reflection-cabinet

[reflection-cabinet]

Hugs porn

Hungry, horny, tired - the usual state. Craving for caffeine, nicotine, soulful night-time conversations. Insomnia as a way of life, benzodiazepines masking an aching heart that can't bear the burden. Everything starts losing color, and an inner voice urges that in my condition, I don't need more Klonopin, but great mental strength. So I try to jerk off. Conjuring up faded figures straight from the memory bank. Thinking of me choking someone. Choking her with a hand, choking her with a cock. Hand bent behind, as per tradition. I Can't get it up. Can't fucking get it up. I feel like punching all the walls of this sad house until this bent hand can never be open again. Just a few wild thoughts and solitudes I have on this night, and I'm already tired of self-pleasure over pixelated women at laptop resolution, and I searched the web for hug porn but found none. Do people even hug in porn? I roll another cigarette. The moon at its zenith in the night sky. My pupils are the diameter of a needle. My girlfriend is sleeping now, and I'm not into her tonight. My WhatsApp fills up with filthy messages that will never come to fruition, because I have no interest in them. Meanwhile, some girl says she's not afraid to go outside to see the abundance of stars. She can go fuck herself, and if I see a falling star tonight, I'll wish for it to fall on her. Now I'm in the mood for cheap wine and anti-anxiety meds. And it's not self-destruction at all if it's because of someone. It doesn't hurt if it's numb. It's not a choice if it's a default.

[reflection-cabinet]

Opium-Methadone

The month of mercy and forgiveness, and the disgust and loathing for other human beings who are nothing and worthless in my eyes. The moon doesn't exist tonight, only stars above the city like venereal disease scars, and here they are, glistening with dazzling clarity. I visited my mother today; she had terrifying toothaches, and the doctor prescribed 10 mg of Percocet per day for her. Lucky her, opiates for the masses.

I was in such a diminished mental state that I reached into the box and considered dissolving a crushed pill on my tongue, all for the noble purpose of sending the day-to-day troubles up to the high heavens, so that the joy of life would burst forth from the spring within her that has been clogged for years. Oh Mind-altering pills – you are the longest affair I've had in my life!

I returned the pills to the drawer, and I think my dick got hard up after I passed the test - five years clean. That's exactly twice as long as the longest time I managed not to fuck over the heart of every girlfriend I've ever had. It's not obvious, I used to be one of the heavy smearers – I'd spend whole nights sprawled on couches while opium-methadone bubbled in my blood. And it's not my fault, I was restless because of my mental disorders. The worst of them, even more than my beloved OCD, happens in the sensitive and dissociative moments of deceptive derealization. Everything feels devoid of emotional color and depth, as if I'm walking in a dream or virtual reality, wandering among you, fictitious people. I feel like Descartes, except for the thought narrating in my head, everyone is experienced as unreal and Untrustworthy..

And Dante's Inferno pales in comparison to this hell. This is the climax of the transition season, and God in heaven - I want to cry over all this pure torment. You feel as if you're about to go mad or become psychotic, but your sense of reality remains completely intact. And this creates immense, immense suffering because you are fully aware of every second, minute, and hour of what is happening to you. Like Sisyphus who rolled the immense boulder up the mountain only to reach the summit and watch it fall back down, at least he had summits. Like waking up from anesthesia in the middle of surgery, completely paralyzed, and being tortured under the surgeons' knife now cutting into your living flesh.

Opium-methadone and uninhibited sex. And acid. Because there are things more terrible and satanic than the dangers of addiction and self-destruction. And the soul moans, moans under the stench, the violence, and the wastefulness of the internal combustion engine. My soul is dazed, and my eyes are hazed, and a few days ago someone bit my lip in the heat of the moment, and I tasted the iron flowing down my throat, and it definitely tasted good to me, but I didn't tell anyone about it lest I be considered insane.

Today I wandered around the neighborhood a bit. Down the street, on a low stone fence, I saw a sad woman who reminded me a bit of myself, sitting in the company of an empty cardboard box and staring into it. I wanted to approach her and talk about the ailments of the world, because I knew that she and I shared the same feelings, and only we would truly understand what each other was going through. Such a misery was in her gaze, how her entire body language screamed - "leave me alone". One reaches such a place perhaps only after years of real suffering; and only now realized that that's it, she can't go on, she will no longer be accepted into the company of the normals. She was already past the age when it's possible to start anew. I felt with her, as mentioned, a sort of fellowship in fate, but sometimes I judge others by an internal and unique code that is mine alone, and maybe she was actually happy and from a warm home, I don't know.

