"Put on your red shoes and dance the blues"
Toto. There is a latent sexuality there that I can't quite put my finger on. Now aside from her screaming at me about her shoes I haven't had the chance to further investigate. Though I did see her briefly in the falls. Now I've learned not to approach wealthy or high caste people here without a good sign that I am in some way wanted in their near vicinity. So I watch. Which usually suits me more anyway. Besides I was still too sensitive after the night spent in such debauchery.
The problem with this night was that I had yet not eaten. Like a fool I nodded off. I don't know how long I was out and fortunately I woke up in the same position and place that I passed out. Lucky me. I felt better despite the ache in my belly that coiled like a wet serpent writhing in on itself.
I smelled blood before the sounds of the fight got through to me. I smelled Kur .. because I have smelled it before and it isn't a smell you forget. Despite the musk I still retained my hunger and I slid off the rock to find sustenance in the darker thoroughfares of Ar.
I met her then
in a little dark street
where the roaches dance
and the maggots meet
and she sang a song
that was oh so sweet
while the roaches danced
on insect feet
so ate her then
she was such a treat
and I danced too
with the larvae beat
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
that poison love of mary jane
"Would you be whiter much whiter than snow
There's power in the blood
Power in the blood
Sin's stains are lost in its life giving flow
There's wonderful power in the blood"
It was day. I could tell by the slice beneath the door. It was the only place I had not boarded up and curtained heavily. It was hard to move. I was naked and stuck in a pool of drying blood. After the initial suction was broken and I rolled to rise I slipped and fell heavily. Remembering the belt I examined it. It had done what it was intended to do. But I was weak as a two day old kitten and twice as hungry. Would my stomach tolerate proteins let alone vegetation? I was not sure yet.
I sat for a long time just trying to get my bearings. The day before came back slowly but clearly. The White Witch ... wait which one of them got stuck under the house? had been in the falls again only this time she had been alone with her guard. She had been preoccupied with a dead black bird. That caused me to glance around. I had placed the feather with my other trophies and the ebony blade was a sharp contrast to the other pale objects. But it belonged there. If only for the way it cut into my eyes displayed as it was.
I remembered the paranoia of the day before also. Though it had eased with the power of the blood.
I touched the shaved skin of my skull fingering the tat and letting my rings roll against the contour. I remembered so many things.
Gor slid into focus more slowly. Perhaps it was triggered by one of the slaves of the inn scratching at my door. Or perhaps it was remembering what I had worked so hard not to forget. She had felt her. Her the black bird. She had felt her after she was dead. I was no psychic but I believed her. I saw it in her eyes and on her face. I mimicked the expressions. They probably looked ludicrous on my face but I could remember each one I had studied. I had asked her to teach me that. The magic. To feel. If she could feel dead things perhaps she could give me the secret to just feel period. One moment to feel appropriately. To express a human emotion in the correct context.
I had. It happened. Just too rarely to really stick with me. But often enough that I remembered enough to want it more than anything else. I was addicted. It was my drug. Could she hook me up? Could she be my mary jane?
I tasted the vitality that was drying on the meat of my thumb. I needed to shave. To wash up. I needed to eat. I needed a drink ... well the drink could wait. I was still high on the night before and I would not dull it yet with alcohol.
There's power in the blood
Power in the blood
Sin's stains are lost in its life giving flow
There's wonderful power in the blood"
It was day. I could tell by the slice beneath the door. It was the only place I had not boarded up and curtained heavily. It was hard to move. I was naked and stuck in a pool of drying blood. After the initial suction was broken and I rolled to rise I slipped and fell heavily. Remembering the belt I examined it. It had done what it was intended to do. But I was weak as a two day old kitten and twice as hungry. Would my stomach tolerate proteins let alone vegetation? I was not sure yet.
