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.