Deep ingrained in what I believe to be pathological, or genetical, or sequential, or potential. Inside the instructions, inside the code, inside the brain, inside the thought.
A darkness that expands with a thunderfull cloud and black mist.
There is blood in your hands.
And you keep asking yourself how does it come to happen.
There is blood in your face.
And you blame all of the outside for the bad set of cards that shuffled to you.
There is blood in your throat.
And you see yourself dancing to the macabre music you atoned yourself for so long.
A pathological liar is not similarly the same to the kleptomaniac, or the maniac, but it comes small, it comes in the everyday life of existence.
It comes knowing the little crevices and getting even a slight satisfaction from merely standing and blocking someone view.
A little bit of a rush knowing the power that comes in the reaction of others.
Pushing me away in bits by bits.
A sadist, that can't just help it.
A big contradiction walks inside my room at all times, all nights, all days. I have now found any way to push myself over to extend my arm and get out of the room. Loneliness does not bring any enjoyment but so does not drown me like a failed sailor. She's there, right there, and if the stars align I can make some chit chat with her, isn't that what I was supposed to do? Talk, spend time? I don't even know her favourite colour, but I know well that she is sleeping on the couch unprompted, something that I do not like, why? because I don't get why? Why would you alienate yourself from the confortableness of the very own bed, is it because it is empty? She did everything right, she just got the bad end of the deal. Now she sleeps alone in the bed. And therefore doesn't want the bed.
Why couldn't I've asked her? Why is it so hard to get out of this chair like if it trapped me, holding me with sleazing tentacles. Get out of the room, eat, shit, return to the room, repeat thrice and go to sleep right before sunlight shines.
The self fulfilling profecy has no merit or any relevance once it is impossible to avoid. So wishful for thinking how things end, but to the end of it, the dread comes when they do, and now you are guilty, the judge has seen your thoughts, you are not so different from a burglar with a premeditated murder. Deep down you desired to see it all crumble down like a falling house of cards, and sure... The monkey paw closed the finger. The genie granted your wish. But I didn't wish it. But you thought about it. The same way you have thought about the obscene and the gross, the death, the tragedy. The rape and the kill. The dog was puzzled about how it felt to ejaculate on its victim at the same time his fangs pulled apart the blood vessels and nerves rupturing them apart from the flesh in a red explosion like the white one. The absolute power required overt dominance. And for destruction to have meaning, the precious fragility is required to be pure.
There is no dramaturgy in destroying the ugly, else, you just did what the pragmatic rules sought out. But if you destroy a holy person, the people will applaud loudly in ovation to the dramatic emotions they once sought to feel. To suffer is to react, to react is to exist, to exist is to live.