I sat for a long time just trying to get my bearings. The day before came back slowly but clearly. The White Witch ... wait which one of them got stuck under the house? had been in the falls again only this time she had been alone with her guard. She had been preoccupied with a dead black bird. That caused me to glance around. I had placed the feather with my other trophies and the ebony blade was a sharp contrast to the other pale objects. But it belonged there. If only for the way it cut into my eyes displayed as it was.
I remembered the paranoia of the day before also. Though it had eased with the power of the blood.
I touched the shaved skin of my skull fingering the tat and letting my rings roll against the contour. I remembered so many things.
Gor slid into focus more slowly. Perhaps it was triggered by one of the slaves of the inn scratching at my door. Or perhaps it was remembering what I had worked so hard not to forget. She had felt her. Her the black bird. She had felt her after she was dead. I was no psychic but I believed her. I saw it in her eyes and on her face. I mimicked the expressions. They probably looked ludicrous on my face but I could remember each one I had studied. I had asked her to teach me that. The magic. To feel. If she could feel dead things perhaps she could give me the secret to just feel period. One moment to feel appropriately. To express a human emotion in the correct context.
I had. It happened. Just too rarely to really stick with me. But often enough that I remembered enough to want it more than anything else. I was addicted. It was my drug. Could she hook me up? Could she be my mary jane?
I tasted the vitality that was drying on the meat of my thumb. I needed to shave. To wash up. I needed to eat. I needed a drink ... well the drink could wait. I was still high on the night before and I would not dull it yet with alcohol.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
crazy train
This time it even took my breath away. It was slow. It was deep. I cinched the leather belt tight on my thigh to keep it ... just right. The spiral of focus wavered and settled. Yes. I knew. I remembered. I was in control again. The anxiety was over. The rush weighted the heavy aegis of lids as they slid over the clear blue of my eyes. A slow stuttering hiss of breath drawn in over my teeth as my head lolled back enough so that the muscles of my neck restricted my breathing. I knew what I would do. I could see it all and I understood it all and in a few moments I would set it all into motion. But, right now, I just needed to allow it to flow through my veins. Blood cells whispering to each other through the smallest capillaries. They shared the wisdom of the ages with each other and spoke in the languages of gods. I wanted to lean down and listen, surely it was something I was supposed to know. But I was so comfortable. Aroused. I had to fumble with the lacing on my pants as I felt constricting tightness stretch skin. Icy fingers spread across my chest and eased the hellish burning that caused my skin to always be hot to the touch. Then the icy fingers turned to raven's wings and they beat upon me in rhythm with my heart.
That is the last I remember of that day.
That is the last I remember of that day.
jealous possession
and from my mind
the pages slip
the angels sing
and offer lip
service
and I am lost
forever found
upon the banks
of silent sound
me
her breath is laced
with opiate screams
cheek to womb
my final dreams
now
He must not see her. He may not have her. I know she is his type. But I am not done yet. I want to know first. I need to know first. There is something there that can help me. I know it. If I could just want it long enough to remember that I do. I must remember or I will slip and he will hear of her from my lips. And he will know and he will take her for his own. But I am not ready yet. I have to remember not to forget. He was there . I could smell him. I had to leave so he did not see me with her. He would have known instantly. He can not know yet. He can not have her yet. I know he would want her. I know exactly what she would look like as one of his dolls. I know he would take her. I can not let him take her yet. I am not done. I have to think. I have to remember. I can't let this slip away from me. I can't let this be like everything else.
The Angels are singing. I can hear her voice soothing me. No, I have to stop listening until I remember not to forget. Cephalic pain. Otherwise she will be lost to me and I will not even know enough to be sad because I will not remember her to want her and find she is not there. How can I remind myself to remember that I want more from her?
