imagine that every emotion is a creation of the mind*

Sometimes I feel that the five senses are not enough – to grasp all that is going on around me.
I think there more to it, to be a human. There should be!

It is very intriguing to see one’s self changing, drifting 180 degrees. I could never grasp this change. I cannot understand it.

You are in a situation, where you have certain feelings for a person, or a thing, or an animal – and you think this is real – and you think this is the only true thing happening in your life. And you own the world – for a moment at least. And then life goes on, days pass by, you are living the illusion that you thought was real.

But once you are out of it, once the situation is put to an end, you question yourself, where are those feelings? Were they any authentic? What the hell happened to them! You cannot comprehend. So you start analyzing – is it you changing? Is it you maturing? (Don’t get me started on the definition of maturity) or is it the whole world around you evolving? Are your senses betraying you? Is reality raping you? What is going on around you? Whatever happened to what you once thought was genuine? Whatever happened to the person who you once thought was your life, the reason of your existence, your soul twin?

Twisted feelings. Betraying the mind. That is all that I have learned – that is all that I believe. It is all in the twist – and it is all in the mind.

I am drained.




*title by Chris aka InjuriousItems

An Unfinished Story Of Lust And Sorrow* – Part 2

It is always at night, that they find refuge in each others’ arms. Late night, way after dark – when the crowds have slept, and the stage has emptied, and the only remaining noise was that of the heavy rain, and the only remaining sight was that of the lightning.

They lay side by side, on his bed, staring by the window, into the dark night. He was not much of a speaker this eve. And she was enjoying his sound of silence.

As they lay speechless, once again she started having the same old thoughts – is he real? Or is it the illusion of reality, playing tricks on her naïve mind? Again, she could never tell … She tried touching him; she laid her fingers on that sweet flesh lying beside her. Flesh is there. She ran her fingers all over his body, reaching his face. Laying her fingers on his lips, she tried speaking to him. “Don’t wake me up”, he said, “I am in trance”. This left her puzzled. She laid back, surrendering her ideas, giving in, for the goddess of delusion to sail her across the ocean of hollowness.

As she closed her eyes, and entered the realm of reverie – the few seconds when the person is neither awake nor asleep – she felt his hand caressing her face, gently. She heard words being mumbled in her ear, but she couldn’t understand the language. Somehow, she felt the words were not addressing her. Somehow she felt alone, and yet surrounded by a powerful shade of humanity. Why does he always reveal himself in her moments of weakness? Why does he disappear when she is in a state of wakefulness? Could it be he is living in her mind? Could it be he is a creation of her bitter imagination?

Conceding to her confusion, she opens her eyes to see herself in her own bed – twisting and turning … “where are you?” she screams. The only answer she receives is the echo of her own voice, on the sound of which, she submits her fragile body back to sleep, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

Hooked.

I run my knife,
Over the skin of your head.
It reaches your skull.
I twist my knife,
I cut your skull.
I go deeper,
Into your essence.
I reach the cortex.
I cut the cortex,
Right into your brain.
That sweet brain of yours,
Which leaves me dazzled.
I take out your brain,
A striking bunch of cells,
The root of your being,
Your substance,
For which I envy you.
I grasp your brain between my tiny fingers
I stare at it, for a long while.
I admire it. I desire it. I crave for it.
And in a fraction of seconds,
I eat it.
So that it is all mine.
So that you are all mine.

Confessions of a twisted mind*

Food for my twisted thoughts.

Substance for my perverted writings.

That is all you are to me.

That is all you mean.

Material.

You are my inspiration.

My muse for perversion.

You complete my sick mind.

You give me something to long for.

Will you still be here when you read this?

Did I just scare you away?

Will you regret what you’ve done to me?

Feeding my mind, with sick ideas.

Fucking my brain, with every word you say.

Penetrating my mind, with every stare.

You attract me even more.

