Looking for Orange or From so Virgin to so Frigid

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Summary

Personal notes - exposed: light prose and lyrics on excessive sadness & the vulnerabilities of being human... I wish it were a book of beautifully crafted raw emotions, but instead I’ve got some brutal words that “twist fragments of language into broken resemblances, like poems put through a paper shredder”. It’s a complete compendium of sad, silly and utterly stupid thoughts, ugly instances of damage… Why ugly? Because there is nothing pretty about breathing rust and consuming horror.

Genre:
Poetry / Other
Author:
Ysul Eropagnis
Status:
Excerpt
Chapters:
1
Rating:
n/a
Age Rating:
18+

Harvest Time

In previous life I was Thor. In the next one I’m a Decepticon.

Because

My tale is different – unkind.

I promised to bring Home

an agonized, wildly ravaged soul.

Part One

Why did I die?

Because it’s HARVEST TIME

Me: Where have you been all my life?

Him: Fucking other women.


The Dog

You know it’s different when you walk the street

and you see:

Everything is an impossibility. For you.

A man walking a dog?

In a previous life you’d think: “Nice. Why not?”

Today is different -

the man with dog

Is just another something

I cannot afford.

No joy left.

It seems

so…

And I know, it’s just a dog,

but this someone else’s dog

is barking at me my own epilogue!

Kind of a big event.

Stigma. The dog. Me. I want to join the Infinity.


I’m afraid to die as unhappy as I am now. I should die merry.


Winter

Drinking gluehwein next to the window,
watching the cars outside.

It’s morning, sight is blurry.
7 am? Too early…
[I should prepare the breakfast
but I’m undermotivated.]

Never felt home in here,

But I wouldn’t feel a stranger

If, beside me or in another room,
there was You.

It would be different., kind.

Just enough…

I would regain my might.

They say someday I will have it all

but it won’t be what I implore:

It will be another window;

some other cars;

and

definitely another You.

I’m not sad,
(but)

I would love to love You.

The thing I lost – I never had.

(Therefore),

Its recuperation – impossible.


This life is about nothing. I want everything to be over, but I’m afraid it’s not enough to just die.


I love You ...

Not a haiku.

On Symmetry

11:11

They say, when you spot such a symmetry on the clock,

someone set its mind on you and inside one’s head, you’ve got a dialogue.

Your random thoughts… and my so much-desired rendezvous:

I like to imagine that it’s You.

But no, I’m still god-free, a vacant wasted nobody

watching

You

sharing

your body non-stop, and I’m getting lost.

Too many...

If it’s me over there, then there’ll be no You in the affair.

It’s me. It’s the night dream.

But since You’re out of my story- all the interest You take in:

“You up for another orgy”

I must admit, I say:

It’s not You who thinks about me.

11:11 walk away.


If hell had a taste, it would be your taste!


He insisted to fuck me. Now I persist in loving Him...

[getting even]

Looking for Oranges

That Day When Nothing Went Okay

I remember YOU searching for oranges…

I believe there were two of them,

or three. YOU forgot them.

Somewhere else.

YOU dared ask me about them,

which struck me later since

I never recovered after that stranger.

That was the day when everything went wrong for good.

I used to think that I would, if only I could,

repair the damage done. Just a gesture

which was savagely misunderstood.

Oranges.

He was after the oranges, never after you.

He kept them on his mind, never was there you.

Never-love.
Scraper. Terror. Errors and depressors.

It’s not about self-esteem -

I just die to learn: why did I let a stranger in?


I think I was sentenced to death,

but

I got lost on my way to execution…

Now I’m stalking those incompetent executioners.


Your neglect doesn’t look sexy.


They save “Tattoo money” …

My tattoo money is actually “Burial money.”


Sometimes I think I love Him,

then I recharge my vibrator.


What’s wrong with me? I can’t shift my focus.


Removing the adverb for the sake of prepositions:

He thought he was fucking me well; meanwhile he was fucking me up. But very well, yes.


Today everything was pain.

Even sex.


Self-portrait:

Rather fuckable but absolutely not lovable.


He makes me wanna die, but he’s So. Not. Worth. Dying. For.

[So for now, I’m only crying.]

All is good and fine…

Still

I die

All of the time;

Too alive

in my mind.

I know I need to survive.

No help to expect

from suicide;

I must survive,

at any price!