There has to be a way to cut through this so I can remember. There has to be a pain constant enough to keep my thoughts focused.
the pages slip
the angels sing
and offer lip
service
and I am lost
forever found
upon the banks
of silent sound
me
her breath is laced
with opiate screams
cheek to womb
my final dreams
now
He must not see her. He may not have her. I know she is his type. But I am not done yet. I want to know first. I need to know first. There is something there that can help me. I know it. If I could just want it long enough to remember that I do. I must remember or I will slip and he will hear of her from my lips. And he will know and he will take her for his own. But I am not ready yet. I have to remember not to forget. He was there . I could smell him. I had to leave so he did not see me with her. He would have known instantly. He can not know yet. He can not have her yet. I know he would want her. I know exactly what she would look like as one of his dolls. I know he would take her. I can not let him take her yet. I am not done. I have to think. I have to remember. I can't let this slip away from me. I can't let this be like everything else.
The Angels are singing. I can hear her voice soothing me. No, I have to stop listening until I remember not to forget. Cephalic pain. Otherwise she will be lost to me and I will not even know enough to be sad because I will not remember her to want her and find she is not there. How can I remind myself to remember that I want more from her?
There has to be a way to cut through this so I can remember. There has to be a pain constant enough to keep my thoughts focused.
Monday, July 9, 2007
my morning
I have been called a poet. But I don't think that is very accurate. I do not have any beautiful words to say. I do not meter on about love or sorrow. I rarely connect with anyone about anything. I think they just needed a more exotic word and that was the best they could come up with.
I woke with one of those headaches this morning. Unfortunately I had fallen asleep in an alley and slept in passed dawn so the light cut through my eyes and made it nearly impossible for me to see to get my way back to my chamber. My face was wet with tears by the time I finally made it out of the light and sank into my comfortable darkness. If only the tears were real and not just a physical reaction. Only then did the heavenly chorus fade to a dull roar and the rocking of the boat shift from "pair em up Noah one more time", to "little boat on the sparkling sea". Somewhere along the way I stumbled and fell feeling a piercing of my hand as I wretched up last night's vague resemblance to food. I will have to see what that was all about later. There is the darkness and if I just wait a bit longer I will be able to see.
Right now there was just to savor. Middle and ring fingers finding that void in my palm and exploring it. Control. It was finally mine within the cool opaque chamber. The day was looking up and I was not going to waste this pain. I was going to use it to think of that which I had begun to lust over and find a bit of release .
I woke with one of those headaches this morning. Unfortunately I had fallen asleep in an alley and slept in passed dawn so the light cut through my eyes and made it nearly impossible for me to see to get my way back to my chamber. My face was wet with tears by the time I finally made it out of the light and sank into my comfortable darkness. If only the tears were real and not just a physical reaction. Only then did the heavenly chorus fade to a dull roar and the rocking of the boat shift from "pair em up Noah one more time", to "little boat on the sparkling sea". Somewhere along the way I stumbled and fell feeling a piercing of my hand as I wretched up last night's vague resemblance to food. I will have to see what that was all about later. There is the darkness and if I just wait a bit longer I will be able to see.
Right now there was just to savor. Middle and ring fingers finding that void in my palm and exploring it. Control. It was finally mine within the cool opaque chamber. The day was looking up and I was not going to waste this pain. I was going to use it to think of that which I had begun to lust over and find a bit of release .
the spider and the scarab
I have met a friend.
Realistically I do not have friends. But this is my interpretation of having a friend. Which in no way actually resembles most other examples. But other examples are not functional for me. I wish I could keep a train of thought for longer than what would seem to a mayfly an eternity.
I would say that if he and I are different patterns we were at least cut from the same bolt of cloth. Misfits. Social outcasts. He, though, is high caste. A warrior's son. Wealthy. Above reproach. He is "slumming", I would say. He despises his mother and hates his father and despite his best efforts continues to turn into his father. His psychosis is typical which leaves something to be desired, but if I were to meet too many of me then I would not be so ... exactly.
