As sharp as swords...

It's a heavy night. Almost as heavy as the machines I feel falling on my weak body. In this dump that is a dead industrial city in a deranged and forgotten world, our Danube is so saturated it can't wash away our sins anymore. A stagnant remote land of loneliness, pain and tiredness...where saints lie on crucifixes made of words as sharp as swords. Our toxic red night sky is proof enough that blood is spilled here every day. The blood of the innocent, the blood of fallen angels that took this path to save us, only to find their sacrifice was for nothing. For they have come too late. It was too late since the beginning...this world is asymmetric.  Created by two gods that decided it would be fun to play this game. We mash up, and crumble one against each other, with no one to pick up the pieces and put them back together. We are mirrors...endless in numbers. With nothing to reflect but ourselves. And this machine is crushing my bones and spirit every night. Every day. Every moment of every hour. And the thing about machines is...they do not stop. They are not impressed by cries, or threats, by morals or guns. You can ask nicely, but they will ignore. They do what they must do, without remorse or question. Unstoppable. Rain falls, and it feels like acid. The wind is cold and there are no lights to guide me. Only the red sky...proof that we shot our saints. Soon...white pieces of frozen feathers will fall, for we have destroyed our angels too. We call them snowflakes. What an innocent word. But sharp...as a sword.

They break as easily as...tea cups

I will say it straight. I've been fed lies and illusions. Years of looking into some eyes, I fooled myself the look they sometimes gave me didn't mean what it actually meant. This is the tragedy when you know someone so closely, yet you choose denial when things go wrong. Was it merely a dream? a good dream? the best dream of my life? it was the thing that kept me going as I was laying on my cross. No matter what I did, and how I tried to be there when needed...it was all for nothing. It passed, and it cracked me...like the wind cracking some dried up twigs. There is evidence that it wasn't a dream. It was the greatest fuckup of my life, painted in purple. Still, it must not matter so much, if it would birds would shut their voices, and clouds would remain still, tears would not wash graves no more and the wind would not play in my hair spreading somebody else's scent around me and behind me as I walk alone in a hot, quelled, cotton-mouth day. I find myself in the same state again: my tears crystalised and damn! they brake as easily as a porcelain tea cup. I try squeezing them out, but the shards get stuck in my eyes. Yet not even blood won't come out.

Elise enjoying the autumn wind

Another self portrait.
"Elise enjoying the autumn wind in her hair".
I did not forget about the promise I made, Portraits of Eloise and Evangeline coming up! In addition to them, I will also add for you paintings of The Saviour (no, not Jesus), the unknown tired rider that helped Elise rebuild her Labyrinth Garden. 
Also, I would like to announce that in a matter of days, you will also have the english version of my stories.
'Till then...don't let the wind dry up your tears.

Ever since

Since then, all my days were the same. I had no reason to stay in touch with a world where God has dissolved into what we call ordinary. I cannot help but wonder at the miracle of life...but then I see how dried up is this world. It has no soul, no power, no magik, no hope, no love or friendship.

So this is how one day, while we were having tea, a tear streamed down my face as painfully as if it were a knife. He saw this manifestation of depression as rotten and filled with madness. I could not receive a real hug, for every time he would sigh and ask me if i was done. So then he decided it was a good idea to strike me. So he did. He rose up from his chair, left the tea cup on the table and lit up a cigarette. Afterward, he offered me one. Should that have been a comfort to me? To what was about to happen to me? How is nicotine going to save my soul and my mind? I'd rather he had given me poison and get it over with. But that is not how we play this game. The goal is PAIN. We were supposed to make one another suffer, for he considered that my pain was not real. Also, he thought that he cannot be harmed by this unimportant and weak person that is me. But he was wrong. Or was he?

As he stood up his eyes were bursting with flames and the heat of a 1000 suns. And my dying scream could not be heard not even by God, for he has forsaken me long ago... it was like he did not care at all for me and as he wasn't recalling all the sorrow we shared. And then i realized, all that sorrow was only mine to feel in this life of strife. He did not care at all. Not cold as ice, or cold as a god, but cold as nothingness. That was the moment when he decided what was going to happen. His life was going to end for he could not stand to see me suffering and not feel a thing. But how would he stand knowing he would leave me mourning for him the time that was to come? Well, a drop of selfishness was going to take care of that. And this is how it was. He walked out the door, killing himself in my eyes. He became someone else. Someone i despise with all my being.

Now, i don't even bother to make myself a tea , for what good is it to enjoy it all by myself? I cried for many nights, 'till my soul ran dry and not even blood wouldn't come out to drown me and my miserable life that was only a replacement for what you call reality.

In my perfect world there are fields and forests covered in an eternal autumn. There is a purple sky to watch over my dreams and delusions. And a tombstone on which my name lies written in my handwriting. She was hitting the fallen leaves with her beautiful leg on her way to my grave. Her tears were feeding the red roses, and her blood was pouring through my veins.

A whisper in the wind: "thou shalt not rest...."