I just don’t know how, not even why.

I’m starving for someone warm and... kind.


Well, between you and my sex toys there is one single difference:

They are nice to me.


Thought he’s the answer to my prayers?

All I wanted was a ‘someone’. Alive. Kind.

I got a dildo-person.

Absent.

Indifferent.

Not even mine.

I want all my waiting back.

I searched for a dangerous place;

I waited for a kind person;


I did everything I could.


Meanwhile Notes


While they talk - I fall

from the 20th floor.

I remember:

They talk – I fall.

They joke – I die – They smile.

I can’t talk – I’m not able to.

They go on, don’t notice…

There is an irony in how little their speech relates to me,

but somehow it kills me.

They drink something they like.

I drink whatever comes to my mind;

They talk meaningfully.

I speak disjointed phrases.

They assume it’s my character.

I burn in hell.

They laugh – I die one more time. Hard.

I see my skull.

I see my blood.

In their large smiles,

they don’t hear my cry for help

because I don’t cry:

I whispered in my mind, “Help me if you can.”

They can’t.

[I’m envious. Why can they live and I cannot?
It’s not that I want them to die with me; I want to live with them.]

*

I’m always, always on the verge of tears. I should control myself with no rest

so as not to burst into uncontrollable crying.

And this anxiety,

where does it come from?

“The heart race allegro,”

Weird for the others

and

tiresome for me.

And the infirmity,

not physical,

not anymore.

A spiritual nausea,

as if I did something…

but it’s not shame;

so vague,

hard to grasp its notion.


They say if you die a premature death,

you’ll spend the rest of the years you were supposed to live

somewhere between the worlds,

impotent,

stuck.

As if now I feel differently…

I can’t believe my choices

(which I remember very well)

led me to this.


I feel something I don’t recognize,

maybe nonexistent,

but not invented whatsoever.

Not by me in any case.

[Ruins reloading]


I knew it wasn’t love; what I didn’t know - it was psychosis.


I don’t need Anger Management.

What I need is Pain Management.


There will come a day

when I’ll be okay.

AHAHAHA


Mall. Shopping. Coffee. An old friend of mine:

Sitting next to her,

everything is fine,

but still I die.

Home:

My relatives – to me, they’re kind…

But I can’t stop…

I will die.


The learnt impo®tence.

Why does impotence resemble importance so much?


He proved what I knew,

I’m good for nothing,

and I’m sad

because I thought better of myself.


Why am I overdramatizing?

He’s the epitome of what this life may offer me

-

Nothing and even less.


Why not break my heart and pretend it’s experience?!


On morbid monogamy, not as a conscious choice:

I have to admit, I’m not mentally healthy enough to want the other men.


I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. Been there. Done that.

The hell.

This is why I don’t believe in the afterlife hell as I don’t believe in the existence of two hells:

There is no other hell

than the one

within myself.


Suicide isn’t only about what you obtain; it’s more about what you get rid of. So, if it sends me to an evil dimension, it still might be worth the pains: the truth is revealed in comparison, so if the torment will get duller over there, I’m still in!


Quiz, what’s common between anal and suicide?

After them you ask: “Why didn’t I do it earlier?”


Is getting into a coma perceived as sinful as suicide itself?


On a lover giving me oral:

You’d better kiss me than that thing. Envious of my own pussy? I think I’ve seen experienced everything!


I had to give up on sex: the post-sex-depression is worse than the one before it.


“To define is to limit”, well, I wanna limit him: he’s the definition of anti-affection.

I want to limit his indifference.


Please,
do me a favor.

Kill this stray soul

that eventually,
didn’t find a home.


“Don’t make a tragedy out of this comedy.”

Easy to say, but how do you accomplish it normally?

“Make peace with your broken pieces…”
How do you do that if the crisis only increases?

“Do not give a damn,” they say.
Meanwhile, they have everything, and I’m just doomed to stray,

to watch their fulfillment and acknowledge my weak resistance?

How many open wounds should I be kissing

Until contracting the deadly release from this magnificent existence?

Stuck in an odd relationship with Its Majesty Terror
(over-dying daily)

and committing adultery with the very notion of Horror
(anyone would turn crazy).
I never thought my life would decay in nonsense and error
(The last piece of joy has left too early).
To end up by swallowing those pills. Enough…
(But not too many)
People will not taste that heavy

(The wrongness of life – undone).

