Holy Sh – I mean, Mormons.

Hello, Utah.

Shitty Clairvoyance

I imagine I no longer exist in the form of human flesh and blood. I’ve blended into colors and places, into feelings and faces.

My observation leads to so many discoveries. I peel a layer and find another. There is no end to the fascination conceived by my curiosity and, sometimes, paranoia. I can actually see through your soul. Not that I’m some supernatural entity deciphering the complex nature of your shitty being; I just know. You would know, too. Look closer. Gestures and tones give so much away.

Your secret is never yours unless you’ve done everything in the universe to hide it. My dilemma lies in my acute sense of feeling vibes from people. I know what you’re saying even when you’re not. I know what you’re not saying when you are. It’s not a gift, mind you. Nothing is a surprise when you know what’s going to happen. No mystery remains long enough to grapple my interest. Before I ramble on, remember, this isn’t a power, this isn’t an ability.

Knowledge is power, they say. In this case, my knowledge and sixth sense combined is a pain in the ass.

I yearn for child-like incorruption. I want to ask questions, to know more. I want to know that I don’t know. I would do anything to have the firmly-established belief gone that claims people are predictable, that the world is evil, that you die alone. I long for beautiful simplicity found in the most mundane of things. My god, sometimes I even wish I was nine and died right after my tenth birthday.

I’d blow away the candles and wish for a tree house. Engraved in italic, my epitaph would whisper, “An innocent, sugary-sweet death.”

—♪—♫—♪—♪—

Music; one of the best things ever.

Genres: Post-rock.

Genres I Like: Doom metal, thrash metal, indie, grunge, shoegazing, ambient, dark trip-hop, instrumentals, ethereal wave, post rock.

I Love You, I’m Going To Blow Up Your School – Mogwai.

There Are Some Remedies Worse Than The Disease – This Will Destroy You.

Burial At Sea – Mono. (One song that explains my emotional (instability) at the moment.)

The Teddy Truth.

In order to lighten up the funereal atmosphere that I had shamelessly created, allow me to introduce one very special friend of mine: Mr. Snuggums.

Mr. Snuggums likes to listen to doom metal and instrumentals with me. He prefers Frosties over Lucky Charms and absolutely hates Lady Gaga, Taylor Swift, Selena Gomez and other pop entities. Like the author of this blog, Mr. Snuggums prefers to spend his time reading, writing, studying, traveling and/or listening to music. When faced with stress and a demanding schedule, Mr. Snuggums indulges in extensive meditation.

Quite the candid speaker, Mr. Snuggums openly supports gay rights, nudist communities and free alcohol. He is currently head-banging to Pantera as the author types this post. Mr. Snuggums has been a friend for quite some time. We both love Fight Club, American Psycho, The Shining, American History X and Donnie Darco.

Mr. Snuggums is currently single. “I’d love to spend my cotton-comprising existence with someone special”, he told Time Magazine while enjoying a luxurious oil massage at a posh spa center in Lahore. Miss. Kasana was witnessed sitting in the corner quietly; her disposition resembling that of a slave.

"It's tough being this famous", a rather irritated Mr. Snuggums spoke as photographers clicked away.

Verletzung

She is bitter.

Her sleep is marred by intervals that consist of lying awake in pitch black darkness and howling silence. The blanket is warm but her heart isn’t. In this state of half-consciousness, she simply asks entities, God, people who witnessed her agony, her friends, and him, she asks, “Why?”

And then she falls asleep.

She is swimming through a lake, thinking of the Catastrophe Theory. The theory by mathematicians, stating that anything and everything can collapse without reason. She pushes forward through the warm water and reaches the bank. Some mathematician must be very happy, she thinks, since his theory took practical form in my life.

She wakes up.

If there’s a Catastrophe Theory then there’s a Resurrection Theory, I tell her. She won’t listen. She won’t listen for now. I don’t blame her.

Hush now, said the man in the moon.

Your pain is the breaking of the shell
that encloses your understanding.

Even as the stone of the fruit must break,that its
heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

- Kahlil Gibran

Geist

She loved.

She was replete with antonyms that would juxtapose most beautifully. Rivers flowing in opposite directions. Patience, impatience, sanity, insanity; they all ran about her being without colliding.

Sometimes, at night, when the full moon would pour its milk down a loner’s window, she would count stars and pray for him. She was free-spirited. She still is. It’s just that, well, you don’t see her dancing in the forest or laughing in crowds anymore. You don’t see her red scarf silk its way through the street. You don’t see her at all.

A bird was shot in its left wing. A butterfly was chased away. A little girl was hurt in the playground. Bereft illustrations painted across the canvas of one’s mind. She was them all. And then she was none.

I often look for her these days. They say she died in some carnival. You can hear her laughter on the merry-go-round. You can see her ghost in mirrors.