We drink together. He to numb his emotions. I in an attempt to emulate a few. He tries to appear normal to hide. I try to appear odd to hide. It is debatable which one of us succeeds more than the other. He lulls into anonymity and I shock into it. I know there is a myriad of things wrong with me. He believes there is nothing wrong with him. I believe I am cursed. He believes he is gifted. I collect. He does as well, though he makes them beautiful first. I like them broken. He has brief windows of perfection. I have brief windows of normalcy. In his moments he becomes a god. In mine I become a man. He is a dominant sadist, and I am a dominant masochist. His appearance is orderly and perfect. Mine is chaos and disheveled. He remembers everything. I am lucky if I remember how to get to my chambers at night, and many times I sleep in the streets because I can't.
We do not seek each other out. It is not our way. But on the off chance we sit down to eat in the same place at the same time we join each other for an evening of disjointed conversation.
Ar is home to many socially inept creatures. And when the last crimson tide has ebbed in the sky we gather with clicks and scrapes like roaches following the shadows ever inward savoring the taste of decay.
Realistically I do not have friends. But this is my interpretation of having a friend. Which in no way actually resembles most other examples. But other examples are not functional for me. I wish I could keep a train of thought for longer than what would seem to a mayfly an eternity.
I would say that if he and I are different patterns we were at least cut from the same bolt of cloth. Misfits. Social outcasts. He, though, is high caste. A warrior's son. Wealthy. Above reproach. He is "slumming", I would say. He despises his mother and hates his father and despite his best efforts continues to turn into his father. His psychosis is typical which leaves something to be desired, but if I were to meet too many of me then I would not be so ... exactly.
We drink together. He to numb his emotions. I in an attempt to emulate a few. He tries to appear normal to hide. I try to appear odd to hide. It is debatable which one of us succeeds more than the other. He lulls into anonymity and I shock into it. I know there is a myriad of things wrong with me. He believes there is nothing wrong with him. I believe I am cursed. He believes he is gifted. I collect. He does as well, though he makes them beautiful first. I like them broken. He has brief windows of perfection. I have brief windows of normalcy. In his moments he becomes a god. In mine I become a man. He is a dominant sadist, and I am a dominant masochist. His appearance is orderly and perfect. Mine is chaos and disheveled. He remembers everything. I am lucky if I remember how to get to my chambers at night, and many times I sleep in the streets because I can't.
We do not seek each other out. It is not our way. But on the off chance we sit down to eat in the same place at the same time we join each other for an evening of disjointed conversation.
Ar is home to many socially inept creatures. And when the last crimson tide has ebbed in the sky we gather with clicks and scrapes like roaches following the shadows ever inward savoring the taste of decay.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Ruby Red Slippers
Speaking of Angels. Or Fates .. or any other spiritual females that come in forms of three, a chance encounter in the falls was interesting at least and rather intriguing at best.
A little red haired slave came to the boulder I perched upon and asked me if I was ok. It struck me very odd and I asked her why she came to inquire such from me. She said I didn't look like I was from here. Righteous little beast, I have not had such an extreme compliment in a long time. Even if I am reasonably sure she did not mean it to be such a compliment, I took it and made it mine.
We spoke a bit. Aside from the obvious misunderstanding that she preferred women in a not unappealing yet completely useless-to-me sexual preference ... the conversation went rather well.
During it however I was a little taken off balance by a fascinating free women pointing to me while she spoke to another free woman. It was not a passive sort of point. Like, check that out. No, it was one of those directive sort of gestures that left me waiting to see what command would be followed. I waited without climax.
It was obvious to me though that the little red haired slave, who now perched on the rock next to me so I did not have to keep leaning forward to look down, did know the gesturing woman and was either in love with her or deathly afraid of her. It really could be interpreted either way. Emotions work like that I have found. Sometimes I wonder why I want to have them at all for it seems that normal people are just as screwed up with theirs as I am with my inappropriate ones. Which is merely an introspective side note and nothing more.
