Every Saturday, Anton went to the edge of the lake, where he last spoke with Natasha, his lover. Anton actually didn’t like being in the lake, he despised nature. He leaned against an old oak tree with many scratches on its trunk. Upon that tree, of which invisible remembrances were pinned least to his mind, Anton was taken back to the day, where they last spoke. That afternoon, he had turned down her invitation to go for a hike to the mountains — together. Like they always used to, except that he hated it — nature. Why go to a place where you were never meant to be? Little did he know, this very question, was the reason why he had found himself returning to this very tree.
Three years had passed since the news of Natasha’s disappearance reached Anton’s ears. The guilt and pain in Anton’s heart did not recover, in fact, it got worse. Anton always thought, that maybe it was because he hated nature, that nature responded so cruelly to him. Took his lover. Took his future wife.
But no other year, no other Saturday.
That afternoon, Anton decided to face the very thing he hated. And so he looked upon the lake and saw his reflection atop the cliff where the oak tree sat. A minute’s contemplation passed, yet Natasha was nowhere to be found. Perhaps, thought Anton, if I brave these cliffs, if I brave nature, I might see her again. And so he did. And hoped to see Natasha again. Somewhere, in a better place than nature.
We are homeless
wandering with our backpack
from one place to another
We went to different direction,
we experience and experiment
with life and people and nature
and folklore and fairytales
and spirits and magical things
Searching for rituals, to be transcended
searching for each other, to be ascended
Sometimes we got really tired
and we rest our head in a place
just to be woken up by the reality
that the place is not ours
Home is nowhere to be found
Today we found each other in the intersection of 8
8 is what separate us from each other
8 is the infinite meeting point of two halves
8 is where we apart, and where we shall meet
again and again and again.
She said, “You have anchored yourself to a home. I am homeless.”
He said, “I’m not anchored, I am having a vessel.”
She said, “You anchored yourself to that vessel. It’s your home.”
He said nothing. She always wins an argument, she’s that half that wins.
8 is a loop. Infinity loop, with infinite possibilities.
Its the most magical number, the number of reincarnation
of complexity, the ultimate uroboros
“I am building a home,” he wished he said this to her, “but its not mine.”
“it belongs to people who love me. But mine, I have no idea where. Until today.”
He found her as a temple of worship, where his lost soul subside
in her melancholy, anxiety, and wisdom
She found him an idea of a man, that shouldn’t be exist
in this world of cruelty and egos.
He found his true home in 8
she, however, still wanders,
but as constellations change for billions of years
8 will still be a number of infinity,
and when the two halves meet again
one will stay, the other will wander.
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So many bad things I’ve done. Burning bridges, taking for granted the love, the trust. I cheated, I lied, I hide, I told incredible stories that probably didn’t happened–I don’t know I was nuts.
The guilt haunts me in every breath that I took, and it doesn’t make me good. I m guilty as charged and I have admitted it. I have been punished by losing the things I love, people I care about, a home, sanity, and money.
And yet still I get happiness. And this happiness is my ultimate crime because I made people love me. I don’t deserve this love, this life. After all that I’ve done. But I’ve got the words to describe it now. Now that I am blessed with unbearable lightness of being, I’ve got to earn what has been given. That privilege should be a debt that can only be paid forward.
With every evaluated sin, wisdom should come forth. And wisdom is nothing but action to earn what has been given.
Blessed thy soul, you who have passed by and who will come forth. I cannot save you but I will endure you if I can.
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This is a work fiction. All resemblance with the reality is on purpose. Explicit content.
It is obvious that my loneliness is the main cause of all these fuss, unfaithfulness, the distorted feeling of entitlement. It is my most deceptive defensive mechanism–that the truth, in itself, is self destructing. I am alienating people in order to alienate myself from the hell that they construct.
Creating my own hell, is better than living somebody else’s heaven.
Thus, I hurt myself again, just to find a way to make me forget that I am lonely. I hurt myself with bulimia, with days of sleep, with obsessive scratching, cutting, and obsessive exercise when the manic came, sleepless nights, and after that I still want to punch any guy, or fuck any girl that I think deserve my fist or my dick. I am all open to fight or fuck because I’m sick of flight.
And I’d desperately love anybody who wants to love me. And I’d burn myself, sacrifice myself, ready to be crucify like Jesus H. Christ, and I’d beg people not to leave me until they’d got annoyed and see me as a freak and they need to leave me to stay sane because I’d drive them crazy, so I’d drive my car. I’d drive and drink myself hope to die on the road, hopefully with other assholes that swarming the highways of this city.
And all of it would be my fault. Nobody can blame or even care about my disorder, my upbringing, the system that I am in. I and only I, will be held responsible for all this mess that’s happening with my life and other people that I dragged.
The fucking shrink might say that this thought is cognitive distortion, self entitlement, but fuck you, the court, the people’s court cannot hold my disorder, my upbringing responsible for my actions. They cannot put those abstract nouns in jail, they could not rehabilitate my illness. It is I and only I, will be held responsible for my actions.
And what else should I do but to embrace what the universe has given me? I have eliminate the choice to take my own life because of the meds or because I’m a fucking coward. Anyway, I have no choice but struggle against a sea of trouble and by opposing hope to end them. Even though I know, that I will lose and drown and will face inevitable slow death. But at least I did fight back and refuse to flight.
At least I did good, at being brave. To open my eyes every day, and trying hard to get out of bed and go out to the world. To fight or to fuck. And if I have to lose love again, I think it’s just because I don’t deserve love. I am condemn to beg. For mercy, for love, for attention, only to toss it all out, when I feel lonely.
Because of this distorted feelings and thought, that I’d rather be alone, than be lonely. And the only way to be out of the misery of loneliness, is to break all ties and be perfectly alone to face the misery of the ubermench, the homo deus. Until there is no happines or misery any more, until there is no value in the narrative of my life.
It is when I became forgetful, mad, or die.
Sickness unto death.
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