Suicide by Asphynxiation

The diamond dew of stars, dripping every dawn from the nightsky onto the morning grass. Moon, the scarcest of pearls, inside the shell of clouds. The sapphire sun. Works of the divine jeweler. As in the enormous ornaments of the unfathomable, made to make this world beautiful. All this while I can’t see. I don’t love myself. I never did. I never will. Yet I survived another day of summer. Not really funny anymore how the time flows. People get scared by the number of years they’ve lived, a number that barely ever changes; I dread the number of days or single moments that I’ve misspent. Here goes another. And one more. Never ever to return. Goodbye. I haven’t even met you really. Doesn’t matter how deep my memories lead, I won’t ever see you again. I suppose it’s not your forties or fifties, it’s your twentieth birthday that’s the half of your life. Time speeds up, that’s why, accelerates exponentially in the subjective. Now: half way through, half due. Even if we lived thousand years, it would still be half. A brief flash. I’m surrounded by the untouchable daylight. Also it’s my third month that hasn’t brought me a line. The ink is too bright for my thoughts. It’s hard to live through days incessantly conscious of a self-thought twilight. Well why would I not go on living if I love to be dying? Before me lays an oxen jaw: golden rust on quiet cattle bones. Horns of Helios. My sole nudges it slightly. An assiduous sarcasm chimes between the evergreens. Falconess unlistened to. I remember that in this estivating monotone I sometimes managed to find a syllable or a line with nature’s ways within. In the melody of water. In the search of wind. In the dreamy drone of crickets. Sycamores shake off their dry skin like snakes. Something hides in the bushes, but I try not to notice, sinking instead carelessly in the lethargic syrup of time. Phantoms of wheat on desolate meadows seem to dance in the heat. Sun is a horrifying timeteller; one-way pendulum. Next, there’s my own shade on the ground. Then there’s the other one glued directly to my nether side. And then there’s the wide darkness between both of us. I must’ve vanished somewhere in between. Strange. I only walked some pasture. Why does it feel like I lost the focus of my existence? The more time we have, the less time there is. In fact, as far as I’m unaware, there is no time. My eyes really do touch this light, discretely and intimately. There is no air to separate us, I am the instant heir. Moments obviously draw out the longer you stare at them, they’re part of you. Eon of the gods. I stare into something between me and what I look at, snapping out of it disappointed. Here, tombstone in the grass stalks: horrid monolith of a dehydrated snail simmers in the scorching sun, brutally. Shelly chalice filled with citrine sand. Lemon house. I have this feeling that I can’t quite hold on to. It’s as if there is only time, no me, and every moment forgets about the last one dying into the next one, in a heavenly morbid succession. Worn out welcome of past. The unbroken rhythm of resurrection. The sun moves slowly upwards; a balloon cast inattentively by a child. It is in a way. Leaves trail. My hands. Look. Now. I study compositions of the lines that change with time in me. Did it ever seem different? Was your hand any smaller than now? Would I be less satisfied if I died at seven? Shining, orange childhood, luminous, beaming with ease. I’m a lucid dream that never ended. And my dreams like stars too: I see them every night and I forget how unreachable they are by day. Why though are there never any stars in my dreams? So empty: pale copies of this ceramic sky, hung in that ethereal nothingnesslessness. I feel a nauseating resentment towards something I can’t name. Maybe that’s why. Somewhere behind me sounds a bird that you hear only once in your life, right away and forever forgetting her uniqueness. Ptyx pterux. I scatter slowly across this narrow hourglass of experience, loon and lonely. I see no water around me, yet everything flows. I see no fire, yet everything burns. I see no earth; all covered up. And I certainly see no air. There’s no elements. No constants to hold on to, always moving, and in a strange way unlike memories, untraceably. The evermorphing architecture of chaos. Ecocentric. I wonder what exactly is written in the stellar volumes of silent lullabies. Imagine we inversed the colors of the nightsky. Nonillion of black bears hibernated in the tundra of white welkin. To comprehend the light of all stars you would have to become the infinite darkness of all space. I step into the forest fixed in semislumber. Sleepwalking through naves of the cathedral woods I sometimes touch the coarse pillartrees, not connecting, rather carelessly or by accident. The grimaces of mascaron rinds menace tall above my stranger silhouette. Every stem an altar, with resin tears of blood purring slowly. I can make out veins of wind stream between gargoyle branches. Leaves, the feathers of trees, stutter in a tense choir, in unison. Dissonances in paeans of doves accompany ghoul angels, whisper celestial slur and recede again. Soma smell. Notice: every experience dyed by the ink of thoughts, mercilessly unilluminated. Somewhat unexpected, an obsidian butterfly appears before: perturbed moth trying to escape the mazy orchard, lost in the dazzling lights of dizzying irreality. Falls in time waiting for its last unpromising metamorphosis. I am too. Enslaved in the cocoon of mortality. For a moment I really forgot about it. I got lost. Again, I’m not afraid to admit it. I pride in it almost. It’s when you despair, being delighted with your obscurity, that’s when contradictions start to impair. Insistent susurrus of decisions, regrets spent in the labyrinth of unmade choices. Please believe me when I say that I don’t exist. I really don’t. I couldn’t. That is the economy of my sorry soul, exemplified in the vicissitudes of karmic kismet which still amaze me. Actions first thought, thoughts first acted, benevolent and violent, mirrored mutually in. Out of the blue: a droplet on my hand. I spread my arms looking for the rain, feeling on them nothing but weary wind. My eyes return to see an amber bead, rolling down my own skinny branches, stickily, slowly, leaving a gummy scree of orangey ochre on me. But I do think of rain. And