Unfortunately my attention wavered and when it returned the pleasing bit of flesh had been turned into a pair of red platform shoes. So if the little red haired slave was the ruby slippers, which of the others was ToTo? And which one was the Wicked Witch? And if that were not strange enough the second free woman was screaming at me to unhand them. I hope her family gets her some medication for that. She is strikingly beautiful as well and it would be a shame to waste such.
So I am left with an odd tri-twisted encounter. And for me to call something odd is indeed noticeable. On one hand I am finding little emotion about whether or not I see any of them again. Part of me not willing to be recognized and needing to remain anonymous, and yet another part of me feels this ... dare I say, urge? To experience the oddity again. But is that not what Angels and Fates do? Entice? Spell? Enthrall? Make absolutely miserable by orchestrating events beyond our control? I should have kicked my heels together before she got away with them, but then, I am a masochist.
A little red haired slave came to the boulder I perched upon and asked me if I was ok. It struck me very odd and I asked her why she came to inquire such from me. She said I didn't look like I was from here. Righteous little beast, I have not had such an extreme compliment in a long time. Even if I am reasonably sure she did not mean it to be such a compliment, I took it and made it mine.
We spoke a bit. Aside from the obvious misunderstanding that she preferred women in a not unappealing yet completely useless-to-me sexual preference ... the conversation went rather well.
During it however I was a little taken off balance by a fascinating free women pointing to me while she spoke to another free woman. It was not a passive sort of point. Like, check that out. No, it was one of those directive sort of gestures that left me waiting to see what command would be followed. I waited without climax.
It was obvious to me though that the little red haired slave, who now perched on the rock next to me so I did not have to keep leaning forward to look down, did know the gesturing woman and was either in love with her or deathly afraid of her. It really could be interpreted either way. Emotions work like that I have found. Sometimes I wonder why I want to have them at all for it seems that normal people are just as screwed up with theirs as I am with my inappropriate ones. Which is merely an introspective side note and nothing more.
Unfortunately my attention wavered and when it returned the pleasing bit of flesh had been turned into a pair of red platform shoes. So if the little red haired slave was the ruby slippers, which of the others was ToTo? And which one was the Wicked Witch? And if that were not strange enough the second free woman was screaming at me to unhand them. I hope her family gets her some medication for that. She is strikingly beautiful as well and it would be a shame to waste such.
So I am left with an odd tri-twisted encounter. And for me to call something odd is indeed noticeable. On one hand I am finding little emotion about whether or not I see any of them again. Part of me not willing to be recognized and needing to remain anonymous, and yet another part of me feels this ... dare I say, urge? To experience the oddity again. But is that not what Angels and Fates do? Entice? Spell? Enthrall? Make absolutely miserable by orchestrating events beyond our control? I should have kicked my heels together before she got away with them, but then, I am a masochist.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Cephalic Angels
Unorchestrated pain I find an irreverent disinterest in. But then if all pain was reverent to me I would not be Atypical, now would I? I am painfully predictable in my unpredictability.
One of these pains I make no obedience to is a particularly cephalic one. It starts somewhere in the inner workings of my brain and works its way out in slowly widening circles of hellish glacial encroaching. White hot talons of excruciatingly numbing waves break upon the shores of my patience eating away at the core of what is left of my humanity until I am adrift in the sheltered harbor of visions and nightmares. And if you understand that, then I know you've been there.
During these times I am rather convinced I can hear angels sing. Which really sucks ass because I actually do not believe in them. Or any other celestial beings created to bring about our adherence to the moral majority's current theme of behavioral management. If their voices were not so beautiful I just might not listen.
But they are. And I do. And perhaps that is why I have this thing for winged creatures. I savor them. I collect them. I create them. I listen to them. I worship them. Dare I say I feel for them. At least I would like to.
One of these pains I make no obedience to is a particularly cephalic one. It starts somewhere in the inner workings of my brain and works its way out in slowly widening circles of hellish glacial encroaching. White hot talons of excruciatingly numbing waves break upon the shores of my patience eating away at the core of what is left of my humanity until I am adrift in the sheltered harbor of visions and nightmares. And if you understand that, then I know you've been there.
