The Maker Of Victimized

Frozen fogs of November are silently hanging between the dirt and that drained gas that once was called The Sky. Fast steps are getting stuck in the mud and turn into melancholic and lazy moving one leg after another. Here I am, slowly walking down this street of sick memories, where every object on my way is a memorial for a broken dream. And I know, that someone is watching me - again, as always. They always do, because when someone doesn't have his own life he tries to release his voyeurism, and I'm often the choice. I don't give a damn, what they want to see. Well, if you stare - then take me who I am, for granted. I'm not going to act for you. And if I behave filthy - oh, that's even better: I'm not gonna be another dolly monkey in a golden cage people love to judge and envy. Not gonna make a picturesque fairytale out of my existence. And finally not gonna decorate it for the watchers. Trashy, wasted, lost and found, with a screaming audio system at 4 a.m., twisted, alone, messy and wasted again. A sensitive loony. Not a lollipop celeb. I like to throw them into confusion with my way of living. That's not what they expect from me when they see me on the streets.

But these steps at the background sometimes make me think, that probably the only thing that is worth in this world - is that somewhere lives The One. The one I'm waiting for. The one who doesn't give a damn about who's lying next to me another bloody morning. And who is waiting for me, even though he himself still may be unaware of that. My killer. We wander like two bubbles of oxygene in the veins of this world, and I'm not sure about him, but I undeliberately look for him in everyone. I look for someone to victimize me, to cause me pain. And still this is not masochism. It's just a desperate try to check if I'm still able to feel. The Maker Of Victimized, is that you? Or maybe you are my tormentor? Why are you staring like that, finally do something! But you're too weak for action, yah. You can only gnaw me round with your eyes, and that's all. I know this kind of people. They are used to believing that a sexual partner is a device for masturbation. That thinking is freaky, and slavery is freedom.

So, go on, watch me, punch me, point your fat fingers at me - this is nothing, comparing to that mental devastation, reigning in my mind, because of being tired of waiting. For the Maker to come and make me feel...

Astray

I just wonder why I always have to bury my deepest feelings in the past. Sometimes the choice is to kill or to be killed - in my case, to suffer or to bury the suffering. Along with dreams. Because they're just unseparable - I don't feel pain when it comes from something I don't cherish. And here - once again, putting one cross after another, trying to forget and not to give a damn. But that results only in sensual disorder and sexual conveyor - when I'm in the mood, I call it "rock'n'roll"... But these memories always come back, like ghosts return to the abandoned house they inhabited long ago. They surround me, and there's something like reproach and regret in their luminous eyes - and that causes real pain. When it starts to seem that these flashbacks are your real life, I begin thinking that there's just one step before I touch the wall of insanity.

I have to hold on anyway. But to keep this strength I should either live my dream, or kill it to get rid of those quicksilver reflections.

Numbing Futility

Take a breath... and bury your feelings. If you want to survive and keep your sanity.