I will rise up, above,

and live my death.
Hard.


No more waves. They stopped. I’m in the middle of darkness, or something… I can’t distract myself from contemplating it: nothing makes any sense anymore. It seems I took a wrong train and am trying to get the right one – I completely lost my way, as I never had it.


This time I will not get over it. I’m not overwhelmed, nor exhausted. I have crystal-clear, lucid knowledge that this time is the last time. I will not wait for the next breakdown.

What you allow is what will continue.

So break the habit!


The Skype icon looks so wrong: there is no orange alert…no message for me – translated into the terms of this life, it means that there is nothing left for me!


They say we only play an assigned role on this side. There are no good or evil creatures. We’re all the same, practicing different faces.

My only problem is that my role is a sad role.

It’s a huge amount of sadness – I just can’t handle it.

No one wants to die. Neither do I.


Me: I love You.

He: Does it mean I can fuck you?


Is happiness only for the pigs?


I wish my name were Integra.

I know what I don’t have at all. It’s integrity. I don’t know where to take it from. Only integrity could compensate partially for your absence, but I can’t make a stand - I’m just a man.


Suicide notes versus Power notes:

All the things she didn’t say

couldn’t just vanish away.

This is why she’s still in pain.

After all the time and all… the loss feels only worse.

And it’s not even a real loss:

It’s not real. Not a loss, not at all.

Something I had: never, ever.

Change of subject sounds much better.

I waited for so long…

I shouldn’t, I know.

A deserted human in fractions,

sentenced to execution

by… painful prostitution.

Too naked.
Too punished.
Too disillusioned.

I possess no more armor,

Defenseless brain and the blessed coma,

because of all those cruelties. And trauma.

I must witness...and live intensely;

I’m trying to comply with my duty,

Which I agreed to bear, supposedly?

I believe in nothing. It’s only about fucking.

They abused me, for I’m here not for loving…


I love you to hell and never back with my entire overreacting mind.


I want to make history, moves, and money.

All I really make is non-productive pathos.


Trying constantly to convince myself: there is no pain - only psychosis.


It’s written, “I like people.”

I read, “I kill people.”


Not a Metaphor:

The indefinable sensation of falling, dying, mixed up with jealousy, sickness, panic, terror and horror, being lost – all at once.

It’s not pure jealousy. It’s something that reminds of it vaguely. It’s not just fear of something unknown. It’s a cosmic panic attack. It’s not disgust. It’s a physically perceptible sense of nausea that comes from deeply within your very self… And you’re not just being lost. It’s more of being crucified in the nothingness. If this is not hell itself, then what the fuck is this?

It’s dying, but too slowly. Usually people don’t feel each process that takes place in their organs. The cells keep replacing each other. The skin changes completely in a few years. They don’t even realize it: no waking up with such thoughts… But I do, I feel each molecule of my soul falling apart in agony. It’s wrong. I demand anesthesia. Or euthanasia.

The fact that I can’t feel joy makes me hysterical: trapped, trapped, trapped. Unheard. Punished. As if no one or no thing is ever to come to my rescue.


- Why did you do that?

- Well, long story made short: I don’t know.


Just read “How to prepare for death?

- Start early.”


It’s good that you are so mistaken in your ideas about depression. You aren’t contaminated.

But, for those that do understand:

It’s the return-home program turned on

for (un)known reasons

and seemingly, too early…

though, not necessarily;

the feeling is far from sweet:

your soul is being extracted and… you’re feeling it’s removal in slow motion,

getting dismembered

with no pain-killers.

Instead of blood,

it’s your life sprinkled all around

and

you can see it getting dried on the floor…

People don’t notice how they step on your tomorrow’s plans.


They say if you think about suicide you “call the death”.

It’s not true. If you think about suicide, the touch of death is a past story

-

You already have been called by it:

The death found you first.


I no longer believe in freedom of choice: I chose to live and so what? I’m still dying.


You can’t explain what’s like to be into suicide to people that “weren’t there.” Words won’t help unless you use them to mention something they already know. When you say “spoon,” you don’t stop to explain what a spoon is. Suicide - you need to use it, eat it and drink it daily in all its different available and unavailable forms. Only after living and re-living it, you may dare adopt an opinion.