Opium-methadone, and I feel like tearing myself apart with slaps or scratches. To feel how the flesh is deeply gouged by the nails until a bleeding crater is created. Afterwards, I'll dig there with a fountain pen, and what a beauty - a new tattoo. Also, I feel like beating another person to a pulp, to make him feel what I feel every day. How much rage I store here. Then I'd offer him opium. There's a thing with this substance where you're not sure if it's affecting you or not, so you reinforce every few minutes until suddenly everything comes into order and your brain starts leaking through your ears, you begin to hear the creation of the world in reverse and all the angels respond amen. If you add ecstasy for dessert, you'll start to erotically embrace the street lamps. But it's dangerous and hard to break this chain because the ecstasy produces such a down that you immediately need to find some drug for immediate consumption so that the down won't swallow you forever.

If I break up with my girlfriend, I will never again date prudes or conservatives. I love the real women of life, cheap yet with a glorious pelvis, IQ at the expense of sex appeal. Usually, they flow with my anomalous existence. I especially love girls from good homes looking for dark adventures to tell their future grandchildren. I am the Messiah of the feed, the fulfiller of wishes. That's what they think. Then I sober up, the thought fades as it came - I will no longer live with those whose existence contradicts mine. No one benefits from such a relationship.

Derealization, and again I'm shaken between sanity and madness, disconnected from the external environment, as if something separates me from the world around. Familiar places suddenly look alien, strange places momentarily appear surreal. Beautiful women turn ugly, well-wishers to soul seekers, motivation to mania, smell to taste. Opium to methadone.

My partner hasn't cried because of me or for me in several months, my mother for a year and two months. My father, for much longer. Opium-methadone, and my soul is torn.

[reflection-cabinet]

Everything is Clear Even Under the Darkest Night

Our coastal city lies in perpetual twilight of a dream. The pollution paints the sunsets in colors of sickly pink, tempting citizens to commit a sin. Our water supply is poisoned with copper and fears, and even our faucets weep at night. Our air is bitter, our soul pours out, and everything we taste is seasoned with tears. On the street corner, a faceless man turns to me, pleading: "When your sweetheart is six months pregnant with your child, take a marker and write in bold letters on her belly - 'I am the murderer of your passions'".

I woke up, and behold - it was a dream.

Each morning I wake up from my bitter dreams into a reality where nothing stirs: I watch all those blurry figures walking in the public space without any fuel of desire and feel that there's some great essential matter around here that I'm missing. I remain spellbound by the dream until evening, when its magic fades as I encounter my monochromatic reality.

I don’t know what's wrong with my mechanism, but almost every relationship I had at some point turned into that evening breeze that comes from the sea and threatens to crumble wishes into rust.

Many times it's hard for you to break free from it, you don't want to hurt people and make her realize what a fatal mistake she made when she chose you somewhere under the dome of the sky, as you kissed and promised her your eternal love. Too bad girls can't tell when you've already broken up with them in your heart, long before they impose their nakedness upon you.

I still imagine that one day I will meet someone who will possess a truth that no one else can speak. That her big eyes will shout to me: "let's do vandalism together, not out of hatred, God forbid, but out of enormous love". And my own eyes will respond: "My love. You are all I have. You and I are from the same quarry of precious stones". I also deserve a small sample of it.

She will surely have thick lips and an enormous chest that will contain within it everything a man yearns for. And she will be very beautiful, although beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it's an integration of components that communicate with each other and with you.

But just as long as she has thick lips. Maybe she exists somewhere and will burst into my life in a storm, and then we'll meet at night in high places and I'll hold her hand under the meteor shower so she won't be afraid of the falling star upon her. I just need to maintain cautious optimism; anyway, it's a hundred times easier for me to find good sex than true love in this city.

In the meantime, maybe I'll meet someone, not for the sake of profit (that includes mutual exchanges of body fluids). We'll talk about the deepest truths of the heart, without falling victim to our sexual boredom. Maybe there will also be a spark and then we'll meet and order a bastard bottle of whiskey and unleash havoc upon it, for all eyes to witness.

I believe in my ability to do this; I just need to gather some ambition to battle my evolutionary urges that impose temporary desires on me, and to demonstrate more responsibility in the personal realms between male and female, even if I know that the sin hides somewhere in the allure of first intoxications.

I roll another cigarette.

The day passes by and it's getting late, but everything is clear even under the darkest night. Now everything makes sense to me. I began to fall asleep on the sofa, and from the forming dream I begin to hear her voice and mine blending together in a passion without an end.