A+

grit·ty - adj. grit·ti·er, grit·ti·est 1. Containing, covered with, or resembling grit. 2. Showing resolution and fortitude; plucky

[funeral]

Sometimes the world is unreal (I utter it differently), sometimes it is disreal (I utter it with only the greatest difficulty if at all). This is not (it is said) the same withdrawal from reality. In the first case, my rejection of reality is pronounced through a fantasy: everything around me changes value in relation to a function, which is the Image-repertoire; the lover then cuts himself off from the world, he unrealizes it because he hallucinates from another aspect the peripeteias or the utopias of his love; he surrenders himself to the Image, in relation to which all “reality" disturbs him. In the second case, I also lose reality, but no imaginary substitution will compensate me for this loss . . . I am not “dreaming” (even of the other); I am not even in the Image-repertoire any longer. Everything is frozen, petrified, immutable, i.e., unsubstitutable: the Image repertoire is (temporarily) foreclosed. In the first moment I am neurotic, I unrealize; in the second, I am psychotic, crazy, I disrealize.

Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse

[funeral]

January 8, 1950

Did I live with you in a past life? Was I your lifelong partner? Is that why the idea of losing you torments me so much? How long have I been without you? Has it really been a month and twenty days? I’d like to die soon to avoid being a burden to you. I worry that your great compassion for me could become your prison.

January 17, 1950

But I can’t handle this difficult life of continuous separation; my heart is weak and wounded like that of beggars on the street. Though you might not see it, I’ve made sacrifices, too. I stifle my soul, control myself, and don’t air certain complaints and objections that my temperament and habits dictate. When one is in love one makes these sacrifices cheerfully. But you can’t always sacrifice yourself entirely, my love, and not every day.

There are two planes in our life together and they interact like a futurist drawing: the present and the nebulous past, a piece of eternity behind it, together with an ineffable bond of which we’re only dimly aware. This completely dark and mysterious link has more of an effect on me than on you because perhaps in another life I was the one who loved more intensely. This is the time and place to equalize the proportions—to remember, to arrive at justice and equality. That would reassure me; that would be perfection and peace. We don’t have that yet.

Gabriela Mistral's Letters to Doris Dana

[ayeplustwo]

I write things I don’t remember writing after reading and they suck so bad lol. I’m so fucking dramatic.

[ayeplustwo]

What is the fucking purpose of a calendar?

if not only to show you how many days you’ve wasted within a certain time bracket?

Time bothers me. I don’t believe in it. I truly do not believe in time, mine or other’s.

I waste minutes easily under the pressure of a coming time. One I haven’t experienced yet but am sure must be coming.

That’s a heavy little bit to be affected by constantly.

Wasted minutes also spent remembering time. 

Times I felt alive. Oh the sweet joy of feeling. Of actually feeling things instead of processing them.

When did I die enough to become a zombie?

I’m fine really, I trudge along looking for the blissful moments between not getting fucked and getting drunk enough to.

[ayeplustwo]

Endurance Olympics.

So if it’s me.

So if it’s me

So if it’s me and I can’t get rid of me

I have to stay here?

[chambre-violette]

[stigmataparty]

Haruko Maeda

[guerrillatech]

[blacksilk6]

[drowsydrunk]

LEATHER JACKET BY ALEXANDER MCQUEEN

[halloweenmagick]

[house-of-neptune]

Late 18th century Georgian snake print via my shop, Ghost Era Antiques. I love coming across gorgeous prints like these.

[inferior]

Lucas Deshazer 

[ayeplustwo]

Wait right here for me.

[ayeplustwo]

I wish I could vomit up my heart and suffocate you with it. I wish I could stuff it down your throat and watch you gasp for air as it fills your soft esophagus. I don’t have a dick. I can’t fuck you down there. But my god I would love to. I would love to feel your insides with the most tender part of me.

Every man I ever loved wanted to be me. My father too. He hated me. I was everything he couldn’t be and moved in every way he wish he could. I sway minds so easily, so quickly, so relentlessly it spawns disgust. You are inferior. So you must snuff me.

