I am intoxicated by the mere sight of my own mortality. A deep scarlet plasma trickling down the brightly contrasting white skin of my inner arm. I observe my utter vulnerability with eyes that feel unlike my own.

These eyes behold the footage documenting my mutilation with curiosity and fascination, as it seems to display suffering, yet have contrarily managed to manipulate time.

All within a single breath, it has quieted the storm and reset the meandering routes of my accelerating thoughts.

The instantaneous relief from the overbearing sensory harassment beckons me as I ponder the misconception of pain affiliated with my self-inflicted release of endorphins.

I observe no physical sensation, as suffering has been transcended in this glorious sacrifice to the gods who feed on the blood of the damned.

I am but an animal due for expiration in an isolating world of creatures and crawlers found in darkness that seem to squirm when a light shines upon them.

Animals that lack the instinctive action it takes to survive, or that have lost it as it has its hope.

Knowing there is such suffering as a being neurochemically unable to experience relief, I would want to be put out of my misery.

If only the elements would have such mercy on me.

I wish to live as a swallow that displaces vast borders, unauthorized. How beautiful it can be to live in such liberty through untamed thermal winds over the boundless and bent earth. At peace in the innumerable varying shades of blue that decorate the third dimension. Surfing the currents of the sky's breath towards uncharted wonders.

Are we, mankind, not asphyxiated by estrangement due to the perception that distinction of appearance, unnaturally somehow changes the composition of our substance. We find ourselves in a static state, entrapped by a nefarious moral intersection where crucial decisions, that carry far-reaching consequences, are made by incompetent characters that lack the empathy to comprehend that we are one. That ego creates the illusion of individuality and that singular identity is a concept that will lead to a friction so great, that we would set fire to each other.

Whatever happened to the ideals and values that we so mechanically urge into the malleable minds of our youth? Love thy neighbor and do not hate. We memorize the script, but never get to play the character, as we've run out of money and motivation to do so. We have surrendered our dreams to the god of war and riches. We have abandoned our faith in love, loyalty and compassion.

I mourn as I observe the human addiction to vanity and fall prey to the obtrusive propaganda displayed on every mirror, window and wall that might allow intrusion into our psyche.

We are not different, nor are we unique, yet we thrive in the conflict we design in observation of miniscule genetic abnormalities relative to the face of some God painted by a man that was confined to his own imagination. There is no color in the eyes, hair or skin of the Creator, there is no face to the origin of existence and there is no gender to the particles that bear the weight of all that was, is and will be. We are nothing, yet we are everything.

All I know is that the only thing that matters is to love.

I thought I'd try to write about something uplifting for once, but I have no idea where to begin. Through writing, I usually banish my alienation by screaming into the desolate and comatose abyss: the graveyard of dreams and cremation chamber of who we once hoped to be.

I feel troubled and disconcerted. I am so overly aware of how alone I am, that it doesn't even feel like I am here either. The silence heavily rests on my shoulders with the weight of thousands of unspoken words. My whispers for help are stifled by the impermeable, solitary vacuum of despondency.

I am subdued by the extremity of my psychological abnormality and fear that I cannot be confined to the accepted nature of communion, because I so often question whether or not I actually am human...

Do all humans feel like something is scratching them from the inside out? Trying to claw its way through your ribs and sternum; blocking your trachea and infecting your respiratory system with carbon monoxide.

I yearn for spiritual detachment from the suffering I've succumbed to in my ignorant perception of my mundane existence. I dream about the awakening to the catharsis of salvation in finding freedom from the rape that deserted me covered in blood stained thighs and immobile limbs. I wish to live unburdened from the evil I've accepted and invited into my subconscious.

Today I am alive and, although not at peace of yet, a step closer to the understanding of the preordained suffering that would eventually engulf me in love and unity.

I fight for meeting my higher self and allowing her to nurture me towards understanding that I was meant to allow it as the catalyst to my awakening.

Hopefully a happy ending.

I stare at this blank page, as I would dissociate on paint drying. The letters blur into what feels exactly like the nonsense I spit up on the colorless white spaces I fill with the dark ink that stain my hands.

Today I feel empty. I feel faceless. I exist purely as a concept conceived in the mind of another, or perceived by eyes that are not my own. I am as tangible as a whisper or as concrete as a thought.

If someone would try to touch me, their hand would move right through, as if I am a digital projection mathematically calculated by computer code. Just a reflection sourced by primary colored LED's that undergo the current of a sea of delocalized ions running around a race track of electric circuits. An automaton incapable of performing the spectrum of human emotion that it was programmed to. Inoperative and malfunctioning.

Perhaps I am just a departed soul that lives in the slightest detachment to the scenes of my material life. The life that feels just beyond my reach, as if the tips of my fingers are grazing the solid surface of the plane of physical reality.

I am absorbed by the dark and vast vacuum in which emptiness does not exist. There is no concept of the expansion of three-dimensionally measured mass. There is no gravitational pull towards a direction that cannot be observed, because all units of measurement are negligible in the state of oblivion.