During these times I am rather convinced I can hear angels sing. Which really sucks ass because I actually do not believe in them. Or any other celestial beings created to bring about our adherence to the moral majority's current theme of behavioral management. If their voices were not so beautiful I just might not listen.
But they are. And I do. And perhaps that is why I have this thing for winged creatures. I savor them. I collect them. I create them. I listen to them. I worship them. Dare I say I feel for them. At least I would like to.
Anbar District
I am Cirque, of Ar. At least that is what I tell everyone. And they believe me or at least do not argue the point. I am among the lost and forgotten of the great city. Left to survive by any means possible as long as that does not interfere with the high caste's ideals of Civitus.
I am at home among the haunted hungry eyes and empty bellies. In their great sorrow they feed my apathy better than the cold and slick veneers of the wealthy. They are also more accepting of me and my odd appearance. Also they don't miss a few missing destitute when the need for experimentation becomes more than I can control.
I rent a small room in an insect infested hotel, inn, whatever. I can smell every former tenant, their aromas thick and heavy and full of sweat, urine, and lost hope. So intense I can almost remember to feel.
I wear heavy cloth loose pants. Too long so that the hems drag and get caught under the heels of my boots. My belt slung low on my narrow hips. Most times I carry a Gorean short sword in a sheath slung over my shoulder to lay against my back, easily drawn over my shoulder. I may be free but I'm under no assumptions that everyone I meet will respect my preference to remain so. Comfortable existence goes against all my paranoia.
I'm not too worried about being robbed. I don't have anything to take and my appearance lends to that idea.
Once in awhile I self medicate with alcohol. Good cheap shit that will ensure failure in my liver or kidneys, whichever gives up first. It isn't to stop the pain. The pain I like. It's to stop the thoughts. The ever constant search, quest, need to figure it all out. So that when I look into the mirror I don't just see a mask.
I am at home among the haunted hungry eyes and empty bellies. In their great sorrow they feed my apathy better than the cold and slick veneers of the wealthy. They are also more accepting of me and my odd appearance. Also they don't miss a few missing destitute when the need for experimentation becomes more than I can control.
I rent a small room in an insect infested hotel, inn, whatever. I can smell every former tenant, their aromas thick and heavy and full of sweat, urine, and lost hope. So intense I can almost remember to feel.
I wear heavy cloth loose pants. Too long so that the hems drag and get caught under the heels of my boots. My belt slung low on my narrow hips. Most times I carry a Gorean short sword in a sheath slung over my shoulder to lay against my back, easily drawn over my shoulder. I may be free but I'm under no assumptions that everyone I meet will respect my preference to remain so. Comfortable existence goes against all my paranoia.
I'm not too worried about being robbed. I don't have anything to take and my appearance lends to that idea.
Once in awhile I self medicate with alcohol. Good cheap shit that will ensure failure in my liver or kidneys, whichever gives up first. It isn't to stop the pain. The pain I like. It's to stop the thoughts. The ever constant search, quest, need to figure it all out. So that when I look into the mirror I don't just see a mask.
still in control
Last night I took a sharpened blade and I tied it to my chest against the tattooed spider, point up so that it would rest at the base of my chin and the vertex of my throat. I sat myself upon a chair in the middle of my chamber. From a small table to my right I took a tiny vial, watching the lamp light spark off my rings, and I drank the sedating contents. And then I waited. Could I stay awake? Could I fight the drug enough to keep the point of the blade from severing? Or would I succumb to the mind numbing effects and nod off ... forever.
I am obviously here.
I clearly was able to stay awake.
But what is not so obviously clear is the hellish night that I spent.
Why you ask would I do this to myself? Why would I put myself into this position? For what? to see if I could stay awake all night despite my attempts to put myself to sleep?
Yes.
I am obviously here.
I clearly was able to stay awake.
