deadmotivation:

“Life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play… I tell you, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.”

—Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

You are rather perfect.

Like a wilting flower in shadow cast.

Like a stained glass window in pieces.

Two stitches in, and I see your lips.

You are rather perfect.

Like a scattered melody unwritten.

Like a moon cloaked in lingering smokes.

Four sitches in, and I see your eyes.

You are rather perfect.

Like a broken mind under illness.

Like a stilted Dark whom stalks and creeps.

Needle point blank.

You are not perfect at all.

“Night is a dead monotonous period under a roof; but in the open world it passes lightly, with its stars and dews and perfumes. And the hours are marked by changes in the face of nature. What seems a kind of temporal death  to the people choked between walls and curtains is only a light and living slumber to the man who sleeps afield.”-R. L. Stevenson

There was a distinct moment when I realized it would never be enough.

Standing on the scale, down a couple of numbers. For a fleeting moment I was the happiest girl, elated with my accomplishment. I can do this, rang an empowering voice.

But quicker the rise, harder the fall—This number is not good enough. No, I must lose more.

Wait. What is the perfect number? When will this madness end? Where is the finish line?

The truth is, there is no end. No final lap. This is a circle which unveils itself in isolation and hate. No matter how long I run and starve, this disease won’t let me go.

No matter the lack of flesh and presence of bone, it is never good enough.

And suddenly I feel caged in my skin. Suffocating. Not enough room to breathe.

An unwinnable battle. Just as hopeless as avoiding death.

My stomach hurts.

“I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.”

—Friedrich Nietzsche

Father, Dear.

I see it. Waking so late in the morning hours, exhaust pulls on your eyelids and gravity falls heavy on those limp shoulders. Incapable of cheery dawn greetings. Not until you shape your voice into one of delight. And so practiced are you at such folly. Such deceive. But I have watched your eyes linger over the normal world in careful study. Quietly labeling each action and response, arranging these emotions for your game.

You will use it against them.

Day after day, your facade grows stronger. They are none the wiser, but you are. Amongst a circle of friends, you test your latest skills.

Cue handshake. Cue smile. Cue nod of agreement. Cue laughter.

Your nuanced script of manipulation is the only thing I see, and the only thing they will never notice.

They don’t even realize they are interacting with the shell of a rotten man. And ignorance really is bliss, for they are not chained to your illness. This brief communication will not leech upon their bodies and feed on their flesh. They are safe, because they do not know you.

But I know what happens when they leave. I know what happens when you wave goodbye and shut the door. Once the latch fastens to frame, you turn to me with a slight smile of victory. Fooled them all. Fooled the world again.

Yes Father, how clever you are. You are winning the game, and you always will.

But never will you sleep entirely. For when your eyes finally shut, your haunts tug at your soul relentlessly. The outside world clashes with the creeps and crawls that scratch at your bones. Despite all you gather from your observations of the natural world, peace will never be one you understand. You have too much biting at your skull to know peace. It is a virtue beyond your comprehension. Toss and turn, Father. Keep moving before they catch up to you.

Another late morning. I know your secret.

Kiss on the cheek. I will see you when you return from work. But no relief can I find. Even in your absence, I feel the stench of malevolence you left behind for me to clean up. And such is the hours that slither across my skin lazily. The shadows climb the walls as the sun falls from sight. Darkness creeps in inexorably. Before I am able to finish ventilating the stifling air, I hear the lock slide open. My chest seizes.

Footsteps, heavy but distant. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Off the walls and on the ceiling. Closer they come, further into my soul I hide. A stilted silhouette builds before me.

Welcome home, Father.

Blank. Frozen. Crooked. The fatigue from carrying your mask weighs heavily on your eyelids. To bed, you say. Sleep is just what you need. Off the ceiling and on the walls, up the hall, down the stairs. Vanishing, but too severe to be forgotten.

Remember when you were still my hero? When all I saw was the mirage? The way you invited me into your fantasy, and naively I followed the beckoning. But too soon I noticed the stitches along your jawbone. Too soon I noticed the way your smile never quite reached your eyes. I saw the cracks in your facade.

And knew it was a lie.

They are so fortunate. The way they can leave out the door, safe from the monster under your skin. Never can I leave. I am chained to your illness. Extended exposure to such toxic infection has leeched upon my body and fed off my flesh. Yes, they can leave. Those ignorant pawns of yours may be a part of your game, but they will always be safe from the hideous black which seeps through the tears in your illusion.

I am unsafe, because I know you.

I see you hide behind the midnight hour. Deep into the basement, sculpting your porcelain mask. You whisper under your breath in concentration, joining the chorus of sinister chants locked in the bottomless pit of your mind. A slit of image meets my eye as I peer into the broken door. I hear them, too. The demons. Provoking your madness.

Another late morning. I know what you did.

I am the synthetic doll left behind in a lost era.

Grey and vast earth stretches out in all directions from my shell.

Nothing remains but the occasional butterfly which rises from my ashes.

Pale and blue, they flutter and beat against the hollow of my skull.

Reminding me of who I was and what used to be.

But there is no reverie here.

Just the haunts and creeps of a fading memory.

All fading, fast and carelessly.

My very own essence wanders away with the clouds of dust.

Now is the Season of Decay.