I wish to buy into the concept of existing as a hologram in a simulation created by some apathetic entity that wanted to walk around with a feather in its hat. Some rudimentary being fed by adulation in an extraterrestrial society of competitive intellectuals. So we exist as an experiment to be observed by a panel of judges within a competition of keen innovation.

Would that not change my perspective on the savagery of this existence? Living in a world governed by overly controlling primates that have experienced the pleasure of testosterone secretion when put in positions of power which allow them to exert authority. Neurochemically, that doesn't seem very evolved of us, but if it's just a result of a prompt designed by some advanced creature that plays with our universe, as one would play with puppets, it does not seem so animalistic after all.

I choose to refrain from further entertaining these thoughts of non-existence.

I would like to live as a leaf, that drinks the sunshine and exhales over the sweet seeking lips of life. How beautiful it can be to live in such magnificent and thoughtless simplicity, yet be more valuable than anything desire can fathom. A leaf that just flutters and sways into the embrace of the waltzing breeze, before it takes gentle flight, tumbling, spinning and meandering it's way to the surface of the earth. The leaf now peacefully rests as its edges curl and color fades, without an anxious demand to outlive inevitable expiration. It just humbly ceases its claim to space in this domain.

By now the paint has dried, but I have failed to notice. The color is identical to the previous shade and there was no sincere reason for it, other than creating an illusion of rehabilitation.

People love hearing the way rhyme rolls off of the tip of my tongue, just before I sensually purse a lit cigarette between my red smeared lips. One more blissful inhalation, allowing the toxic tar to creep through my bronchial tubes and into the abused tissue of my lungs, filling it with the unclean oxygen that feeds my blood.

The world slows down as I'm embraced by the sweet satisfaction of enabled addiction. I exhale with closed eyes whilst subtly swaying to the rhythm of the acoustic melody that entrances everyone listening to me describe the bloody, red roses of Hell.

This is a poem about saturating the forest floor with the blood of my enemies. How they hang in somber anticipation of a ritual knife gliding across the soft skin of their necks and drenching the soil with the contents of their souls.

The blood gravitationally flows through the dark depths of the earth until it reaches the Underworld, where the Goddess collects it in a golden goblet and carries it to the table for the feast to begin.

The gods rejoice as I smear the bloody mud across my cheeks and decorate my walls with Norse runes to awaken my magick in preparation for the waning moon ritual I'll do to feed my power over the wicked creatures in my shadow.

"They will never regain control," I whisper, killing my cigarette.

"Be fruitful and multiply!" Says uncle God, while diapers become more expensive than abortions and orphanages overflow with throwaway children born with their mother's heroin addiction.

"You get methadone for Christmas!" Santa says with a broad smile that protrudes ominously from under a thick, white mustache with yellow nicotine stains on it.

He stumbles into a hall full of parentless children, a torn up black bag in hand filled with donated canned foods and second-hand pajamas that the children from the neighborhoods have outgrown. O, come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant! Let us partake in sharing our old, faded and stretched out trash with the lesser children this year!

There is little that children are more grateful for than a hearty tin of baked beans in this day and age. Thank goodness the stay-at-home mom with the Mercedes and acrylic nails spotted the shopping cart for charity at the entrance of the grocery store. What on earth would we have done without her generosity?

Her application to heaven will surely be accepted by Saint Peter and his key to the pearly gates.

That is assuming, she hasn't fucked her personal trainer at the gym... Adultery is not tolerated by the kingdom of God. The book of Moses actually states that adulterers must be stoned and that always leads me to wonder if children were allowed to participate in stoning... What a world.

So many of us are just destined to be blasphemous insects writhing in the misery of our lonely existence, not nurturing parents patiently teaching their children how to tie their shoelaces.

Yet, here we have active addicts birthing brain damaged babies, victims of rape that aren't allowed to have abortions and abused mothers with Stockholm syndrome seeing her children be taken away and slowly melt into the system, never to return.

The conclusion to this does not include a solution to the problem. I'm simply just saying that people are nocturnal larva that squirms around brainlessly when you shine a light on it. So I'm lowering my expectations of the world. Not that I had much to start out with.

The fucking end.

I consider the irony in the thirty silver coins in exchange for the life of the Messiah.

Thirty coins to save yourself from an ongoing war that you unintentionally and involuntarily participate in.

Man, who is nothing more than an evolved primate, being forced to act against its instinct to survive, whilst natural selection shows no mercy to good deeds. One must adapt or die.

By the laws of nature, the elements favor those who do not oppose change, for it is inevitable and a constant within our movement through the illusion of time. What more is time, other than a measurement of decay and decline, as we go about believing we're moving forward, but in reality, we're actually counting down towards the end.

Death, where even the mighty has fallen and there they will lay, buried within the soil of the earth, right next to me. Rotting and melting off of the calcium and phosphorus rock that used to be the skeleton responsible for carrying around our consciousness.

