Evlorin
Bluelighter
- Joined
- May 25, 2004
- Messages
- 202
My apartment consists of a piano, a bookshelf, a bed, a kitchen, a toilet, a shower and a fireplace. It has two small rooms, a bathroom, and a living room. I piss, shower, shave, medicate, masturbate, shit, cry and read in the bathroom. In my living room I sleep, read, eat, medicate, fuck, cry, dress, compose, drink, smoke, loathe and watch mockingbirds outside my single window. I also died in my living room.
The walls are thin, everyone hears everybody else’s shit in the building, Goddamn voyeurists. The paint is gray; it makes the room feel incredibly cold sometimes, most of the time. The lights are dim, depressing. I think God is depressing, and depressed for that matter. The door is broken from my last overdose; paint is still flaking around the cold brass knob.
It was locked when the paramedics arrived. A burly neighbor, who took the liberty to call the medics, took the liberty of expressing his large stature; fuck him for taking liberty of anything. They rushed in and found me lying on the floor, a needle glistening golden in the warm sunlight that rarely streams through my window. I probably looked dead, I felt dead. Being dead feels amazing.
One of the medics was a woman. I fell in love with her; her strong foreign features, thick brunette hair, weak forced smile and gorgeous sad green eyes. Those eyes made me cry. I cry too much. I only once made her really smile.
Memories are beautiful but petty things. I had been lying on her satin sheets, stroking my hands through her thick espresso hair, crying over the saddest thing. Gentle music filled the room as I lay there crying against her closed eyes. She was sleeping, an angel sleeping, wingless, withdrawn to fantasy.
She woke up and looked at me; this only caused me to tear up even more. “Why are you crying?” she had asked in a voice caressed with a subtle French accent and worry. She was so incredibly pretty, her petite body lifting up onto my chest. The strap of her white brazier slipped down her olive skin, falling along her back across her silk arm, catching a few espresso hairs as it fell, releasing them back into the air across my face. She pressed her sad eyes against my soul, my heart, my life.
I couldn’t respond. How was I supposed to respond? Even if I happened to come up with anything she would not have understood. Those sad eyes took the world away from me, took away my life, took away the longing for reason, hope, love and a commitment that will never fade no matter how much we push it away. I only told her that she was the most beautiful person I had ever met, that she made life meaningless to me. She didn’t understand, I wished with everything that she could. God is too cruel.
She forced a smile. She kept staring at me, such a gentle gaze. I told her I had fallen in love with her. She smiled, a genuine smile, the only true smile I ever saw. We fell asleep as happy as life could allow.
I awoke suddenly, she had left. A note was lying on the sheets where not a moment ago, only a blink, a cold instant blink, she herself had been lying. ‘You need to go, please don’t try to see me again.’ I left, tried to grieve normally. I caved and went on a warm heroine binge.
None of that really happened. Why do I lie to myself? I don’t know. Yes I do it’s very simply I would rather be withdrawn to fantasy than life. Although life is an amazing thing; it is exciting to fall in love, if more cruel at the same time. Fantasy is only more beautiful, that is all, nothing elaborate. Life is ugly and death is beautiful.
Life told me that she and I could never fall in love. I was an addict, she was a medic. She couldn’t understand why anyone would put themselves through what I put myself and those quiet sad people that cared for me through. I told her the reason I subjected my life to this was merely to make my life beautiful. She told me it was a sick illusion. I could only smile as I began to cry.
Life is an illusion, fantasy and dreaming are the only real things. Your mind is thrust into this “life” with no knowledge of how to interpret it. So you stumble through life making up interpretations to objects, feelings and purpose. Only when you are fantasizing or dreaming is your brain left on its own, no external stimuli to misguide it. Death is the most stimulating thing that can honestly happen to you.
Once you have realized the enlightenment of death you seek it out, whether it is in drugs, suicide or both. I first sought out death with the tranquilizer ketamine. Stripped of my body, of any external stimuli, I was left only with my mind to drift in on itself. It wasn’t so different from life, only that I was in control and I relied only on myself. Some would say that you have control in life; their definition of control is skewed with their fear of death.
She had asked, after my incredibly normal recovery, what had turned me into the addict I was. She was probably hoping to uncover some secret trauma in my childhood. Whose childhood isn’t traumatic? Whose father wasn’t too harsh? Whose mother didn’t gaze at life with hollow, loveless, sad eyes? Only when she looked at you would they light up, warm.
