offwiththeirdollheads: (Default)
It begins with a sensation.

Like a fist to the stomach, an ice cold bath, a paper cut. Sharp and fast.
I'm standing at the top of the stairs and the sensation arrives, swift and direct, and the blood surges through my veins like lava and yes, I am ready to erupt. I am standing at the top of the stairs and the overwhelming urge to throw myself down its short flight of twenty steps grips me. Yet, these steps are not cushioned with linoleum or carpet, these are hard, cold concrete slaps and I want my skull to greet each one with a sickening crack. I want my bones to twist and snap and bend and break. I want my spine to shatter like peanut brittle. I want to feel each moment as I break and lose my shape. I don't want to recognise the reflection.

I've been here before.

Standing on the curb edge, waiting for the three tonne lorry to pass. Imagining what it would feel like to marry my flesh to it's hot metal. Or walking by the river, I wonder what it would be like to try to swallow it whole. The bubbles escaping from the corners of my mouth as I submerge further. I let it all in. Sinking deeper into the abyss.

Yet, it is fleeting. As quick as the sensation takes hold, it releases me from its clasp. Offering me a moment to look inside the cacophony of madness. It's like looking inside a large shell. The softest whisper is transformed in to a vibrating pulse that can not be escaped. It rings in your ears and the claws slide in.

And then it's gone.

Like a hypnotist snapping his fingers, his volunteer is brought back from the trance. He may be slightly dazed, bewildered even; what did he just experience? He's not quite sure but he knows it was fraught with danger. There's a relief afterwards. Thank god that's over with. Whatever that sensation was, whatever it meant, it's done with. Except as the willing volunteer stands up from the hypnotist's chair, he realises that he was not so willing after all and he's signed a contract with that sensation now. As sure as the sun rises each morning, that sensation is set to return.


Mar. 16th, 2014 06:30 pm
offwiththeirdollheads: (Default)
Despite the lack of commitment in the true sense of the word,
I have resolved to finding the mundane my ultimate past-time.
Reeling in the weight-gaining materialism of the 'bucket-culture'.
Here I am, exhuming the bitter parts that we had long since forgotten,
wishing for a cremation, a ceremony, a send-off.
They still linger beneath these fickle layers of skin.
Haunting me. Persuading me. Consuming me.
What happened to that exuberance of committing to worthiness?
To celebrating the flow of the juice of the soul.
Sky-rocketing like sex, the pleasure-tingling experiences tasted on a spoon.
They have been laid to rest and the rot smells putrid.
Hush, hush these swirling desires.
There is so much more to be gained from abstinence,
Says the devil perched to my right.
This schizophrenic torture remains a burden and I am lost in the flutter of possibilities.
For longing to live again, vexes me.
The sacrifices are too steep.
First steps are always the most difficult.


offwiththeirdollheads: (Default)
Not an Oracle

January 2016


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