Actualization.

God.

He wants to prove to me that

he’s there

he’s here

there is divine energy all around me

and it controls everything

that nothing is coincidental

that destiny has me wrapped around her

little finger

that i know nothing

because i know

that there was nothing

that I wanted more

than this.

and just as i began my departure

from my dream,

my fantasy

it walked up to me and looked me in my eyes

it sent chills through my bones,

it grazed my soul and made its way down my spine

delirium.

i am speechless.

i do not know what to make of this

nor what i did to deserve it

beautiful.

i am as whole as ive ever been

i am as complete as i’ll ever be

no more excuses,

he’s left me none

i look destiny in the eyes,

i am, as much as i am capable of being,

Actualized.

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Absolution.

sinning tasted like peaches

the ones i knew better than to touch

and now everything that seemed to matter,

is dissolving into nothing-dust.

animalistic desire

i choke on my own lust

warmth of pleasure prepares me for hellfire,

beautiful lies I was stupid enough to trust

because absolution is a mirage,

a funny puzzle on which my mind fixates

I am no more whole now than I ever was

but I’ve hardened, from emerald to jade

I feel more like a woman than I ever have

disenchantment provides me with clarity

I realize that what I really am is ashamed

Ashamed and afraid

of what I’ve been, what I’ve done

of who I am

of who I’m not

of the time I’ve wasted,

chasing dreams and playing with fire

of always prioritizing my ridiculous sentiments and fleeting desires

And I hope, with all my heart, that I’ll be able to change

that I’ll make myself proud and be happy someday

that I’ll like who I am and not look elsewhere for validation

that I’ll be at peace and finally see clearly,

that the kindness and pure intentions of those that matter will one day be more than enough for me.

Pygmalion

the object of your desire

is an object nonetheless

i sit in a pool of my own fatigue and self hatred,

when did the nature of lust become so limitless?

satisfaction is an urban myth

a voice inside knows where the path leads

and yet my sensibility turns a blind eye,

it revels in its refusal to take heed

but an object of desire

is an object still

and this is the sharp truth

the one that eats through my soul, the one that sends chills

my body turns to stone, my mind to ash

i am the flower you killed

the one you plucked for its beauty

because your adoration is not love

your adoration is possession

and though i wither in your asphyxiating grasp

i am glad that you chose me,

i take pride in my death.

War

I don’t want it now

Because I don’t want it this way

I wanted you once

But I don’t want you today

Because you fucked with the flow

You wounded my vanity

You played with my mind,

You drove me to insanity

And now I feel like a fool

I don’t even have my pride

Nothing left to show

In the wake of my demise

And you’re cold, you’re stone

You have better things to do

I am a pile of ash

But I will rise, anew

And inside and out, I will be pure gold

I will glitter to the core,

I won’t be in your grasp anymore

And I will shine to taunt you

I will glisten to torture

For though weak in battle

In war, I am nothing if not resourceful.

Heartache

I come so close, it crumbles.

Right back to where I always begin, in pain.

Ripped tendons, torn ligaments,

Inconclusive goodbyes

Nothing I come to love ever seems to end the way I’d like.

I’ll convince myself of anger,

to rid myself of melancholia

I’ll distract myself with words,

to put off the torment I know I feel

everything aches

my body, my soul, my heart

things have gone very wrong

I’ve amassed enough heartache to keep myself writhing for centuries,

and such anguish is born when I realize that it was never meant to be

that I play tricks on my mind just to keep it alive

that I still hold him in my good graces in the deep of the night

that I willingly bleed incessantly, just to emulate the high

that I stand before the mirror and cannot bear to look into my own eyes

For I am shattered, broken, cracked, withered

I am lonely, insecure, timid, unsure

And of the whole person that started, all that remains is a sliver

She was innocent in her ignorance, my knowledge paints me impure

She was confident in herself, I don’t know anymore

She was willing to test limits, I stand frozen in horror

And so I walk away from my desires, heart filled to the brim with pain

I was destined for this ache, I must endure it with grace

Tremor

Hand tremor,

I shake.

You did this,

how dare you bend what you knew would break?

Haunt me,

and I simply cannot rest anymore.