I wish to hear what her majesty would say, knowing that she is nothing more than compost used for the continued existence of posterity. That for the duration of the sacred cosmos' existence, she was awake for less than a nanosecond and her reign will be long forgotten before the eye of the universe blinks again.

My insignificance amuses me as I observe humanity craving power, gathering gold and slaughtering animals to make shoes of their skin. Soon the lives we've taken will have their revenge, as we shall in turn, go back to the weeds.

05:00

"Here I am, God! Reaching my full potential!" I scream at the sky in futility.

I'm not ready to smile yet. I'm not ready to feign interest in customer's snot-covered children playing in the sand I'll end up sweeping off of the paved road after the "closed" sign goes up. It's either that or be shat on, because Mr. Cuntface wanted white bread, NOT brown bread, or Mrs. Know-it-all would like her egg poached, "Not soft, but not hard either. You can do that for me, right?"

Yes ma'am, I'll walk straight into the kitchen and do it myself. On camera. Where my boss can see me doing exactly what I was told not to do.

Do you even know what South African money is worth? I basically get paid a dollar per hour. I can't afford anything other than Ramen, my car is driving on fumes, the sole of my shoe is loose and my tips literally pays the kitchen staff. I get about 10% of everything I make.

Your poached egg can go fuck itself and that third glass of free water you've ordered? Please remember to pour what you don't drink over the plants outside, so I didn't have to waste my time on serving a retiree with acrylic nails and false eyelashes for nothing.

Fuck. It's 06:17 and I've been procrastinating facing the day, staring into the blank lack of consciousness of my white bedroom wall. I think I'll snort some methylphenidate, yes, drug my brain into wanting to move.

Time to go make enough money to buy glue to fix my fucking shoe.

I remember running with wolves and dancing with devils.

I remember succumbing to the creatures of the night and allowing them to set fire to my blood- it started leaking sorrowful lyrics from my nose. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I wiped it away as unblinking, bloodshot eyes looked back at me with accusatory condemnation. As if I'm the one that's doing this to her.

She looks like she's hardly surviving the abuse. She seems possessed by something which makes her believe she'll evaporate without it. Like she'll disappear into thin air and become nothingness, without the chemicals dripping down the back of her throat, burning it's way down her esophagus and combusting as it collides with hydrochloric acid.

She looks malnourished and starved. Her wide open, dark brown eyes are pleading for sleep as I take in the dark rings that serve as pillows for her eyelashes.

I have to help her.

She needs me to help her escape the glass cage she's being held captive in. I start hitting the mirror with my hands, she's trying to break it too, but it's not budging. I took a step back and swung my fist into the entrance of the prison, hit it as hard as I could until shards of red stained glass start raining over my body.

Where did she go? I broke the cage!

The bathroom door swung open and slammed into the wall next to what was left of the mirror's frame. Someone was trying to grab onto my hands as I was scratching streaks of blood all over the wall, frantically trying to find the entrance to the cage of the girl I just saw. I started screaming for help, but all they did was tie up my hands with towels as they lifted me off my feet and carried me away from the abducted girl that was being held prisoner.

I was put down onto a bed in a darkened room and covered in a rough and uncomfortable blanket. Someone was whispering that everything's okay, I just got a fright when I saw my reflection.

My reflection?

That couldn't be, the girl I saw was broken, tired and in need of help. She needed my help!

I looked down on my hands and saw the thin red slices leaking onto an old ruined towel. I noticed the bruises all over my arms and legs. My eyes were burning and I had lost the ability to be fully conscious, stuck in a state of slight dissociation. When did this happen? When did I get hurt? How many days have gone by since I've last eaten or slept?

Suddenly, a devilish shape appeared at the foot of the bed,

"My darling, you'll powder your nose with your last breath."

Today marks six years since I woke up in that field south of town with dried streaks of blood running down the insides of the lengths of my legs.

I remember finding my torn Hello Kitty panties a few feet away, as I crawled on all fours towards the abandoned building that I knew hosted the event I had to work at the previous night.

My legs hurt and my arms were bruised with marks that looked like the imprints of fingers. In that moment my brain was a thoughtless mass of dense ignorance to what had happened to me.

Today marks six years since I've felt safe and loved by God.

I now know that He did little to protect me against the desires of the demons that mutilated my body. The body that was drugged and lifelessly dragged into the shadows of a rough and overgrown field. I remember robotically plucking out blades of dried grass from my matted hair whilst wondering when I had committed a sin so devastatingly unforgivable that God deserted me. Would my repentance be so trivial, that I don't qualify for the mercy bestowed upon us by the sacrifice of Christ?

Today marks six years since I've abandoned my self-esteem and concluded that I am nothing more than just a product of all the damage I've endured.

How does one measure the volume of an empty container? How does one resuscitate a partially decomposed vessel of a soul that has departed a long time ago?

Today marks six years since I've felt.