Statement

I hate this feeling. I hate it. I hate being rendered so helpless, so vulnerable and so... peeled. The skin of my heart has been removed and now I'm made scream and cry ever so sadly and ever so bitterly by the softest touch of air. Wrapped so tight in my pain, choking with feelings and helplessness, I tried to ease my pain by torturing someone else, rendering these same feelings of impotence to a dear friend of mine. I'm suffering and I refused to suffer alone. I picked one of my dearest friends... MY DEAREST of all friends, and slowly filled his eyes and ears with images of witnessed perfection. I had to do it, every fibre of my being, the cold, smirking, evil Ice Queen shouting furiously for blood. Insane with pain and frustration, like an incarnation of Elizabeth Bathory beating maidens into bloody pulps, an Evil Queen wishing the death upon Snowwhite. Pain made me cry, and so I had to pull the world down with me into this sickening swirl of angst. May the world cry my sorrow for me, suffering under my hand, by the brutal spell of my words until my heart fills with ice again and no tenderness, no beauty, no smile, no soul can reach out and touch me again.

So I remembered... that angel I saw yesterday and described him to my friend. A beautiful boy-man in the dark, walking in the night, shy and shrugging away from the chilly fingers of the breeze. So pale and young against the ageless darkness of the sky that leaked into the the street drinkign away the colors and soaking them with an old, independent film like graying quality. The lively colors drawned away, fashion and harsh screams of attention, limelight sent home, called to serve the other half of the world with celebrities and IN news and fashion and big names and shine, shine, shine. Out of harsh colors, only thoughts floated in the air, serenity and introspection hanging in the night in deep pensiveness of death. An angel, like a shrad of light, a piece of sun left behind, shining like a strike of moon, slid his evanescent body among the graps of so many untouchable, dematerialized ideals crowding the night, seeking to be undisturbing, goal which failed due to his extreme, untouchable beauty.

In all my evil, my desire to inflict pain, I started my description with a harsh weapon: "barely eighteen, pale, tall, dark blonde, lanky, with the face of an angel and the body of a boy. Ever so perfect, so soft, so fresh, such unblemished skin, you feel compulsively compelled to lick it, rub into it and cum all over it. Complexion so light, so white, so snow-like, the cum that escapes his supreme lips, splashes on his cheeks is never to be found with eyes." But my evil did not touch his heart, as he was comforted by the dark night promise of a warm body to roll over with, scramble sheets and howl silent whispers into breath aged air. Missing the count on the miles of skin kissed over, the lenghts of flesh pumped, the loads swallowed, no air fairy, no matter how beautiful was to dent his soul, and my anger, my impotence, my attempt to hurt, inflict pain and have someone shout loud the pain I carry inside, scrambled falling into pieces at my feet, turning into ashes, impossible to touch, far beyonf repair. I had been defeated with the ease of a stronger heart fed with the bread of touch, sated with the wine of moans. So I was left to my pain, my anger, my unquenched thirst for blood and vengeance. A feeling I can't rip out of my heart, clawing into me like a vicious falcon sent to make me aware of my humanity. A defeated Ice Queen thorn into pieces by a poet, a dreamer, a soft human being ever so beautiful in his warm fragility.

Yes, it seems that Good conquers upon Evil, that the world leaves, at the end, no place for the mean and the cruel and I fall into pieces and cry, my tears and hurt washing me away into numbness, into the wish to cold in my body, the peace of my inner drum, the silence in my veins... and I curl into myself, my stories and fantasies only an echo in the back of my head, a sad reminder of the untouchable, dangerous monster I used to be before the valiant, romantic, poet-Hero turned me much to his unaware, into a suffering, pained human being.

Oh, how I despise being in love!