“I admit, it was a kneejerk reaction,” John shivered. We were both nearly naked and dripping wet. The dive I took into the frozen lake was an accident, and John did his best to rescue me. He had a conscience after all. It was his fault that I broke in, in the first place. So he pulled me out, brought me back to the mansion. The blanket I had on my shoulders started itching. I hoped his itched as well. Continue reading “bruises”
I have to stay awake and write. The blizzard howls. I sit and write, and can’t feel my fingers. Can’t feel anything below my chest. I’m dying, I know.
Guilt crushes my bones. Words carve at my soul, exposing it. Parts of me are broken beyond repair. The void roars burning through my head. Again I am all: starved, thirsty, furious, desperate… For what I did, and can’t take back. I pay.
To whomever: I am. Human.
I’ve been reading Pete Walker’s- C-PTSD from Surviving to Thriving, and some of his phrases really hit me. It clicked with me so hard, that I had a lucid dream about it.
As a surviver I try to find new meaning in my life, to listen to my heart more, and care less about others. I slowly un-learn my adaptations, and try not to be on the edge that often. It’s a process, really. Slow paces up the mountain, sometimes sliding back down. Patience. I tell myself, after all It’s been more than two decades of abuse, that can’t go away that easily. Continue reading “C-PTSD progress”
In the Czech Surrealist tradition, “morphologie mentale” is applied to the meshing of subjective experience with an external topography, so that particular external landmarks (such as houses, staircases, or trees) are integrated into one’s psyche, and affect its formation in the same way that certain vital experiences can.
“…human consciousness is not so much determined by various childhood deprivations and traumas, but rather by the landscape in which a person has lived and the objects that they might have touched. Many years ago, the Surrealists even tried, with the help of questionnaires, to prove that the way a landscape is formed, the number of corners a house has and how crookedly a tree grows outside the window, have as much effect on the psyche as the upbringing. The Surrealists called this imprint of the external (a collection of measurable quantity, dimensions, tone and colour) onto the spiritual microcosm of a…
View original post 406 more words
I ran out of luck today.
My landlord cornered me in the laundry room. I evaded him for two weeks, but not today though. “Your fucking dog keeps yapping the whole goddamned night.” He spat on my sneakers. Mr. Garbagegoblin, as I called him, was as pleasant as explosive diarrhea. I grabbed my wet shirts and stuffed them into the dryer. He stepped closer. The smell of his armpits hit me.”Shut it up! Or you’re out!” He barked into my face, breath wafting with rotten teeth and whiskey.
“But he hasn’t barked yet because he’s a good dog. Even if he’s a cat.” I tried. Continue reading “No Barking!”
The Hunt rises, shy at first, she flashes a smile
bright and milky above the star light’s exile
shapes grow solid, fog turns to trees and hills
Isn’t this how the world gets its thrills?
spontaneous existence without cause,
dazed and wedged between universal flaws
a snatch of song under the skin of a lion
sparked by Morningstar in love with Orion. Continue reading “Many Names”
John and Benny dive simultaneously behind the blue Chesterfield, knocking over a marble-topped mahogany coffee table. Around them, bullets smack into the eggshell colored wall. With two loud thuds they land ungracefully. Stucco decoration rains down on them.
„I’m too old for this kind of crap!“ John grunts grabbing his revolver and the bag full with money.
„You have no right to open your idiocy vent!“ A bullet sings past Peter’s left ear. „Ever! Again!“ He grits his teeth, and peeks around the bits of the sofa. Ammo eats at the wooden floor boards, as he retreats.
The splinters jump, like popcorn on a hot stove.