love is a four letter crime...

I stay. I know I shouldn't. I still pray even though it is useless and my faith has left me such a  long time ago. I put my right hand on your bear heart and I don't feel the heartbeat. I am thinking you are dead. But then I noticed that the ghost is in fact me. Funny...I reach desperately to have a strong grip on your heart but all I feel is mine aching. My hands are dust and they keep on splashing on your indifferent body. I am air but not for your lungs anymore. I am thoughts but not inside your mind. The only think that makes me think I might be still alive is the pain...this suffocating pain...terrible...unbearable...but still so comfortable as it smells like you.

I am eager to embrace resting in peace...

Vocile din capul meu imi spun ca nu-s nebuna!

Am inchis ochii pentru a vedea in mine. Am descoperit galerii infricosatoare si magice deopotriva.

Noi, oamenii, traim in lumi fantastice, misterioase numite mintile noastre...Gandurile noastre plutesc in eterul dens din capul nostru. Gandurile au lumea lor, familiile lor, vietile lor, se inmultesc unele cu altele...si dau nastere monstrilor care ne bantuie...

Am invatat an de an, saptamana de saptamana, zi de zi, ceas de ceas si cu fiecare secunda in plus pe masura ce ma scurg inapoi in univers sa imi iubesc monstrii. Am invatat ca si gandurile, ca noi, nu aleg sa se nasca si e nedrept sa le uram doar pentru ca nu le intelegem...

Spunem lucruri indecente, cum ca ne cunoastem unii pe altii doar pentru ca ne stim de mult. Putini avem insa onoarea si curajul de a le face cunostinta monstrilor nostri cu monstruletii din capul celuilalt si sa ii lasam sa faca mai bine pui intre ei.

Cred cu putere că doar dragostea ne salvează... si pe noi, si pe demonii nostrii. Dragostea de orice fel, miros, culoare, forma...

Psychosis

When life will lack meaning again I will energize myself with the memory of you. Those days I will let myself fall deeply into my favorite psychotic episode. I will feel the smell of fresh grounded coffee and taste your awakening kiss on my lips. The crispy fresh cold air filling the room will give me the chills that your body used to give me when enrapturing mine.

The moments when I will be cold again without you, I will take out the jar where I captured some of our moments. I used to store them for the long winter days. I will open the lid and let the butterflies fill the room. I will close my eyes and let those fabulous creatures bring you back again. When they will sit on my closed eyelids I will remember how you used to kiss them. The flapping of their wings will bring back your whispers, smoothly piercing my eardrum. When they will sit on my naked body I will re-live the hot & cold chills your fingers used to give me.

I'll pretend the dream is real and I will remember how you always used to give me exactly what I used to crave for. 

I think the problem with non-lasting love is that we define "love" in general by the verb "I own".  It starts with I don't own her/him. How can I do to make this happen? So we try to get in touch, be noticed, we act like our best selves so that we trap that person. Slowly we sweep them off their feet until there is no way back and the web is all around our victim.

But owning is objectifying. They become our accessories that have to please us. They become our little canary that we place into this gorgeous gold cage, and that has no rights but the ones we decide they have. Then we claim it not to depreciate: it should look, act, function the same way as the day we met them and when we projected all those marvelous dreams along their side.

Most of the times...much to our surprise...this does't work.Then we are either hurt because we lost  ...IT or we get bored. And how can we not get bored? Especially in this age of ever rapid changing technology, when our brain is set to ask for immediate, quick fixes? Our loved one gets old, repetitive and so damn predictable. They get broken, downgraded...And isn't it expensive to keep buying another one, and another one in hope we finally get the best model?

So what if we stop wanting to own them? What if we just lease them on their spear time? What if we let them update on their own and then try their constant improved versions of themselves? What if we stop being afraid of not being interesting enough for them to come back? What if we are both free and not owned by anyone? What is the worst thing that can happen?

And how would you like your pussy, sir?

Men’s favorite dish: pussy. Nowadays the knowledge makes us wonder though: what’s the best method of serving it? Raw, boiled, backed, fried? How can you have more out of your pussy? Well gents, let’s see what’s in the menu.

Ok…so...some men like it raw. Just plain old classic raw pussy. These men do not think pussy should be something you should sweat for. After all, pussy is just pussy, right? You just go, pick a relatively fresh one, serve it and forget about it until you become hungry again. I mean why put on so much effort for a disposable …thingy…It is highly recommended to use very fresh meat each time to avoid the danger of sickness due to the multiple requests women start having caused by staying too long around the same man.

Fried pussy….ok….well you are in town….you pick up a nice, juicy piece of pink delight…you cannot wait to get some home, unwrap it and eat it nice and quick. The sweet sound of the compliments, promises and plans make her think of the music her sizzling juices will make once you get it on. These men measure their manhood on the final result. This dish usually uses venison and it is best when marinated before cooking. Some like it a bit spicy, so they quickly put some salt and pepper and cannot wait to drop it into the hot oil of their hungry desire. Hmmm…sweet, rich and delicious. That is if you don’t burn it, put too much spice or cook it to little. They usually serve this more than once, especially because it brings immediate and quick satisfaction. The taste soon becomes boring so they feel the urge to spice-it a bit or choose another type of venison. In a very short time all the neediness and the crying makes the taste become bitter. Must be the rash that men get from too much estrogen!

Backed pussy…hmmmm…so many recipes…. These men like to oil the entire flesh and thoroughly massage all the ingredients before they start cooking it. The thought of the slooooooowwww heated pussy makes a man think of all the taste-buds orgies he can be rewarded with! And he knows this will pay off one way or another. These men get off by the whole process: being refused a few times, slowly conquering the woman’s mind inch by inch, all the gifts and subtle whispers they invest. It’s all good. This can be a win-win situation if the damn thing does’t stick to the pan!!! The effort of getting it off may cause the man to throw it out with the pan and all.

Boiled pussy. This is somewhat similar to the backed pussy, but a bit more moist and droopy. Usually this course is chosen by men with a sensitive stomach, little experience, little to no imagination, men with serious health or self-esteem problems. This kind of dish may lead to marriage. Cooked this way, the pussy can be conserved for a long time, but in time it will become impregnated with a strong “vanilla (sex)” aroma.

So how do you like to eat your pussy, sir?

Different degrees of missing you

Loneliness overcomes me again. Loneliness becomes me. Becomes my fuel. Takes over.  Drives me. It’s like a constant state of pain and suffocating. A weakness that drains me and puts me out. My eyes hurt so I keep them closed. Life becomes too much to bear between my feelings of guilt, my binging sessions and obsessively listening to suicidal music. The drama queen rules my kingdom today. Orders sound so loud. They pump fear, lack of self confidence, depression that rip my insides. This disease is so cruel. My desperate hand is reaching for life with no results. The thorns of solitude cut into my flesh until pain makes me feel like throwing up my guts, my bloody organs that used to keep me alive through you. Disconnected from you my whole being feels like an appendix… so unuseful. Even the memory of you smells like a perfume named Warmth. Your name sounds somehow like Hope, Light and Oxygen all together. I start tasting you from under my nails where I still have your skin ripped while I was becoming you. The only thing I have left is the cries of my prayers that beg for me to become an empty vessel again. Hoping the next fillings will be yours.