“No commitment to vitalism.” – so true.


I love you,

but it means nothing.

Even to me.

[It’s Saturday morning]


Insipid life. Today is another tasteless day.

But at least there is almost no pain.


How could I know that I’m dysfunctional and my reactions will totally differ from what I saw in my father and mother?


That moment when the sane phase lasts a bit and you start making plans – regular plans for an equally normal future…and then it hits you, the glorious comeback of your illness. Hilarious.


An urgent need to protect myself from this life.

[looking at my gun]


Current mood “Dropped out.”


We escape one shitstorm only to collide onto another one. There is nothing good; there is nothing to be proud about the fact that you survived a depression crisis.


Philosophizing with a hammer condom

Don’t you dare tell me it’s too deep when I say something. Secondly, because it is not too deep; and, firstly because you are the one who is a real ‘deepness’ lover, and I take it, never complain, never argue. If I can take your go-in-deep sex preferences - you can take mine. Trust me: you do. It’s called compromise and collaboration.

Otherwise, you can get down that female unicorn you’re riding and finally get real: fuck you!


At least, this time it doesn’t feel like I’m dying. Not sure if it’s something to be happy about. Happy. Taboo word. I’m not supposed to be happy. People are born with the innate programming for happiness; seemingly, I am not an exception: every time I’m in pain, I think it’s wrong. My brain tells me that there is no error in this scenario, but my feelings are wasting each bit of rationality I earned during two decades and a half. Emotions – unreal, indefinable, sickly– I wonder if the pills I’m going to take will dump me into a worse condition.

realize. stay conscious. knowledge. awakening.

enough I had.

I want to overcome it. let me get over You.


Fuck no.

I am on it.

Now

I can fix it.

I can’t fix myself,

but I can fix everything else: I will speed up - my plans will be accomplished in the shortest time and I’ll just fade out my name and existence. I say stop. Now. I don’t know what I did and what I’m paying for. Whether you help me excel my condition, whether you get the fuck out of my way: Do not mess around with me.


Notes to self:

[…] and remember this is not real, your brains played a trick on you again: you’re deranged; your body is not fine. Do not trust what you feel.


Why naked? I always get naked when I run out of ideas.


They: Do not let anybody steal your joy.

Me: Too late.


Dangerous is the new beautiful.


What I will never ever have:

The emptiness that I have to fill continuously and if I fail one single time, it’s too late.

So many times, I had to die.

Each time I held on.

In an ill hope…

Wrong!


There is something wrong with this brain:

it wants things it doesn’t want;

it needs things it doesn’t need;

it gets upset, hurt, and down about things it shouldn’t be concerned with.


“You have my demission from humanity”– Sorry, Emil Cioran, for I don’t deserve to speak in your words.


Fuck you all. Leave me alone. You don’t see me.

Fuck me for I failed – don’t know why and where.


At first, in the early stages, you will be like “I can do it; I take the challenge.”

Or, you will be down, but since you don’t know what a horror show awaits you, death won’t make any sense to you (actually, it doesn’t even now).

It seems far away, certainly not a solution, too “heavy.”

Just no.

So, at the very beginning, when you will not breathe rust and consume horror for the 3-am-breakfast, in the breaks of your mental illnesses (if it’s an illness at all), you will make lists of things that are supposed to help.

You will be selective.

Later you will be more like, “desperate situations require desperate measures”; stupid things to live for will only annoy.

In time, you will go insane: from a bit crazy to utterly mad, you will do whatever it takes just to keep going, to stay alive.

Finally, nothing helps.

Desperation is grey, not black;

Suicide is trivial, not heroic,

and I’m pathetic too.

Remember: this heavy pain that buries you alive; this death that doesn’t really kill, only suffocates, slowly, with no close visible end;

this torment –

it doesn’t have a name, it’s not described in books, nor shown in movies.

People don’t talk about it.

Remember this pain, because it definitely remembers you.


It seems that you have so many things to do, but you don’t. They just forgot to tell you.


Nothing that used to make it easier earlier works now:

all the methods, strategies, ways - they failed. All at once.

It’s scary.


I know, there is no one single reason to be upset.

I should be happy. There is no loss.

In the meantime, the titanic hole in my chest is getting only bigger.


Day by day,

pain by pain,

they say

it’s a zero sum game.


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