Body Mist.

I long to live oblivious to my soul. To drown my form into a calming catharsis.
It is when I know I have wronged that I hate the right thoroughly and guiltlessly.
I have lived in engulfing bitterness and preached escapism.
I have taken pride in practicing what I preached.
I have in myself, an insatiable need to die each time I learn to live. But I live to tell.

Because words are the limericks of survival. Because.

Mental fluids on steroids.

There is this stinging isolation, overwhelming heartache and blinding rage that I need to suffer from, to be able to write. It is as simple as my words are and as complicated as they could be.
And the words, they don’t heal. They bury.

I wouldn’t come to writing then, it would take me. It would lift my remains after the sorrow of being would threaten to push it off the cliff and each time, nastily leave me hanging by a fragile stem by the very end instead.

Self victimization is a hobby.

It’s like a false rape alarm. To craft a polished dignity around a manufacturing failure. It’s not about the sympathy or if there’s room for wonder, publicity.

It is the inherent need to feel hurt or abused by life.

Not out of masochism but out of habit.

Because happiness is awkward. And misery is our comfort zone.

Belief and fortune miracles.

It is like god. When escapism has an accepted and approved form. And a following. Mount your tears and pass them on like in a juvenile nursery game. Like the Rubik’s cube. Familiar frustration. A lottery. Because the explanation is always that there are not supposed to be any if it’s not yours to win. The lottery. And the miracle too.

Life’s experiment in death.

I am the stale and pungent hide of an animal shorn apart, the flesh being poorly picked upon, decaying amidst the algae and the swarms of curious flies mulling over the worth of my failing organs.

I reincarnate through my parasites.
Because crutches are limbs to the soul now renounced by my body. Because leeching is civil.

The addiction of brackets.

Much too much thinking in hexagonal patterns of self destruction. The cruelty in the joy of morbid writing. The misguided impression of a lucid dreamer. Stroke of collectively pathetic genius. Borrowed word of mouth. Reeking of a lack of. Evermore.

Because all labels are stereotypes and all stereotypes are labels and they will deny it and I will too because intellectuality is seductive and it seems to like vice versa a lot. The word. Or not.

A universal mockery.

I am the dysfunctional stillborn of a deeply troubled fetus.
Every muffled scream of the mute.
The botched blood sample.
The black sheep in Technicolor.
The negative in a washed up film in stop motion.
A colonial language for the outdated tongue.
A burst of filth in a perfect afterlife.

I have tried to not understand the place this will take me to; I do frequently hope though, that it is a better one.