After her, I had tried to grieve normally, caved into heroine and slipped into a fantasy within a life. I made the world beautiful. She had the most beautiful sad eyes. I left the world to hold onto those sad eyes, press my soul against them once more feel their warm aura caress my soul, mend my wounds of sorrow. I clung to the fantasy so well that they never stopped mending my wounds, my sorrow, my life. Finally death.
* * *
At one point I tried to find God. I had decided to visit the church closest to my building. I sought out the comfort of convenience. If God wanted me so bad wouldn’t he make it convenient? I only went once. I listened to the priest’s sermon and determined only two things; God is a jackass and the most depressed man on Earth, that’s who God is.
The sermon he gave was brief. He spoke of the evil of homosexuality. God hates love. He told me that God loved all his children equally, every person, me and you, is loved the same. God is a liar.
At one point priest cried out that he had spoken to God. A priest speaks to god and he’s an outlet, a coping strategy, praised and beautiful. A poor woman becomes delusional with a lost love is stamped a schizophrenic, a mere freak. No longer is she a beautiful woman whose eyes glow with pride as she looks at her son, her lost love. She is only honest to herself; perhaps it is a delusion, being honest to yourself.
I suppose everyone searches for god at least, well at the very least once. What are we really searching for? Reason, hope, love and a commitment that we can cram into the ground only to have it scream for us to return. I guess some people find God, in an unconventional way I did as well.
It was 4:15 AM on August first in the year 2004 when I decided to end my life. It was a beautiful morning, the rain a gentle dribble slipping down the cold fresh air. I hadn’t slept all night. Out of complete impulse earlier that day I had sought out a craft store. I spent the night furiously painting, gorgeous green.
* * *
The sky is beautiful at dawn; it was a fresh blue. It held tones of a light almost watered down blue but also carried dark tones, spots of too much paint. It continued to drizzle; there were a few dark wispy clouds to the west. One thin cloud lay in between two blue gray mountains, their features washed out by the rising sun slipping up from behind them. This cloud was long and thin, it was a beautiful long flame tipped sideways, a gorgeous orange reflection of the sun just below it. It let off its dark smoke as it crossed over the cold gray mountain, a gorgeous warm glow extinguished by cold beauty.
I sat on my car a beautiful petite woman leaned against a telephone pole, leading up into the sky, their wires a roadway through heaven. She wore a faded blue coat, a frozen pond leaning against a wet brown tree. Her thick hair slipped down the frozen pond, espresso. She was crying, her eyes the most beautiful sad things in the world, her tears the most gorgeous and enlightening.
“Hey,” I cried out to her. She turned, waved, wiped the tear from her sad eye, only one beautiful orange tear from a single gorgeous green eye, smiled and began to walk away. “Please, hold on just a second.”
“Okay,” she whispered through thick cold lips as she turned to me.
“Hi, um, heh, um . . . I’m W . . .” I began to say but stopped as she placed two thin soft fingers against my lips. I almost kissed them, so thin, so cold.
“Please, no names,” she whispered again, her moist breath slipping out of her warm mouth, brushing across my cheek. She still held her fingers to my lips.
“How does it feel to drip the fire of a sunrise from those sad beautiful eyes?” I timidly asked as she withdrew her soft fingers. I don’t know what had come over me, call it an enchantment, call it whatever you wish, never had I felt so free of living looking into those eyes, her tear slipping down her cold cheek, shimmering with ivory gold. She didn’t understand. I could only think how enchanted and mellow even that cloud had seemed against her tear, reflecting the very flame of the sun.
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
We walked to my car and drove through the towns spread across Washington. Through thick evergreen forests, past frozen lakes, through Seattle and along the coastline pressing northward we drove. We never said a word; she only looked out the window, enchanted by the beauty of the world, lost in a fantasy. I stopped at a frozen beach. Creamy white snow hugged the ground, a silky pillow.
We walked silently towards the ocean, she was wearing a bright orange hat now, her ears had been cold. She pulled me down to the shore; we ran screaming things of youth along the white surf, melting into the frozen sand. A thin fog clung to the frozen ground and pulled our warm breath into itself.
“Ice cream,” she screamed and fell backwards into the snow. I laughed and smiled a genuine beautiful smile.
“Ice cream,” I whispered into her mouth after falling beside her, upside down. We shared a kiss; we were already as intimate as those in deep love. Warmth passed between us, caressed our pained souls and drove us mad. I smiled again, she was smiling too.
We had made intimate love with a single kiss. I whispered into her ear “Why are you in so much pain?”
“The world is too cruel.” she whispered back, “Why are you?”
“Love is too cruel,” It was all I could think, and it was right. I rolled to the side of her. Our heads touched side by side and our bodies slipped out across the snow in opposite directions. The slow sound of the surf mellowing and softening our world.