Broken,

this can’t be what minds are made for;

to scream and wonder and yell and knock,

to pinch and prod and snicker and rot.

And although I know

that sentience is a pendulum

that rocks and sways,

it seems there is a constant,

one thing that doesn’t go away.

For though my mind

will refuse to dwell,

will repress any memory (lest it begin to swell),

there is a constant,

a pesky remain,

it is my hand

— which continues to shake.

 

 

Nemo’s Nic-Nac Emporium: Ch 1. Purple

 

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{Chapter 1: Purple}

“Why purple?” I asked.

Because it is the shade of royalty.”

“How do you mean?”

Are you familiar with the tropical mollusk ‘murex’? It is a predatory sea snail. The mucus glands of murices can be used to create a purple dye—‘Tyrian purple’. That’s where it first came from.”

My befuddlement at this explanation must have translated to my face, because Mr. Nemo stopped tinkering with the tiny clock in his hand when he looked up at me. He smirked (as subtly as he could manage to) and continued:

“It was extraordinarily rare and difficult to produce. Tens of thousands of murices, in addition to a considerable amount of labor, were required to create this dye. It was, therefore, notably valued in its rarity. Only esteemed members of nobility could afford such a luxury. So you see, purple is the shade of royalty.”

“And that’s why it’s your favorite color, is it? Isn’t that sort of twisted, being drawn to something because of its exclusivity? Don’t you think color is the sort of universal pleasure that everyone, regardless of class or ranking, should have access to?”

The clockmaker chuckled and resumed his work. I felt my cheeks growing red, his laugh, whether or not it was meant to be, seemed patronizing to me. After a few more minutes of fiddling with his clock, he seemed to finish up with whatever it was he was doing with it. He set it aside and looked up at me once more.

Do you think me a callous man, Arthur?” he asked, quite genuinely it seemed.

“I think it’s awfully cruel and regressive to reinforce or romanticize any sort of hierarchical system in the modern day, whether or not that reinforcement take as simple a form as the preference of a color.” I felt strongly about this, and attempted to convey my words with a degree of intensity that would not be lost on Mr. Nemo. He considered my words as he took off his eyeglasses and rubbed the lenses clean with his shirt.

Perhaps. And yet, is it not equally cruel to deny a man the power of indulging in extravagance? Is it not also regressive to discount the possibility of growth? He will never aspire for greatness, who has nothing to aspire to, my boy.”

“I don’t know if I value indulgence and extravagance the way you seem to. ‘Greatness’, as you describe it, seems to be an elaborate mask of a term used to disguise vanity. In a similar vein, ‘aspiration’ can be equated with a fruitless endeavor to prove one’s superiority to others. It is not so much callousness I identify you with, Mr. Nemo, but an alarming inclination to tend towards conceit.”

“Aha! But, Arthur, my dear boy, do you derive no pleasure in differentiating yourself from me? Do you find no sense of delight, not the slightest, in distinguishing yourself as the antithesis of a sybarite such as myself? Are you not, in the satisfaction you achieve in drawing the distinction between your morals and my own, putting yourself in a position, be it one relating to a spectrum of ethical righteousness, of superiority?”

Preposterous! No. Of course I was not putting myself in a position of superiority. Yes, I was glad that I didn’t share Mr. Nemo’s demented outlook on luxury, that I didn’t agree that some are more deserving of it than others. But does that mean I am no better than he is? How could that be? Does my overwhelming discomfort at being likened to someone like Mr. Nemo support his assertion? Am I indeed, in my evident need to see myself as someone entirely separate from him, just like Mr. Nemo? Are we all?

While I sat in silence and considered his peculiar convictions, Mr. Nemo found another clock to tend to; this one was rather large with a brass mantel.

“Mine’s yellow.” I said after a while. It was all that I could manage to say, because, at the moment, it was the only thing I was absolutely sure of. It was the only contribution I could make to the furthering of this conversation that had not been tainted by the seed of doubt that Mr. Nemo had so unperturbedly planted in my mind. He put down the crown wheel in his hand and looked up. “My favorite color,” I added, “it’s yellow.”

He smiled in a way that I can only describe as quaint, and softly asked, “Why yellow?