Waiting

I feel like I'm waiting for something.

And I don't know what that is. 

The only reason I'm not losing myself to insanity is that I'm clinging on to this fragile thread of hope that there is something better on the other side. 

I don't know where the other side is. I don't know what I'm waiting for. And I don't know when that is. 

Life is funny this way: it sucker punches you in the stomach, leaving you rolling in pain on the floor until someone nice comes along and you think that life is beautiful. Then the person sucker punches you and you roll on the floor in agony and the whole thing repeats itself. 

I hate the way that nothing is ever certain in life. I hate that I can't see beyond the fog into the future. I'm used to being know-it-all and I can't stand not being able to know my own path. I don't like surprises. I hate the what-ifs in life. I hate the I-could'ves in life. I hate the why-didn't-Is in life. I hate the I-don't-know-and-never-would-until-it's-too-lates in life.

I hate being unable to hate life despite everything. And I hate not knowing what I'm waiting for or if it's even going to happen.

I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of being tired. 

Fuyuko Matsui

Why do I resort to the dark and macabre when I'm sad?

By the way, this is a warning: please do not look ahead of this sentence if you can't stand anything morbid and gruesome. I think you should stop here, Em.

Details:

Don't you think the pictures bring a sense of peace and serenity? They're so surreal and beautiful.

The Toska

As keenly as I felt the toska

I know that you have gone. 

The world has upturned 

In the mingling of our arms

And you are long gone.

I wake to see the embroidered

Veil over my eyes. And feel -

Feel the placatory warmth of my own body.

My skin itches, swells in layers and I

Want to peel it all away.

I want to lie naked and skinless

Skinless and naked;

And weep and strike my fists upon my breasts:

In all the crudities of blood and flesh - 

For isn't that what our love was?

To Die or Not To Die

The dead loll in their behemothic sleep
Deep in the mouth of darkness
Pale limbs white against the marble stones
These bluish, bloated corpses

Lying, waiting -
For what?
For the angels of death who would
Wipe away the putrid fluid in their

Ascend to the Divine Garden?
Is death a concourse of mind - the
Darkest recess of consciousness
Or just a capacious stretch of endlessness?

 - I don't know;
I haven't died before.

The Fear

The fear is a caged beast, it hibernates at the best of times, warm and snug in its cozy den, buried deeply so that it is out of sight, and thus out of mind. At unfortunate times it wakes, ravenous and voracious, and its hunger seemed insatiable.

It opens its black mouth; putrid, malodorous. The fear swallows all. It swallows the fragile hope, who is desperately clinging for dear life to the edge of consciousness. It swallows warmth, laughter, glee and tramples over the rainbows, until they lie on the ground, barely alive, like butterflies with broken wings.

The world is dark again, for the beast has drowned the sun. The sun lies at the bottom of the ocean, grey and bloated, and the fish consume its flesh. At night, the beast drain the moon of her flux of silver and drink the elixir; emerging more pernicious and malevolent as ever. It is starving, and it cannot stop.

There are screams everywhere. The earth vibrates with the screaming. It subdues the fear for a while, but it immunes itself against it. It feeds on the screams, sucking and sucking the waves of voices until there is silence. I claw at my face like the man in Edvard Munch's Skrik, eyes wide as saucers, mouth a perfect 'O' and no sound issues forth. I am locked in time, screaming and scratching and forever silenced. 

The beast does not feel remorseful; it does not feel the rage as it tear apart the lakes, nor does it feel the euphoria that is often acquainted with insanity, at the carnage it has committed. It is what it is – a beast. And it feels nothing.