me avoid to feel alone in the desolation I feel.

The bed mattress I’m lying on is extremely downy. It feels like it wants to swallow me.

It’s just a feeling, a quenchless misery which twists my stomach, which tightens my bones, which dries my throat. My eyes are weary and their lids, they’re heavy. I’m always sleepy, but I never want to sleep.

Watching the leaves doing that bizarre dance of theirs with the air is sorely relaxing. They just dance, not pondering the reason behind so. And they dance majestically, with no esitations. They’re the wind’s companions only and, even though they all follow its direction, every one is unique, peculiar. Perhaps the wind chose them because of this.

@layalke 🐍

You is smart, you is kind, you is important

▶ The living proof – Mary J. Blige

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

I’ll go straight to the point: this movie made me feel ashamed for being white. As it should, actually; I’m not complaining, but now, as I’m typing these words down on a Microsoft Word page, I realise I’m so so incredibly lucky to have a fair skin and to be a millenial. Sure, there are still a lot of things we can totally work on as a matter of human and basic rights, but now, to make things even more understandable about what’s my point of view, let me quote Louis CK’s show Chewed up part about being white:

“I love being white, I really do […] Let me be clear about that: I’m not saying that white people are better; I’m saying that being white is clearly better, who could even argue? […] Here’s how great it is to be white: I can get in a time machine and go to any time and it would be fucking awesome when I get there! That is exclusively a white privilege. Black people can’t fuck with time machines. A black kind of time, she’s like: “Hey, before 1980, no, thank you, I don’t wanna go […]”

Now, besides the humour, which by the way I find hilarious, I don’t think better words about this topic have ever be spoken by a white guy. Here’s the good thing about us white people who want to eradicate bias: we are willing to recognise how loathsome, deplorable and unapologetic behaviour our ancestors showed off and we want to change how things are going to be like from now on.

The actual reason I’m publishing these lines is because The Help made me feel so empty, valueless and furious inside, I knew I needed to do something, even in my own little way. I sincerely apologise for what we, as a race, have done. This won’t change the hundreds of years of suffering and violence of any kind, of course. But I do hope this will be the first of many steps my peers and I will take towards the path of equality.

It may sound arrogant, but I find myself in Skeeter: she wants to be a journalist and a writer, she’ll follow her morals (although she’s surrounded by ignorant and close-minded people) and because of this, she stands out from the mass. She’ll speak the truth about what’s like to be black in the 60’s. She’s outstanding, she’s cheeky and impertinent and I truly admire her.

Anyway I’d be a hypocrite if I said she’s the one I respect the most: Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer play two of the most iconic and badass characters I’ve seen on TV in a while, even though they’re absolutely different women, and that’s possibly why they’re so close: they complete each other.

During the vision of the film, I’ve cried an unhealthy amount of times. Blame it on my hormones or on the fact that I’m an easy-movie-crier, but it touched my deepest and better hidden soul strings. And I hope this sweet but powerful stroke began a majestic tune I’m going to spend my life on playing. Fighting for equality, fighting for us as a whole world population, fighting in order to stop injustices. Remember what the past used to be like and, based on that, make the world a better welcoming place. That’s what I’m going to do.

Immagine correlata

@layalke🐍

Happiness lies in the joy of achievement

Having taken the 16 personalities test just after finishing to watch the first season of Neltflix’s House of Cards is a pure coincidence, and it’s been even more impredictable that it turned out I’m an ENTJ type, same as Frank Underwood’s.

A dear pen-friend of mine is currently trying to explain to me how the letters in this test work, and I’ve got to admit that it’s harder than I initially thought. Anyway, I’m quite proud of my result because it does describe my personality;

ENTJ type, also known as the Commander one, is exactly what its name says: a leader, a powerhouse, a dominant. I mean, wouldn’t you be glad to hear those words referred to you?

I’ve got big plans for my future carreer and I’m willing to do anything to achieve my goals, just as the result explanation said. Still, I’m asking you not to laugh nor to stay in front of your smartphone with a confused face, I don’t know what I want to do for a living yet. Writing, politics, languages: those are everything I’m actually interested in and everything I believe I could be successful in as well. 

House of Cards, with its catchy theme song, spectacular photography and impeccable acting of its actors, is not-so-slowly dragging me into the debatable and satisfying world of politics and what it’s like to be a consistant part of it. And I simply adore it. I dream to be as clever and smart as Frank, as elegant and charismatic as Claire, as uncontrolled, cheeky and intuitive as Zoe (even though I highly dislike her as whole character).

To clarify: this show did not brainwash me at all. Rarely something can. I’d already beared with me the idea of entering this world for a long time and the series purely and genuinely confirmed my doubts. I’m going to have so many others, of course, but every day I become more aware that this path I’d potentially step on could take me where I want to get and bring me the cheeriness I’m looking forward to live. As my result said, for us Commanders “happiness lies in the joy of achievement” and I couldn’t agree more.

And, by the way, I consider Frank to be one of the hottest middle-aged characters on nowadays TV.

I wanna run away

▶ Run boy run – Woodkid

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Starting it all over again. Creating a new, better life. Having a new image, a lovely but leady personality, building up and definitely keeping silent my past. Going for adventures, on holidays to places nobody ever talks about, getting to know forgotten places and people. Drinking, eating, dancing. Running, until my bones hurt, until I stretch up my muscles. Working hard to get enough money to let me do everything I listed above. Kissing who I want to kiss, punching the face of who deserves so, staying away from drugs. Going for a car ride all night long and telling the people I’ve brought with me everything that comes up to my mind at that moment. Not rushing things up, taking a breath from my routine. Driving, staying out all night long, buying airplanes tickets. Sharing a pair of hearphones, discovering new music. Playing random instruments in the street. Taking a nap, looking at the cieling, or staying on a roof, just watching the dark sky around me, star gazing. Spending the night at the beach and watching its sunset and sunrise in order to photograph them and look at the pictures everytime I feel low. Giving birth to memories. Speaking French, Spanish, Russian. Learning by who feels the need to teach, with no arrogance nor conceit, just for the sake of telling stories. Telling stories, hearing and commenting them. Writing and writing, until my hands and my fingers implore me to stop, even when my brain and my mind are tired. Laughing until my face paralyses and I need to massage my cheeks. Laughing until I cry. Crying and not being judged for it. Crying with who needs to and comfort them and being comforted. Being hugged until I fall asleep in my hugger’s arms and sleeping of a fairly and ristorative sleep, everyday having a beauty rest. Dressing up nice, always being elegant and classy, going to the theatre and to the cinema. Being independent and literally not having to look after anyone. Being truly happy. 

I’m trapped in a life I don’t belong to.