“Scream with me,” she said. We screamed. We screamed and ended together. Our voices carried across the landscape of whites and blues. The sun was setting over the ocean, a flame in a single tear. We grew quiet, sober, and she smiled.
The walls are thin, everyone hears everybody else’s shit in the building, Goddamn voyeurists. The paint is gray; it makes the room feel incredibly cold sometimes, most of the time. The lights are dim, depressing. I think God is depressing, and depressed for that matter. The door is broken from my last overdose; paint is still flaking around the cold brass knob.
It was locked when the paramedics arrived. A burly neighbor, who took the liberty to call the medics, took the liberty of expressing his large stature; fuck him for taking liberty of anything. They rushed in and found me lying on the floor, a needle glistening golden in the warm sunlight that rarely streams through my window. I probably looked dead, I felt dead. Being dead feels amazing.
One of the medics was a woman. I fell in love with her; her strong foreign features, thick brunette hair, weak forced smile and gorgeous sad green eyes. Those eyes made me cry. I cry too much. I only once made her really smile.
Memories are beautiful but petty things. I had been lying on her satin sheets, stroking my hands through her thick espresso hair, crying over the saddest thing. Gentle music filled the room as I lay there crying against her closed eyes. She was sleeping, an angel sleeping, wingless, withdrawn to fantasy.
She woke up and looked at me; this only caused me to tear up even more. “Why are you crying?” she had asked in a voice caressed with a subtle French accent and worry. She was so incredibly pretty, her petite body lifting up onto my chest. The strap of her white brazier slipped down her olive skin, falling along her back across her silk arm, catching a few espresso hairs as it fell, releasing them back into the air across my face. She pressed her sad eyes against my soul, my heart, my life.
I couldn’t respond. How was I supposed to respond? Even if I happened to come up with anything she would not have understood. Those sad eyes took the world away from me, took away my life, took away the longing for reason, hope, love and a commitment that will never fade no matter how much we push it away. I only told her that she was the most beautiful person I had ever met, that she made life meaningless to me. She didn’t understand, I wished with everything that she could. God is too cruel.
She forced a smile. She kept staring at me, such a gentle gaze. I told her I had fallen in love with her. She smiled, a genuine smile, the only true smile I ever saw. We fell asleep as happy as life could allow.
I awoke suddenly, she had left. A note was lying on the sheets where not a moment ago, only a blink, a cold instant blink, she herself had been lying. ‘You need to go, please don’t try to see me again.’ I left, tried to grieve normally. I caved and went on a warm heroine binge.
None of that really happened. Why do I lie to myself? I don’t know. Yes I do it’s very simply I would rather be withdrawn to fantasy than life. Although life is an amazing thing; it is exciting to fall in love, if more cruel at the same time. Fantasy is only more beautiful, that is all, nothing elaborate. Life is ugly and death is beautiful.
Life told me that she and I could never fall in love. I was an addict, she was a medic. She couldn’t understand why anyone would put themselves through what I put myself and those quiet sad people that cared for me through. I told her the reason I subjected my life to this was merely to make my life beautiful. She told me it was a sick illusion. I could only smile as I began to cry.
Life is an illusion, fantasy and dreaming are the only real things. Your mind is thrust into this “life” with no knowledge of how to interpret it. So you stumble through life making up interpretations to objects, feelings and purpose. Only when you are fantasizing or dreaming is your brain left on its own, no external stimuli to misguide it. Death is the most stimulating thing that can honestly happen to you.
Once you have realized the enlightenment of death you seek it out, whether it is in drugs, suicide or both. I first sought out death with the tranquilizer ketamine. Stripped of my body, of any external stimuli, I was left only with my mind to drift in on itself. It wasn’t so different from life, only that I was in control and I relied only on myself. Some would say that you have control in life; their definition of control is skewed with their fear of death.
She had asked, after my incredibly normal recovery, what had turned me into the addict I was. She was probably hoping to uncover some secret trauma in my childhood. Whose childhood isn’t traumatic? Whose father wasn’t too harsh? Whose mother didn’t gaze at life with hollow, loveless, sad eyes? Only when she looked at you would they light up, warm.
After her, I had tried to grieve normally, caved into heroine and slipped into a fantasy within a life. I made the world beautiful. She had the most beautiful sad eyes. I left the world to hold onto those sad eyes, press my soul against them once more feel their warm aura caress my soul, mend my wounds of sorrow. I clung to the fantasy so well that they never stopped mending my wounds, my sorrow, my life. Finally death.
