The Diary

What I considered to be the blessing - to have a heart of flesh and blood, vulnerable and sensitive, - is actually a curse. Screaming, and bleeding, and regretfully dying, and reversibly being reborn to experience once and the same. And those creatures around - they perceive it to be a colorful show. They can be interested in you. As long as you entertain them. As long as you pretend to be one of them.

Those who declared themselves "the closest people" to me openly ask me a typically american "cinemated" question: "Are you ok?" - while I'm screaming in their ears: "Don't you see that I'm dying?!" Well, the answer is movie-like predictable: "Yes, I'm ok". Those ones on the screen always say so, even if they have their heads ripped off. Am I ok? - Yap! There's even no need in asking. With such care I'd better die alone.

If there's a way out, it is the way forward. But where is the right direction, if I'm a blinded stranger, and some pranksters on the way misled me? I can think that I'm moving forward, while actually it can be directly an opposite. Once I tried to follow the light: its source appeared to be nothing, but a broken lantern in the mist. And now I'm unable to do even this - the darkness is so thick, that I can cut a piece of it.

***

A couple of days ago I pierced myself. Breaking all sanitary norms, just took a needle and slowly pushed it into the flesh, hoping that I'm able to kill pain with pain. Equally as fighting fire with fire. The pain is alive. It won't give up so easily. But the ugly scar now slashes not only my heart, but also my body.

***

Today I killed Vada. Her only mistake was that she achieved me at a wrong minute. Frankly speaking, she couldn't appear at the right moment - they all are wrong now. So, I locked her in the corner and burnt alive, and kept staring while the ravenous flames were eating her face. When I feel scalding desperation, I usually kill my alter-egos. She, probably, was the best of them.

***

Tomorrow I'm gonna burn the diary. Vada left a lot of her thoughts in it, and I don't want her to bother me from her afterlife/neverland. I feel a little bit sorry - she was a talented one... But the choice was me or her.

***

But the next day I'll kill myself too. She was worth doing it at the very beginning.

Christ-mess

So, the day, most of the people expect with trepidation. Decorating their trees, putting lights everywhere, hanging bells over the front door. And waiting for a miracle to come. A rudimentary childish faith, that an almighty wizard will take away their sorrows, leaving a bunch of colorful presents under the tree; that the next year will be better. A smell of pine and tangerines embraces the eve, slowly dissolving in the smell of burnt aromatic wax. Old clock on the wall strike twelve. And a major overflow of wishes comes to mind, and one brokenly rushes to choose one of them to make at the final twelfth stroke... Oh, forgot to say - it's mildly snowing outside...

The eve of broken dreams. Just like a child, waiting sleepily under the table in the living room not to miss Santa's arrival - suddenly realizing in the middle of the night that the magic is gone. That no one comes, except that old and fat ugly man wearing cotton beard and father's robe, looking so much alike your drunkard neighbour: "Ho ho, little kid, were you a good obedient child this year? Santa has something for you!" And you're mixed, you're scared, close to panic, while the parents are standing above and smiling: "Sweety, sing a song to Santa!" - and you can't even burst out crying, ceized with fear, not just when it comes to singing. And they can't understand why you're so afraid of this red grinning face. They will never know, that this very try to prove Santa's existence ruins your childish beliefs... And in the very best case this monstrous lie isn't followed with nightmares for the rest of the year - till the next time.

People are waiting and messing around. They always do. But these days especially, seems like they prepare for feast before apocalypse leastwise.

I stare outside through the long fringe of a table-cloth. The door quietly cracks opening... The nightmare begins.

Circles

Have anybody thought, that wherever one goes, whatever one does, it finally comes to a circle. And the circle finally closes in... The more you run, the faster is the stream against you. The more you move, the tighter you're bound.
This is not to be lamentation, and nothing can bring me really down. Or?..

Supernal Beauty

I understand that from some point of view what I write here is not very mature. And of course it breaks all the borders of journalistic work. But I've seen the gods onstage.

Yes, as one of the classics said, "it is in Music... supernal Beauty". I knew this, and that is the very reason why I'm involved in it. Creation makes us superhumans. But yesterday I attended the event, that proved that some of us have reached the divinity.

I'm not taking into account that feeling of electricity in the air or the sudden strike of ecstasy while being already sodden with mass satisfaction. That's been experienced by me quite regularly, and gave food to rather long-term impressions, and sometimes even made me contribute some of my own writings to make those impressions eventual. But this - even though it's already The Second Coming - is something you can't get used to. I thought that I could expect and predict, remembering my past experience, but all the expectations were twisted to the gravel comparing to that stream of passion, that unexplainable interlacement of power, beauty, individuality, harmony and musical independence.

I've met them offstage just a few hours before and a few minutes after. They are human-beings of flesh and blood, smiling, talkative, also equally impressed. But they are gods onstage. They can touch a string - and thus make people cry. They can skip a beat - and thus only enforce the thirst for the next note, next strike. Trembling echos of yesterday make me play their CDs again and again, but even their genius records pale in comparison with the phantasmal, but so divine chemistry they create live.

I've seen the gods. Their name is Therion.

Grief Anniversary

Another black-painted day. Another anniversary. After a year of sorrow. But I remember everything like it was yesterday. The killing coldness of a newsbreaks all over the web, saying the same thing in different words: there's no more Dime...

A lethal mistake. Fatal irony. So, where was your god a year ago, who, theoretically, should have cared about his creation? But no one wants to see the obsessed murderer shattering the legend. So what the hell is left in this world, that literally buries alive the ones who are real? That doesn't want to mention the obvious fact, that it suckles the snakes? With this death it has lost the one, who was alone worth of the whole world...

Dimebag Darrell. A bleeding name, a persistent wound. Your smiling shadow is engraved in my heart. Getcha' pull...

Voiceless Void

Undeliberate insomniac. Now heavily bound to my own vesania. Flush of sounds within the cancerated brain is messing around its unprotected pulp, just like insects beat into the hot bulb glass, striving for light without any idea why they are used to do it.
I'm drained like never before, and what is more depressing, I don't know where to get the juices to revive myself. This cold, nasty and dank winter occupied not only the outer world, but also every corner of my mind. Nowhere to run - it's blind-alley...

My agonizing screams,
The edge of grave...
I bury down my sins
In silent cave.

The everlasting sound,
My poisoned grace
Will kiss the bleeding ground
In death embrace...

In solitude.