A single word. I have not written a single word since 5th May, and now I am sitting here forcing myself to get something/anything out, because this blankness I just cannot afford..i cannot afford to be dead inside for so long. The search for meaning is so existential that without it we all could mutely get drowned in rivers of mundane and routine. The fact that I had not written a 'single' word is not entirely true. I did write a few sentences and saved them to continue once I felt inspired. Inspiration never struck, Jux is getting closed, and the beauty in words that I see will be limited to these bland sentences.
Here are the sentences that I had written on my phone:
"And I sat in the pool of his blood..."
I thought I would write about a woman suffering from MPD and murdering every man she catches physical contact of. This personality remains activated for a week, and when she finally gets into her original self, she is sitting in the pool of blood of her lover. A lover she did not know she had acquired, a lover she had no clue of and the lover she tortured terribly before killing. I could have worked on it, I could have made it into a prose but then I sat there thinking, that where does this fatal hatred for men come from. I absolutely detest the male kind, and as much as i detest them, I need them. I need them because I need to exploit and conquer them, to render them useless and cry about it. But I don't cry for men anymore and love has become the most stupid word in my dictionary. I keep looking for men, time after time, to have stimulating conversations, for the physical need of the phallus, to feel them grow inside me and then just leave. Not stay too long. Men are disappointing and I still can't get enough. But I do terribly hate them, and the idea of sitting in 'the pool of his blood', sitting, degrading the fluid that once circulated life in a lover once, making him absolutely powerless. That is the idea I liked. But I could not write it. Men are too weak, women too sensitive.
"Offspring of offspring of offspring
What did they pass on?
Veins of saline and malevolent strokes.
Hearts beating cacophony and smiles echoing terror"
This I wrote yesterday after a rather short run. Running helps me think. Again, the same theme. I was looking at a group of men sitting on benches and letting their kids play with men. The men who pass on absolute crap to their younger ones. The very reason why inserting a rod in a woman/child has become the new statement in this country. What they pass on as heritage is nothing but bitterness, a rulebook that teaches them how to see and tame women. A list of instructions to do something and nothing to their daughters. My father was and is not like that. I trust him, and I love him. I have begun to develop an absolute disgust for what runs in their blood, but I want it inside me too. I know better men, who love and are tender. Who are not beautiful, well, they are, but its a beauty that only I can see. The tender and not too strong muscles that only I can feel with my hands, whose acknowledgment the world ignores but I cherish. The glasses, and the peculiar eyesight, thin or short, a possession that I keep close to my heart. The man I will love will not be the kind I could flaunt, he will be a different kind of gorgeous. The emotive or even dead eyes will be my favorite, and his mind, it will be my pillowcase. It is these fucking ideals and dreams that I can never let go off. I was thinking of this when my eyes fell on those men sitting opposite, and I thought, whose wrong doing is it when you receive a faulty heritage. What man could not teach the son how to love and endure. Endure the fragility of heart, accept with gratitude the moments of breakdown. The world in my mind is not perfect, it doesn't have dreamy love stories, maybe because I am a realist but still have an adoration for fantasies. The moment I think of idealist states, I am overcome with rage and anger. Pure wrath. A breaking down, no breaking out.
I guess I wrote more than I expected and I promise myself to never be this careless about my writing. Its funny how I want to be strict on myself, I have almost 0 readership, but still I am all about being regular and honest. Well maybe some time, either posthumously or even before, all this will be discovered, sitting violently under an unsuitable name of my blog.
Here are the sentences that I had written on my phone:
"And I sat in the pool of his blood..."
I thought I would write about a woman suffering from MPD and murdering every man she catches physical contact of. This personality remains activated for a week, and when she finally gets into her original self, she is sitting in the pool of blood of her lover. A lover she did not know she had acquired, a lover she had no clue of and the lover she tortured terribly before killing. I could have worked on it, I could have made it into a prose but then I sat there thinking, that where does this fatal hatred for men come from. I absolutely detest the male kind, and as much as i detest them, I need them. I need them because I need to exploit and conquer them, to render them useless and cry about it. But I don't cry for men anymore and love has become the most stupid word in my dictionary. I keep looking for men, time after time, to have stimulating conversations, for the physical need of the phallus, to feel them grow inside me and then just leave. Not stay too long. Men are disappointing and I still can't get enough. But I do terribly hate them, and the idea of sitting in 'the pool of his blood', sitting, degrading the fluid that once circulated life in a lover once, making him absolutely powerless. That is the idea I liked. But I could not write it. Men are too weak, women too sensitive.
"Offspring of offspring of offspring
What did they pass on?
Veins of saline and malevolent strokes.
Hearts beating cacophony and smiles echoing terror"
This I wrote yesterday after a rather short run. Running helps me think. Again, the same theme. I was looking at a group of men sitting on benches and letting their kids play with men. The men who pass on absolute crap to their younger ones. The very reason why inserting a rod in a woman/child has become the new statement in this country. What they pass on as heritage is nothing but bitterness, a rulebook that teaches them how to see and tame women. A list of instructions to do something and nothing to their daughters. My father was and is not like that. I trust him, and I love him. I have begun to develop an absolute disgust for what runs in their blood, but I want it inside me too. I know better men, who love and are tender. Who are not beautiful, well, they are, but its a beauty that only I can see. The tender and not too strong muscles that only I can feel with my hands, whose acknowledgment the world ignores but I cherish. The glasses, and the peculiar eyesight, thin or short, a possession that I keep close to my heart. The man I will love will not be the kind I could flaunt, he will be a different kind of gorgeous. The emotive or even dead eyes will be my favorite, and his mind, it will be my pillowcase. It is these fucking ideals and dreams that I can never let go off. I was thinking of this when my eyes fell on those men sitting opposite, and I thought, whose wrong doing is it when you receive a faulty heritage. What man could not teach the son how to love and endure. Endure the fragility of heart, accept with gratitude the moments of breakdown. The world in my mind is not perfect, it doesn't have dreamy love stories, maybe because I am a realist but still have an adoration for fantasies. The moment I think of idealist states, I am overcome with rage and anger. Pure wrath. A breaking down, no breaking out.
I guess I wrote more than I expected and I promise myself to never be this careless about my writing. Its funny how I want to be strict on myself, I have almost 0 readership, but still I am all about being regular and honest. Well maybe some time, either posthumously or even before, all this will be discovered, sitting violently under an unsuitable name of my blog.
a person who grows up in a violent surrounding tends to become violent as that is the only thing he understand. if he has lived in a world where empathy is taken as a weakness, then he would try to bury that particular trait of his.
ReplyDeleteif more and more molestation keep happening and they see that no one is taking the right measures against it, then there is seldom anything that would improve his point of view on the ways of the world.
readership of 2
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