LavĂnia
plalace
- Feb 19, 2024
- 161
I've been taking care of myself, three weeks with a balanced diet. Fasting, alternating one day with 16h, and then 24h. Very calming, attention to the body.
I bought a box of matches. I mean, a box of matchboxes. Unfortunately, they weren't selling just one. I intended to light... blow... and then burn my skin with them, more on the torso, to stain more. Light... blow... burn... let it burn... next! light... blow...
I noticed today that one of my biggest scars is from a burn, I forgot the potential of that.
I couldn't be alone enough today, I did a few, drops, but I wanted an ocean. I'm going to destroy my body, while I take care of it. Be more willing, good with myself, while I paint it in my own way. Stain everything, I want to twist it as much as possible, not leaving a single spot pure. We're already here after all.
I've been more direct in my day to day life, my thoughts dying, and living in action. The concern with everything, the details that called me and made agony reign, a sense of identity in suffering. I barely feel this, I live in the flow of work. Is this how everyone lives? As people, and not identities? As characteristics, names, little boxes, and not existences? It's very straightforward, time passes. I barely suffer. But for me it's a fine line, if I think a little more, if I stop having this dirty in my eyes, I'll go crazy and have an agony that I don't know yet, of seeing something that I abandoned, something of mine.
I don't want to see my ex anymore, enough is enough. My biggest problem is feeling that things need to end, in disharmony with everything, so let it end. I suffered so much with you, shaping myself, learning, creating traumas, agony. Agony. Agony. I cried, you know, I wanted to be seen, but not as something. Agony. You forgot that I was abused, I had to talk about it again. You forgot that I liked you, you didn't even care. Is it wrong to play with people's feelings? Seriously? Are you going to tell me that? You? You? You? How did I play with feelings? I saw lines of a flow, I understood people, I understood what they wanted, and I followed their narrative to give some satisfaction. Harmless, I was the one who was most harmed. And you? And you? You used moral sense, you don't care. You don't care about people, you don't try to understand them, you judge, but you preach virtues. You find evil horrible. While you repudiate good. Childish. Childish.
I don't want anything anymore, you know, maybe I'll live longer, longer than I already didn't want. But I'm going to stain everything I can, every drop of grace that existed, of hope with my body and expression, and connection. It's all going to fall apart. It's not about pain, it's not about dealing with something, it's about painting.
- How could blood lie? It keeps itself, the red, oxygenated essence. People lie, objects lie, but reactions don't. Blood is a result, so clear, it doesn't like loose ends. It doesn't like lies, that's why violence is so liberating, my dear. There are no lies when blood is present. Only when it dries.
I bought a box of matches. I mean, a box of matchboxes. Unfortunately, they weren't selling just one. I intended to light... blow... and then burn my skin with them, more on the torso, to stain more. Light... blow... burn... let it burn... next! light... blow...
I noticed today that one of my biggest scars is from a burn, I forgot the potential of that.
I couldn't be alone enough today, I did a few, drops, but I wanted an ocean. I'm going to destroy my body, while I take care of it. Be more willing, good with myself, while I paint it in my own way. Stain everything, I want to twist it as much as possible, not leaving a single spot pure. We're already here after all.
I've been more direct in my day to day life, my thoughts dying, and living in action. The concern with everything, the details that called me and made agony reign, a sense of identity in suffering. I barely feel this, I live in the flow of work. Is this how everyone lives? As people, and not identities? As characteristics, names, little boxes, and not existences? It's very straightforward, time passes. I barely suffer. But for me it's a fine line, if I think a little more, if I stop having this dirty in my eyes, I'll go crazy and have an agony that I don't know yet, of seeing something that I abandoned, something of mine.
I don't want to see my ex anymore, enough is enough. My biggest problem is feeling that things need to end, in disharmony with everything, so let it end. I suffered so much with you, shaping myself, learning, creating traumas, agony. Agony. Agony. I cried, you know, I wanted to be seen, but not as something. Agony. You forgot that I was abused, I had to talk about it again. You forgot that I liked you, you didn't even care. Is it wrong to play with people's feelings? Seriously? Are you going to tell me that? You? You? You? How did I play with feelings? I saw lines of a flow, I understood people, I understood what they wanted, and I followed their narrative to give some satisfaction. Harmless, I was the one who was most harmed. And you? And you? You used moral sense, you don't care. You don't care about people, you don't try to understand them, you judge, but you preach virtues. You find evil horrible. While you repudiate good. Childish. Childish.
I don't want anything anymore, you know, maybe I'll live longer, longer than I already didn't want. But I'm going to stain everything I can, every drop of grace that existed, of hope with my body and expression, and connection. It's all going to fall apart. It's not about pain, it's not about dealing with something, it's about painting.
- How could blood lie? It keeps itself, the red, oxygenated essence. People lie, objects lie, but reactions don't. Blood is a result, so clear, it doesn't like loose ends. It doesn't like lies, that's why violence is so liberating, my dear. There are no lies when blood is present. Only when it dries.