water. Of Aquarius. Leo. Her. Sometimes I feel like certain people exist only to be noticed just once. To inspire one of my lines and that’s it. Imagine that: from dusk to doom, one whole life, sacrificed for one insane sentence. A civilization for one word. Whole universe for one sound. The existence for god. Maybe I’m a sentence in someone’s life. One brief blaze in brain. Funny how reflections wander in the gloom. Clattering as a trapped rattlesnake, the electricity of thoughts entombed in this cranial sarcophagus; all this light seen within the darkness of my skull. I am here inside. Or do I? Am I me or is something else me? In order to prove myself I need a stronger proof. And so, before me circles a whirligig of summer flies; the sound always reminded me of the worst. Z. Lonesome locust of living. Uz. Perennial plague of perception. Uzz. An eye. Buzz-buzz. The lush fur of a bumblebee caresses my skin by accident; its touch light as shadow, suddenly ending my neuronal ennui, scaring the hive of hubris. I persuade the muscles to nudge. Urging urns of cones fall under crowns, ash dispersing fountainly, from dust to dome. I take a small leap of faith, stepping out of the thicket again in smoldering pulsations of quietude. I can hear the yearning in years, for once echoing through the coasts of aching consciousness. Somewhere out there, in here. The exhausting duty of beauty to be noticed. We convince ourselves to the disillusions of joy thinking we deserve more from this life, blind to the wealth of teachings, too stubborn to listen to our noisy angels. The puzzle of being as a fantasy I’m constantly committed to. Dream away. Nobody starts with all the pieces. We find them, loose them, reassemble them and miss them, and in the end we realize the answer to the riddle wasn’t the end, or a point even – no, it was always the path, or a line. Objective, yet without objectives. Purposeful yet without purpose. Taoistically I look. There: the sun is in zenith. Candle fire melting blue wax all over the sky. The mixture in butter clouds stirs languorously by. Just like me in my phial of flesh; my own alchemy of impressions, expressions and obsessions. Next a caravan of ants wanders through the cream dirt of a desert, meaningfully, white fluff of dandelions tiding over them. Forty chapters of moonless Sinai. I look at the abundance of paths on empty cardamom hills, numb to their insignificance. Why do I always feel the need to be something else? It’s never the time or place. I’m not lost, I just don’t know where to go, and my whole life this way. There would be no directions if not for the destination. But, I keep reminding myself, the purpose of the start is not to end. I look further: a scarecrow mannequin looms lonely in the distance, hollow hood, silent scythe in unseen sways. I kneel down to smell the milky mandalas of roses, feeling the faintly wet surface of elusive petals, even though my other senses are mutually dried. Too arid to flow forward. Flowers, where you find such urgency to flourish? The longer I live the less I do. What’s your secret? My shadow, a sickness of light, veils flowers with its hazy gaze. They suffocate in disphosphorescence. Every single shadow is just another proof for the existence of sun. The heaving frame of flame, always reminding us we’re but its art, dependently unalone. Younger than thoughts I am too, current never forgotten. Infinite spores of its aura. I look down but even then the sizzling scepter of sun shines at me through the puddles. Gloomy vapor levitates, a fog from the unstoppable rain of years. My own numb mist of senses. I only ever remember exhaling. We tend to forget about breathing, but once we do finally become conscious of it, it’s never on the downbeat. Once I myself think I breathe, it always starts with inhaling. Then I think of wind, and of water. Immediate fluorescence of safe thoughts. What if rain fell upwards? It gets colder the higher you go, doesn’t it? The seas would vaporize, with drops surging and transmuting into snowflakes. Visualize torrents pouring up: ceaseless blizzards to no end. Eventually the snow would cover the heavens in clear, creamy, heavy fluff. Imagine all the moons. Circular crystals, frost and immobilized in orbits. The wide sky of white then filled with frozen orbs of stars. We would all look at them from the barren deserts of our dead planet. I envision myself standing on one of those empty, futile plateaus, looking at the planets suspended in the infinite vacuum of luminiferous aether. Vastly vacant I seem with it, shortly spaced in long time to longingly time my short space. Funny how brief it is, this whole experience. Hallow inhale. The dirty air suffuses my fiery lungs. Breathe prismatically now. I exhale halos of oxygen, in intervals, slowly blowing off the obedient dandelion of sunstar. Just look at it: how it scatters, how it dances. It flows, falling, flying, fading, the petals of shoals of snow of souls. Dithered life dead by dice, disrupted. Awaking anew, chancing the ice. Twinkling dervishes of novas ebb off the galaxies. Instantaneously the whole cosmos falls back on its knees to beg for manifestation. How can we despise the sound of God so much as to mute and muzzle it with our worried doubts? Qualms of quakers. The gossamer gathers back on the vivified heath of earth as waters rain and drain into the world, soaking in the lonesome soil. Shimmering woodvines grow into the ground, into one another, one through the other, ushering the cities of never-ending sequoias, or bouquets of skeletal palaces: veined thorny, bloody bodies made of roses. I can see it all up close, clean and clear, dreadfully distinct, seeds of light planted geometrically into the darkness. Infinite fleece of watered trees. The holy garden of our planet: jewels of Eden. See zircon clouds embezzle the firmament shroud refracting in the turquoise seas. Pathway of the sun, the golden necklace of our sky. Diaphanous waters wash the beaches made of sandscree, slowly, steadily interlocking with emerald woods like hands of millions of lovers. And just like that, with nothing but a most natural phase of silence I speak the existence into itself. Land made of love. Land made with love. I won’t enumerate all the permutations of landscapes with gemstones: you get the idea. God’s wedding gift. And all of it so brief and tender. There’s ