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Personal Diary | Chapter 5 |The End
CHAPTER 5
.♤.
THE ROLLER COASTER
• Sunday, October 13 •
For months now no words have been asked. However, I feel these electrical impulses which form the beats of my heart and my mind; this need to expel, to expire, to spit out.
I feel this almost libidinal drive for self-destruction invade and creep inside my blood so hot now. And yet this time, it doesn't look like a death drive. It's a vibrational beat that spreads through me at the speed of lightning. He grabbed me, strained my nerves. I want to run screaming like a hysteric rapturing to be fully herself while not knowing it yet entirely. It is strange, this feeling, this sudden attraction for danger, for everything that offers me no guarantee of security. For this ephemerality, completely overcome with persistent lightning. My soul is devoured by such great desires. Fiery, passionate, intense, violent. Crus. Without caution or concession.
And I don't know how to quench my thirst. I smash my skull with bass blows, rhythms similar to the one flowing along my veins. The notion of immorality suddenly seems perfectly foreign to me. With my hands on the wheel, the speed sucks me madly. 170 km / h on the odometer. I play with danger and I like it.
The beauty of the euphoria is - I know it - only too ephemeral for one to be able to remember it. No, it is caught in the movement. There is only the moment that counts now, in the almost hyspnotic movement of the white lines that run through this bitumen seeming to engulf with it the least of my sufferings. I almost feel alive.
After all, what is the point of pretending to make sense of absence? There are no degrees in a vacuum. It is impossible to be more empty than the vacuum. Why want to kill life at all costs by trying to freeze it in infinite memories with a taste that is ultimately morbid, drowned in illusions of eternal immobility?
I feel like the wave that gives the ocean all its beauty. This wave does not really exist. It is not frozen in any metric and temporal envelope. She is this ephemeral dance on the ocean of eternity.
I am this wave on the ocean of life; sweeping away my emotions which are bubbling towards a majestic emptiness.
Wait. A sudden anxiety takes me to the guts: Am I able to create or destroy something, outside of myself? Isn't disappearing a wonderful creation, and isn't life after all a conscious or unconscious suicide?
Oh how jubilant I am at this idea! My obsession with destruction would ultimately only be a tribute to the fragility of life, the very essence of my being. A shiver runs through my body. I eroticize all this aggressiveness, this drive that inspires me intimately with pleasure at the desire in me to make room for new forms of life. In other words to create ... I desire unlimited enjoyment.
And yet two forces take hold of me, plunging me into an astonishing paradox: Whatever I may desire, and far from ignoring my deep and intimate deficiencies, - it is always the Other that I desire. His own enjoyment. His own desire. I am both the Subject, the person who desires, and the Object, the one who wants to be insatiably desired.
'Self-destruction' - 'enjoyment' - 'desire' - 'pleasure'
Would my inclination for self-sabotage be the unconscious will to reject pleasure? This pleasure, so long guilty, so long silent, ashamed. This pleasure which represented my own death, my own pain, my suffering ... I feel, however, as incomplete. Prisoner of a desire from which I will never get rid.
Connection interrupted, signal lost ... Who am I when I am not me?
[...]
Desire everything and its opposite, that makes me completely crazy and I do not know how my heart supports all these roller coasters without it having yet exploded. I made myself alone but inside everything is so deconstructed. In fact, I have a hard time locating my chances of getting out of my neuroses. From my damn obsessions. I feel so good in my corner, writing my little poems, doing what I love. Do nothing, too. Often...
Far from the Other. Away from me too maybe sometimes.
I furiously love my loneliness and at the same time I hate it so much. This impossibility of getting rid of it, of sharing it, of multiplying it. My silence is a constant word, an incessant inner monologue. I would like to silence these voices in my head. Those that prevent me from sleeping at night.
Oh, how familiar they are to me! Voices of Melancholy. And oh how much as I cherish this quiet and comfortable darkness in which my wet mind wraps with all its sadness.
'Murderer', 'lover', 'drag', 'victim', 'woman-child'... so many words are spinning in my brain and each of them wishes to take possession of my already already torn mind. And I have a desire to burn my life with flames...
[...]
Everything gets cloudy, it becomes stuffy ... My thoughts are confused. Angry, low morale at the bottom of a well of distress, plagued by my weaknesses. I play with fire, and the aching limbs, I put my whole soul to tell myself that tomorrow will be less worse than today. All year long blue gray in my eyes ... I throw bottles into the sea, but words fail me. Reached by the prism of my negativity, I get bogged down in my paranoia and I almost feel myself living ... My brain burnt out, my heart ashtray, my soul is like a poor abandoned butt. My dreams taste like sulfur, out of breath, hope runs out of steam, forgive me, I try to lead a revolution but I even breathe with hardly breathing; nobody to lick my wounds, the neuroses have increased tenfold, violent when by the vacuum I make myself abused, I am told that everything is a question of will, but my worries I can't manage to silence them. No. I don't want your formatted happiness.
© Birdy'
.♤.
THE ROLLER COASTER
• Sunday, October 13 •
For months now no words have been asked. However, I feel these electrical impulses which form the beats of my heart and my mind; this need to expel, to expire, to spit out.
I feel this almost libidinal drive for self-destruction invade and creep inside my blood so hot now. And yet this time, it doesn't look like a death drive. It's a vibrational beat that spreads through me at the speed of lightning. He grabbed me, strained my nerves. I want to run screaming like a hysteric rapturing to be fully herself while not knowing it yet entirely. It is strange, this feeling, this sudden attraction for danger, for everything that offers me no guarantee of security. For this ephemerality, completely overcome with persistent lightning. My soul is devoured by such great desires. Fiery, passionate, intense, violent. Crus. Without caution or concession.
And I don't know how to quench my thirst. I smash my skull with bass blows, rhythms similar to the one flowing along my veins. The notion of immorality suddenly seems perfectly foreign to me. With my hands on the wheel, the speed sucks me madly. 170 km / h on the odometer. I play with danger and I like it.
The beauty of the euphoria is - I know it - only too ephemeral for one to be able to remember it. No, it is caught in the movement. There is only the moment that counts now, in the almost hyspnotic movement of the white lines that run through this bitumen seeming to engulf with it the least of my sufferings. I almost feel alive.
After all, what is the point of pretending to make sense of absence? There are no degrees in a vacuum. It is impossible to be more empty than the vacuum. Why want to kill life at all costs by trying to freeze it in infinite memories with a taste that is ultimately morbid, drowned in illusions of eternal immobility?
I feel like the wave that gives the ocean all its beauty. This wave does not really exist. It is not frozen in any metric and temporal envelope. She is this ephemeral dance on the ocean of eternity.
I am this wave on the ocean of life; sweeping away my emotions which are bubbling towards a majestic emptiness.
Wait. A sudden anxiety takes me to the guts: Am I able to create or destroy something, outside of myself? Isn't disappearing a wonderful creation, and isn't life after all a conscious or unconscious suicide?
Oh how jubilant I am at this idea! My obsession with destruction would ultimately only be a tribute to the fragility of life, the very essence of my being. A shiver runs through my body. I eroticize all this aggressiveness, this drive that inspires me intimately with pleasure at the desire in me to make room for new forms of life. In other words to create ... I desire unlimited enjoyment.
And yet two forces take hold of me, plunging me into an astonishing paradox: Whatever I may desire, and far from ignoring my deep and intimate deficiencies, - it is always the Other that I desire. His own enjoyment. His own desire. I am both the Subject, the person who desires, and the Object, the one who wants to be insatiably desired.
'Self-destruction' - 'enjoyment' - 'desire' - 'pleasure'
Would my inclination for self-sabotage be the unconscious will to reject pleasure? This pleasure, so long guilty, so long silent, ashamed. This pleasure which represented my own death, my own pain, my suffering ... I feel, however, as incomplete. Prisoner of a desire from which I will never get rid.
Connection interrupted, signal lost ... Who am I when I am not me?
[...]
Desire everything and its opposite, that makes me completely crazy and I do not know how my heart supports all these roller coasters without it having yet exploded. I made myself alone but inside everything is so deconstructed. In fact, I have a hard time locating my chances of getting out of my neuroses. From my damn obsessions. I feel so good in my corner, writing my little poems, doing what I love. Do nothing, too. Often...
Far from the Other. Away from me too maybe sometimes.
I furiously love my loneliness and at the same time I hate it so much. This impossibility of getting rid of it, of sharing it, of multiplying it. My silence is a constant word, an incessant inner monologue. I would like to silence these voices in my head. Those that prevent me from sleeping at night.
Oh, how familiar they are to me! Voices of Melancholy. And oh how much as I cherish this quiet and comfortable darkness in which my wet mind wraps with all its sadness.
'Murderer', 'lover', 'drag', 'victim', 'woman-child'... so many words are spinning in my brain and each of them wishes to take possession of my already already torn mind. And I have a desire to burn my life with flames...
[...]
Everything gets cloudy, it becomes stuffy ... My thoughts are confused. Angry, low morale at the bottom of a well of distress, plagued by my weaknesses. I play with fire, and the aching limbs, I put my whole soul to tell myself that tomorrow will be less worse than today. All year long blue gray in my eyes ... I throw bottles into the sea, but words fail me. Reached by the prism of my negativity, I get bogged down in my paranoia and I almost feel myself living ... My brain burnt out, my heart ashtray, my soul is like a poor abandoned butt. My dreams taste like sulfur, out of breath, hope runs out of steam, forgive me, I try to lead a revolution but I even breathe with hardly breathing; nobody to lick my wounds, the neuroses have increased tenfold, violent when by the vacuum I make myself abused, I am told that everything is a question of will, but my worries I can't manage to silence them. No. I don't want your formatted happiness.
© Birdy'