* * *
At one point I tried to find God. I had decided to visit the church closest to my building. I sought out the comfort of convenience. If God wanted me so bad wouldn’t he make it convenient? I only went once. I listened to the priest’s sermon and determined only two things; God is a jackass and the most depressed man on Earth, that’s who God is.
The sermon he gave was brief. He spoke of the evil of homosexuality. God hates love. He told me that God loved all his children equally, every person, me and you, is loved the same. God is a liar.
At one point priest cried out that he had spoken to God. A priest speaks to god and he’s an outlet, a coping strategy, praised and beautiful. A poor woman becomes delusional with a lost love is stamped a schizophrenic, a mere freak. No longer is she a beautiful woman whose eyes glow with pride as she looks at her son, her lost love. She is only honest to herself; perhaps it is a delusion, being honest to yourself.
I suppose everyone searches for god at least, well at the very least once. What are we really searching for? Reason, hope, love and a commitment that we can cram into the ground only to have it scream for us to return. I guess some people find God, in an unconventional way I did as well.
It was 4:15 AM on August first in the year 2004 when I decided to end my life. It was a beautiful morning, the rain a gentle dribble slipping down the cold fresh air. I hadn’t slept all night. Out of complete impulse earlier that day I had sought out a craft store. I spent the night furiously painting, gorgeous green.
* * *
The sky is beautiful at dawn; it was a fresh blue. It held tones of a light almost watered down blue but also carried dark tones, spots of too much paint. It continued to drizzle; there were a few dark wispy clouds to the west. One thin cloud lay in between two blue gray mountains, their features washed out by the rising sun slipping up from behind them. This cloud was long and thin, it was a beautiful long flame tipped sideways, a gorgeous orange reflection of the sun just below it. It let off its dark smoke as it crossed over the cold gray mountain, a gorgeous warm glow extinguished by cold beauty.
I sat on my car a beautiful petite woman leaned against a telephone pole, leading up into the sky, their wires a roadway through heaven. She wore a faded blue coat, a frozen pond leaning against a wet brown tree. Her thick hair slipped down the frozen pond, espresso. She was crying, her eyes the most beautiful sad things in the world, her tears the most gorgeous and enlightening.
“Hey,” I cried out to her. She turned, waved, wiped the tear from her sad eye, only one beautiful orange tear from a single gorgeous green eye, smiled and began to walk away. “Please, hold on just a second.”
“Okay,” she whispered through thick cold lips as she turned to me.
“Hi, um, heh, um . . . I’m W . . .” I began to say but stopped as she placed two thin soft fingers against my lips. I almost kissed them, so thin, so cold.
“Please, no names,” she whispered again, her moist breath slipping out of her warm mouth, brushing across my cheek. She still held her fingers to my lips.
“How does it feel to drip the fire of a sunrise from those sad beautiful eyes?” I timidly asked as she withdrew her soft fingers. I don’t know what had come over me, call it an enchantment, call it whatever you wish, never had I felt so free of living looking into those eyes, her tear slipping down her cold cheek, shimmering with ivory gold. She didn’t understand. I could only think how enchanted and mellow even that cloud had seemed against her tear, reflecting the very flame of the sun.
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
We walked to my car and drove through the towns spread across Washington. Through thick evergreen forests, past frozen lakes, through Seattle and along the coastline pressing northward we drove. We never said a word; she only looked out the window, enchanted by the beauty of the world, lost in a fantasy. I stopped at a frozen beach. Creamy white snow hugged the ground, a silky pillow.
We walked silently towards the ocean, she was wearing a bright orange hat now, her ears had been cold. She pulled me down to the shore; we ran screaming things of youth along the white surf, melting into the frozen sand. A thin fog clung to the frozen ground and pulled our warm breath into itself.
“Ice cream,” she screamed and fell backwards into the snow. I laughed and smiled a genuine beautiful smile.
“Ice cream,” I whispered into her mouth after falling beside her, upside down. We shared a kiss; we were already as intimate as those in deep love. Warmth passed between us, caressed our pained souls and drove us mad. I smiled again, she was smiling too.
We had made intimate love with a single kiss. I whispered into her ear “Why are you in so much pain?”
“The world is too cruel.” she whispered back, “Why are you?”
“Love is too cruel,” It was all I could think, and it was right. I rolled to the side of her. Our heads touched side by side and our bodies slipped out across the snow in opposite directions. The slow sound of the surf mellowing and softening our world.
“Scream with me,” she said. We screamed. We screamed and ended together. Our voices carried across the landscape of whites and blues. The sun was setting over the ocean, a flame in a single tear. We grew quiet, sober, and she smiled.