I live with this. I never really liked any man. In the most Freudian way possible I wanted to kill every one of them and devour their false power. I am better than you. I am better than you.

Getting fucked as a woman reminds you of this. They grab your neck, they bite. Where did this come from? No we are not animals. You are consciousness in its purest form. You are the watcher of everything outside of you. You sit back in a shell deep within your psyche and someone else talks to you. Say hello to yourself right now. Do you hear that?

Why does that person tell you to choke and thrust harder?

Where is the adoration? I never even fucked the love of my life. I saw him maybe twice. And he’s an idiot too. He tries to emulate what I have from being fucked so hard, he fucks the world and still can’t contain it. I know everything. I see through you.

There is no such thing as human connection. You are always so busy telling yourself your own story that you can’t give a fuck about feeling what the person in front of you feels. Imagine that? Not feeling better than but actually being better than? Then you would feel like me. Wouldn’t you? Then you wouldn’t need to fuck empty holes anymore.

It’s implemented, it’s wasteful. It’s simple. It’s all void. All of the movements. All of the friction. All of the fornicating.

You sit alone inside of yourself not knowing yourself. You love it. It is easier to be sad this way. You pathetic spore.

I sit waiting, wanting to be destroyed.

Looking for every way to give the responsibility of my demise to someone else.

I act as if I want to be walked like a dog. As if I want to drip dry in the desire of your gaze. I only seem this way. You will never know what I actually am. You can only gaze at me.

You can not be inside of me.

My gaze searches also for frescos and statues and doesn’t rest and my mind doesn’t rest and my body doesn’t rest and my soul doesn’t rest.

Not because I am faking it. Not because it feels like it is all catching up.

No.

Mine stirs in wave pools of longing for something better than me.

-A

[ayeplustwo]

The words. So many words. My mind bends into itself and still I find none.

I can find them and I am not searching for them.

Like no one is searching for me.

I am sure that people love me

my worth doesn’t come from that fact.

So I glide. To glide is not to lift each leg and then touch ground. Gliding is skating just above reality. Ghosts never walk.

My world is muted static and

Hands rubber and heavy touch nothing, they graze.

I make zero contact.

so no one calls.

And I don’t go.

[ayeplustwo]

The drain that is this soul.

Swallows up all the light sprayed at it.

But it doesn’t light up.

One has to self illuminate.

And I don’t like that.

Because I want to take your light and make it mine.

[ayeplustwo]

I just want to go somewhere quiet.

I had a draft saved and that’s all it said.

I think about how long I haven’t been living while being too afraid to die.

Writing into the void is not something that soothes me anymore. I used to be quite comfortable sitting in my misery and sharing it.

Now I simply explain I’m mentally ill and need serious help. Even if that help must come from myself. I need help. I won’t romanticize that.

There is actually nothing to romanticize.

I’ve said I love you to everyone I didn’t love.

I’ve lived lives behind closed doors I pray my ancestors don’t see.

I lost god.

I don’t think god lost me but I lost it.

I hit this scary part today. Like being right in the middle of purgatory or release.

Couldn’t tell you which way I landed.

I feel every single lingering affect I have on people and can predict exactly what they will do to me.

I feel how my absence hurts people that really want me there. I didn’t see my mother for Mother’s Day. Not because I couldn’t but because I drank myself into such an abyss the night prior that at 6:30pm when my family was sitting down for dinner I was still vomiting in my bath tub. For 3 days prior I knew I wasn’t making it to that dinner.

Still I could tell you exactly what you need to do in your life to make you happy. And so they still call. Not because they can do anything for me or care to; but because I am the one person who “can talk to them like that.”

It’s a gift surely I have not learned to master.

I am so fucking connected to human consciousness I cannot separate what I feel from what someone is projecting or something I will feel in the future.

It’s like I’m living every feeling and variable of my past, current and future self so much so that I can not settle on a tone.

So I am quiet now.