An Unfinished Story Of Lust And Sorrow*

They lay down in bed for hours. He was sober – for once. She was high – on his kisses and the smell of his scent. From the window of his room, she could see a vast colorless sky – contrasting the bed sheet he had wrapped her with. He whispered many words in her ear – some of which she understood, others she had no idea what they meant. But she did not care. His caresses were what mattered. She was longing for his lips to touch hers. She was longing for his hands across her skin… Until he said the words that triggered her brain muscles. He was talking about lust. He was talking about sorrow. “Can’t you see?”, he said “both come from one origin. Both put you in the same state of sentiment. Both make you feel exactly the same emotions. They go back to one root. One essence”. What is this link – she thought – how could he be this confident about it? What had he been through? To think that sorrow and lust are nothing but one. To think that they are like fire and ice. Extremely opposite and yet, once they touch your skin – your body generates one reaction, same reaction, to both.

She liked what she was hearing. It has been a while, since she felt attracted to a mind, and not merely a body. She laid there – thoughts in motion – thinking about the flow of events that brought this man to her life. It has been no more than few days, and she already feels attached to him. Her body lies there, begging to be touched. Her mind wanders between the walls of the room – refusing to relax. Her mind is eager for his words now. She desperately seeks refuge in his statements; his late night statements of philosophy and dreams. She could stay in his bed forever. She could listen to him speak all night.

Is this real? – she thought – or am I dreaming again, and picturing what I would like my life to look like, what I would like to hear, what I would like to feel? How can I know that this is not happening in my mind only? How can I know that my mind is not coloring the facts, embellishing them, to make them perfectly suit my desires – perfectly feed my lust? She has been drifting between reality and illusions lately. She has been living in her own built state of mind. How can she make sure this is existent? Is he another figment of her intellect? Is she picturing this? Making up a desired outcome of an endured life of nothingness… The reality is, she will never be able to tell. There is more to it than lust and sorrow. There is flesh, lying beside her. There is a circumstance, she could never decipher – because she is not there, as much as she longs to be. She is not.

About me* - by MMMMMMMMM

I was asked to write a bio - knowing I suck at this, here is what MMMMMMMMM (a colleague at work and a friend in the vault^^) wrote about me:

"This is supposed to be her year. The supervisors’ favorite, the teachers’ favorite, the serious student from Beirut working in her own little cubicle, it was all set up for her to serve the humanitarian field in the best possible way. That’s the theory; the reality however will tell how she was perfecting the science of dreams.

And yet modern poetry will encounter one of the most thrilling writers of the blogosphere, although the future will beg to differ.

In 2007 she started posting on my space; but it was in 2009 that her promise reached its fulfillment. With her series of raw emotional poems, she unveiled her true identity: An aggressive Dream-Elf!

But there is always a feeling with her that no one knows what to expect! The least of all, herself; an inspired writer who became a slave to her own dreams. Yet those dreams, only partially tell the tale; for all her aggression there are days where she simply disappears, one day on, one day off. A pattern emerging, one week on, one week off; perhaps gone to visit neverland? A question that only she can answer!

Submission and dominance in equal measures. Would the real AOL please stand up! Perhaps though we’ve seen the real AOL all along: one leap of faith too far!"

MMMMMMMMM - your words are much appreciated.

I send you a handful of gratitude.

Disturbing comfort.

Stimulation. Excitement. Adrenaline rush.

Collapse.

Another rush – of concentrated feelings.

A deeper fall. Collapse.

Coffee.
Silly smile. Positive vibes. Excitement.

Downbeat.

His phone call.
Spur. Heartbeat. Thrill.

Elation.

Longing to see him. Butterflies in her stomach. Faster heartbeat. Panic.
Flow of feelings. In her head.



Is it figment of her imagination?

self.

Greed fills the heart

Amity is a mask

Just like any other mask;

We wear everyday

To hide our hideous self –

Our ugliness – our lust.

Why the urge to look beautiful?

Why the urge to please?

Can’t one be at ease with one’s natural being?

The moment we accept ourselves as filthy humans;

The moment we look inward,

To our inherent grimy self;

Only then, we can lose the mask.

Inspired*

Feel the summer breathe

Don’t ignore it.

It comes once,

Squeezes itself in

In a midst of darkness

Coldness

And aloneness.

Feel the sun

Penetrating the eye

Itching sweetly

Giving a leap of life

To a soul that has been tired

To a soul that has been exploited

To a soul that has given up living

Amongst the darkness.

Welcome the sun

Embrace it

Give it its chance

To lift you up again

To take you to a new level,

You have been doing nothing

But ignoring it.