But what is not so obviously clear is the hellish night that I spent.
Why you ask would I do this to myself? Why would I put myself into this position? For what? to see if I could stay awake all night despite my attempts to put myself to sleep?
Yes.
variation on depravation
There are a lot of things that have happened to me since I came to Gor. A lot of situations I have survived and pushed my way through. Yet I still find myself seeking that which will cause me to feel. So much of it slips passed me. Or at least does not impact me as much as I would like it to. Perhaps it is only my suffering from this ... depravation chamber.
Now before you go and judge that statement let me explain just a little. The moral essence of this place is much different than on earth. At least the time frame that I was on earth. Perhaps closer to the Romans and Greeks if I had to compare. But that is not the entirety of my point. More so I find that morally I am discovering myself less odd ... which makes me uncomfortable and nervous.
I have always survived by my knowledge that I was different. This entire thing has shaken my identity up a little and poured it back out in a different form, I just have not figured out that form yet.
When you flaunt yourself in the face of all that you know and used to consider sacred, it is a nerve wracking experience to learn it did not matter anyway. So you are faced with either giving up and slipping into the stream and going with the tide of general populace or revamping your entire moral outrage repertoire. And on Gor that is just not as easy at it sounds.
I am numb.
Now before you go and judge that statement let me explain just a little. The moral essence of this place is much different than on earth. At least the time frame that I was on earth. Perhaps closer to the Romans and Greeks if I had to compare. But that is not the entirety of my point. More so I find that morally I am discovering myself less odd ... which makes me uncomfortable and nervous.
I have always survived by my knowledge that I was different. This entire thing has shaken my identity up a little and poured it back out in a different form, I just have not figured out that form yet.
When you flaunt yourself in the face of all that you know and used to consider sacred, it is a nerve wracking experience to learn it did not matter anyway. So you are faced with either giving up and slipping into the stream and going with the tide of general populace or revamping your entire moral outrage repertoire. And on Gor that is just not as easy at it sounds.
I am numb.
I wish I could wish
Today I went to the cliffs and I stood upon the precipice and I wondered if I would take the step off. With apathetic curiosity I gazed upon the empty space between me and certain death. But would it be death? Could I be sure? Was there any guarantee? Was there ever any guarantee? The thought amused me and I found a chuckle. My first one of the day.
At some point it all gets too deep and enters the fathoms of ridiculous. I should have more reverence, but I think I was excommunicated at some point. Probably when I stopped believing in God. That might have done it.
So without that microscopic fiber of reality to stabilize my existentialism I gave up my seneschal genuflecting to religion and took on my autonomous outlook and became my own god ... irreverent and only half way acknowledging of those gods who can kick my ass, and only then because I have to be, not because I want to be.
Despite my flirting with my own destruction I still wish to live. In fact .. my flirting is inspired and fueled by my desire to live ... to really live. To know I live, to feel I live, to understand that I live without first having to masochistically force the knowledge onto myself.
I do not expect you to understand. I am quite comfortable with the pain of that unrequited desire.
You would think that in being brought to Gor that I would have changed for the better. I think it has only made me worse. What were they thinking?
At some point it all gets too deep and enters the fathoms of ridiculous. I should have more reverence, but I think I was excommunicated at some point. Probably when I stopped believing in God. That might have done it.
So without that microscopic fiber of reality to stabilize my existentialism I gave up my seneschal genuflecting to religion and took on my autonomous outlook and became my own god ... irreverent and only half way acknowledging of those gods who can kick my ass, and only then because I have to be, not because I want to be.
Despite my flirting with my own destruction I still wish to live. In fact .. my flirting is inspired and fueled by my desire to live ... to really live. To know I live, to feel I live, to understand that I live without first having to masochistically force the knowledge onto myself.
I do not expect you to understand. I am quite comfortable with the pain of that unrequited desire.
You would think that in being brought to Gor that I would have changed for the better. I think it has only made me worse. What were they thinking?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