“It was the Darkness that got you. It was heavy Darkness, greasy and compelling. It made the walls round you, and shut you in so that you felt you could not breathe. You wanted to beat at the Darkness and shriek to be let out. And after a while, you got used to it.”-Unknown

A sky falling Dark, the powder blue moon looming in delicate balance over me. This silence is music. I let the ocean draw me forward, closer to its cleansing powers. Closer to its suffocating embrace. A granular earth protests beneath me, shifting to accomodate a weight such as mine. The rush of water ventures to meet my feet, and retreats alluringly. Beckoning me forward with an age old siren song. No other choice exists but to obey the call. Another beast rolls forward, determined to consume me. Stark white sea foam breaks at my feet, enveloping my ankles.Toes wrap around the tiny grains that ground me, the waves drawing me deeper into the sand. I am suddenly past the point of return. With a hungry ocean already gripping my legs so tightly, and rising evermore with a calm vengeance, there is no escape from fate.  It fervently climbs my limbs, my body powerless to stop it. Up to clasp my neck, so as to take my breath. Up to cover my mouth, so as to take my speech. Up to shut my eyes, so as to take my sight.

Higher, faster, eagerly, tenderly, until the moon can no longer see me. I let the Blue Oblivion shroud me in its cool grasp.

“It is more gentle this way,” it whispers unto my drowning ears. And so it is.

We all float down here.

Dark Dark Horse~

Hearts can fall, with just two gestures…

“Poetry as a cemetery. A cemetery of faces, hands, gestures. A cemetery of clouds, colors of the sky, a graveyard of winds, branches, jasmine, the statue of a saint from Marseilles, a single poplar over the Black Sea, a graveyard of moments and hours, burnt offerings of words.”

It has been a long time since I have taken the time to write, much less make contact with the world beyond my dark room. A couple months ago, I was going to kill myself. I was going to accept the swift hand of death and let it wash over me. But standing at the abyss, staring into the deep, I found myself frightened. What awaits me on the other side? Although I prayed each night and sought out a relationship in God, I never did feel my efforts were well received. Perhaps not all children can return home. So, is it better to rot in my pale skin?  Or shall I plunge into deep waters, whose depths are unknown until I reach their dark bottoms?

But I have been here before too many times. The abyss tickling my toes and tempting me forward with its vast emptiness. I am so tired. I am tired in my love. In my hope. In my compassion. In my breath.

Why do I reach my arms out for a father whose response is to violently shove me away? And even after a thousand blue bruises decorate my wrists like a unique bracelet, my occasional urge to press down upon them to see if I still feel anything at all, I still find myself groping at his embrace.

Forgive me, but the little girl in me still believes a father and daughter love is pure. But that tender innocence in me is shriveling, almost dried completely, and each day I am faced with the sharp realization: A father’s love is toxic. I suppose it makes sense, wouldn’t it? For someone to love so furiously, to carry such a strong emotion, it can get confused. It can so easily turn ugly in its power. And the strength of it could break any daughter.

I have stitched and mended the rips in my soul methodically. All too accustomed to the task. It becomes clockwork. Tick tock, rip and stitch, tick tock, rip and stitch. If I am lucky, they won’t see the exhausted frown hanging from the corner of my mouth.—the tears burning at the back of my eyes, but never managing to escape a practiced mask—the scream scratching at the back of my throat, clumping there, rotting away until it makes it hard to speak past its rancid corpse.

A thousand late nights, wrapping myself in the veil of nightfall. It is safe here, in the Dark. Safe to let my walls crumble in its tranquil cloak. Here, there is peace. Here, there is healing. Here, in silence, a new beginning. And when morning comes, I will remember who I am.

I will not fall under my own weight.

In the meantime, I will focus my energies on prayer for those lost and those wandering.

Dear God, may you watch over your children~

“You see and watch and peer through the raindrops at her prayer. Her song, her Hunger. Her own fire that is still alive, but fading fast. Her life now white and worthless like a butterfly wing bleached blank by the inability to fly.”

I do not even know where to go anymore. It seems there is no corner of the world in which I belong. I am doubting my faith. I am doubting myself. I can no longer fake this smile. Disturbing thoughts have been tugging at my heart. I do think my family and friends are better off without me. Perhaps they may scatter a little earth in my name, say a prayer, and cry a few tears. But they will forget. That pain will ease and then they will realize what a burden they are free of. Everyone wins.

I am at the dead end. So. Where else to go but into thin air. I love life. I hate myself. So I will eliminate the only imperfection in my life—me.

Mom, Step Dad, Brother: I love you so much. I am sorry, but please understand. I am an error. I cannot bear the weight of my own skin anymore. Please live and be happy. Believe in God. Take chances. Love unconditionally. Please forgive me. I am leaving because I truly think it is best for you. I love you with all that I am. Thank you for loving me despite my lack of worth.

Mom~You are the most beautiful person in my universe. Your hugs are the closest to heaven I will ever come, and you have been an absolute angel. Thank you for everything. Words cannot express how much I will miss you.

Step Dad~Thank you for being my father when no one else would. You supported my dreams. That will always be something I treasure most.

Brother~Best little brother in the world…Never forget how intelligent and wonderful you are. I am so grateful for the relationship I had with you.

Friends~I love you all. Thank you for the smiles, the laughs, the memories. Go make some more.

I feel like this should be a more poignant final goodbye. But I am drained of words and inspiration, so please believe me when I say I love you. I did the best I could.

Miss you already.

Those black days when my walls close in around me, when the air is thick and tight around my throat, I drag myself to my bookshelf. There sits an entire world inside the binding of pinewood pages. It waits patiently to open itself to me. To embrace me in words and wisdom. To give me a beginning and end. To lead me into oceans and forests and gardens and rainy evenings.

I already taste a sweetness delectable in my mouth as my hand curls around the spine. Pulling it tight againt my chest, it warms my heart and soothes the anxious beat.

Once upon a time…

His library was a fine dark place bricked with books, so anything could happen and always did. All you had to do was pull a book from the shelf, and suddenly the Darkness wasn’t so dark anymore—Farewell Summer, Ray Bradbury

WITHIN by dancer/choreographer extraordinaire Wade Robson—

Be still my mind. And let me live.