Drama Lama: Nothingness & Being

It's Saturday.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon.

I've been awake for hours. 

Hidden behind glass, plaster, wood.

I breathe slowly and listen to the calm of the house.

The serenity seems oddly sinister as I lay here, 

naked, vulnerable and exposed. 

The light is like that of the moon.

Pale and foreboding.

It caresses me. 
Making the black inks in my skin
darker and the colours duller.
My mind spins with anticipation,
questions and ideas.
Dreams from the night previous still
linger in the darker corners of the bedroom.

Half of a dozen half-finished Phils call out 

to me from the desk.

They want me to finish them.

They want me to breathe life into them.

I can't even breathe life into myself. 

The duvet just covers one of my hips, yet

it feels like it's a tonne pulling me down. 

All four of the tablets that I have to take 

in the morning have been swallowed.

I feel them rattling inside me. 

Laughing and jeering. 

"Take us all you want,

we'll never help you.

This is what you need.

This is what you know you deserve."

I’m ambivalent towards life and death.

Or I should say that way the human mind perceives these

two ways of being. One is not greater than the other. The human

mind just is incapable of seeing the greatness of both, indulge 

themselves in the wonder of each of these states. 

I don’t want to embrace a statement of being that is only in

my dreams. It will forever invoke sorrow and bitterness. It 

will leave me unfulfilled and cheated. I will begin to question

my place more and more until my mind becomes unlatched 

and dangles only by synthetic threads. 

I’m simply bored with her hormonal flip-flops. I’m always true to myself, my mature, my desires. And I think that annoys her-she can’t do what I do, possess what I have or be as free-willed as I. 
I’ve never changed my fundamentals. I’ve merely shifted certain layers and aspects of my personality only to appear remorseful and approachable, but truthfully, I feel none of it. I consider it to be a waste of time. My role has never changed in all this time. I’m still the villain. It’s interesting that she’s quick to be outraged with me, to judge me, yet can ask me for favours and support. Convent memory. Well, deal with the devil as they say. Little truffles come to me in the least expected of moments.
I think it’s funny. She won’t tell me much if I ask directly, but her insecurities play out before me. It’s a wonderful array of colours and pathetic attempts to be mysterious. It really just makes her a cunt, but I’m waiting because I’m waiting for the tick-tick to go BOOM. It’s also a great escape goat to the rage that I feel. It’s not just directed at her, I can use her as a cover for the rage that I feel, even though she’s a mere annoyance. By using her, I don’t have to take responsibility for my actions or feelings. 

I wouldn’t be bothered if something happened to her. There’s no attachment despite talking for almost 6 months. Sometimes it’s rather tiring faking empathy. People don’t know how hard it is. Actors do it for takes, I do it all day.  Almost every day. I watch as they jump from foot to foot, trying to keep them free from the heat of the coals. And me? I just stand there, letting the heat burn my flesh. I know that it's pointless to try. I feel nothing when these sensations overtake me. Only HE is my kryptonite. And I'm not talking about God. We talked about him earlier in the blog. I'll have more on him later. A little more intellectual thoughts for you all to munch on. 

I’m addicted to self-destructive behaviours, but it’s so much more than that. It’s the high, the thrill and the unknown. Knowing that everything and nothing can happen. Walking that tightrope is beyond anything. No drug nor person could recreate that-those feelings.  And what to do with the girl? Keep her because it's amusing? Lucifer sits on my shoulder, whispering all that I want to know. We embrace the notion of sin, knowing that it's better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. (Should the place ever exist.) My own conscience is null and void at this moment. I love when it takes over me. I'm poised, calculated and at my most charming. 

Yet she expects me to be completely truthful. What's the point? Yanking the strings is amusing. The spice in one's taco. (I'm in the mood for Mexican right now.) I never promised to be completely truthful. All I promised was to listen and help her. And that I actually meant. No strings attatched. 
„I swear by God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.“ Well, how can I swear on something that is obviously nothing put a prop? A prop not created by God, but by man. And I think in any decently run universe, surely this would have been sorted long ago. Oh, yes, can’t forget this one can we? „I swear, to tell the truth, the whole truth, so help me God.“ Many of you seem more familiar with that one. And no I most certainly did not. As a child, yes. I went to Sunday school, learned the hymns, the songs and the dance. But as I grew I began to see that none of it really matters. Should God exist, it would be always be his will at the end of the day. Humans condemn themselves, no one else. It’s laughable the things people will say to eradicate blame. What? Like it hurts or something? I don't see myself as human per se. And no, it's not a delusion. I just fail to see the need to lump myself in with those who are empty and pathetic. Wouldn't you do the same? Utilise that potential! Hm...Perhaps I could turn this misanthropy into a public speaking sort of thing? 

Is this all existence is? Finding one's place, one's high. What happens when the high disapparated and the placement where one which belonged vanished beneath them. Ah, it's almost fun dangling off that cliff, seeing the rocks down below.

I guess I’m almost human after all.