void of identity.

lost in the liminal.

[voidic3ntity]

welcome to my corner of the internet.

voidic3ntity: (noun) - void of identity.

PSA: I don't answer anonymous asks.

MY SOUNDCLOUD

MY INSTAGRAM

MY YOUTUBE

MY REDDIT

MY KO-FI

[voidic3ntity]

each moment, another in which I try to evade myself, the shrapnel:

piercing every last inch of woven threaded fibre, scorching the veil,

rupture from within, piercing my soul, my body, the hanged man.

crucified for sacrifice; onto thou shall life precede in distortion -

languid mirrors, angry angels, dripping hallways, bloodstains.

from time to time, I fall into lapses of instability, blackouts…

in those fine lines of twilight times, my eyes well with fear,

for those tears so many moons ago - shards of my youth.

the times before I knew what true horror was:

it marks places & people caught in crossfire,

in the midst of some tragic crisis of pain;

the point at which gristle begins to grow,

forming the acrid tissue, the necrotic rot.

identity is attachment, for our genes dictate fate;

& it's within the deformation of my frail horns,

that I choose to heal, my voice unwavering,

as I'm holding back the tears, pain, agony;

it's excruciating, the weight of my rotten branches -

branches which grow from the roots of my family tree as tragedy.

each angular dissonance is another rejection of felt experience;

embedded within frailty, the subjectivity relies on the subject.

[voidic3ntity]

& it's within these deformations of my frail horns; I choose to heal.

[feral-ballad]

Jeanette Winterson, from Lighthousekeeping

[voidic3ntity]

moonlight rotations from deep within the gutter of madness:

instability in youth led to instability in life - now this is my life.

the network of digital circuitry becomes the window into lives;

here I stand broadcasting my life to you from these rusty pews,

blood stained glass smashed, discarded shards reflecting toxicity.

parishioner of lashings, forced to watch my own religion decay;

these new words become legions, ghostly apparitions of gold,

in hollow shadow of another sorrow depression, am I healing?

from the bruises my father left on me as an unwell child,

to the trinity of my teens leaving me nothing short of ill,

too cowardice to hang yet too dysfunctional to drift...

drug-fucked & yet I've been sober; stability isn't here.

post traumatic stress disorder blurs every timeline:

one minute I'm here, safe, medicated, expressing,

the next minute I'm drowning, screaming, bleeding,

blacking out, lost in mirages of my own worse days.

wide awake at 6am, heart racing - her eyes bleeding.

can you understand it? do you know that silence?

assessments & appointments, therapy weekly -

it's been years since I reached out, & it did help,

the pain isn't symptom, pain is fused identity,

I'm caught within the rotting knots of myself.

finding myself recoiling from my own mess of mind,

unable to interpret what kind of tragedy happened;

that question weighs on me daily, every single day.

it's ugly, it's raw, & it's fucking real, do you feel it?

I'm leaving my mark, in these twisted etchings...

it's art, it's solace, it's therapy, it's my fucking life;

it's the drag path, the bleed-out, the final scream.

I'm safe here tonight, I'll be back when times right.

[voidic3ntity]

here I stand broadcasting my life to you from these rusty pews.

[mournfulroses]

Jean-Paul Sartre, from a play featured in "No Exit and Three Other Plays," originally published in 1944

[voidic3ntity]

all-day, hang around loose, snake-like belt, my arm, emptiness:

fill my veins with noxious poisons to keep me sane in silence;

loudness is the amplitude of each diverse nexus of continuity.

far out, beyond the badlands of cracked tooth envy & bitterness,

lies the persistently sour fruit of creation: original sin etched in art,

our hearts, stained, blind by time, sacrificing itself to resurrect lux.

ghostly apparitions under formless floodlight;

spotlight my mind, an endless anima mundi,

the place where no rose gardens grow now,

only solution akin to the tint of their frail petals.

each fragment, bearing witness to deeper settlement of geometry,

misaligned formation undergoing the formality of occurring;

from Aristotle to Whitehead, process & reality is our home:

father time & mother earth, eating away from the core...

witness the downfall of the human condition; nerve burn,

never searing, attempting transformation, trapped in void,

null & void for all intent & purposes, for unlimited time only.

get it while everyone has it, for a chance to lose it while you can.

[voidic3ntity]

fragments; as witness to another deeper settlement of geometry.

[nixscriptum]

of being two truths at once.

[voidic3ntity]

lost in stasis, the loop of the liminal; minute moments dwell here:

within the glass walls of my iron casket, drudging the sediment,

the riverbed particulates continuously forming many hazy words.

in the fragmented midst of the current, I’m currently drowning,

the liquid matter gathering around points of bodily contention,

pieces & parts, complexities beyond simplicity, drawn inward;

the resonate residue, held together through the sharpening,

the knife on the block, another idol to worship, it’s too loud,

too much, too chaotic, too occultly ordered, unfolding inside.

I find myself here again, recoiling from the mess I find in me;

my mind is contaminated with the moulding wilt of your rot.

inside that rot, here where my being gets devoured by strife,

the pelican swoops again, & with another inhalation, I’m home.

[voidic3ntity]

the riverbed particulates continuously forming many hazy words.

[mournfulroses]

Virginia Woolf, from her novel titled "The Waves," originally published in 1931

[voidic3ntity]

my soul still resides here, lingering far beyond the edge of pages:

my body, laced with sin, exhaustion clinging, somatic discharge,

my mind, hazy from fumes, drowning deeper in sorrowful hole,

calcium architecture, shrapnel patchworking, steel creations.

I've always been discarded, thrown away, throwing away life,

it's different than suicidality, it's the ceasing of connection.

I no longer deem feeling to be useful, only byproduct:

existing only in thin slices, isolation & sleep deprivation.

I'm still writing, every single day, there's so much more,

but I lack direction, art as career losing priority here...

my identity, fracturing as I call hotlines in episodes,

attempting to keep myself & others safe from myself;

knowing the razor is far too sharply poised by betrayal.

the apathy of being is pulling me down into illness daily,

yet I continue to call therapists & to call these helplines,

stoic in the face of genuine illness, I'm praying for help,

not even support, genuine lithium lobotomies for me.

I'm too far gone, I've seen too much, but I'm not suicidal;

I want to live, to grow old with my partner, to hobby write,

but the visions won't stop, the screams are so loud again...

it's the residue of trauma beyond comprehension, literally.

the walls won't stop closing in, torturous cycles of instability;

eating me alive as I continue to regurgitate myself each day.

[voidic3ntity]

still alive, & I'm taking some time, my art isn't mere creation,

it's the undoing of myself as traumatized child, I'm drowning,

that child, cowering in the corner, lives inside me, haunting me:

through therapy, through medication, I dive deeper inside myself,

late night sessions, eyelids low & sclera bloodshot, lost in rewiring,

the architecture of my language is the mixture of flame & of burn;

my art is flesh bubbling, crimson soaked line woven inside mine.

[voidic3ntity]

you, blade poised between my spleen & my small intestine,

never fatal, for the slice is only threat, demise lies in divinity:

infection, does it cling or does it pass? gnawing upon flesh,

eating away at physicality, yet the body is double-bound...

each inch of tissue infected is each state of contamination,

the world painted in flesh is the precise reflection of mind;

solanaceous seedlings sprouting symmetrical as signature.

[voidic3ntity]

for the world painted in flesh is the precise reflection of the mind.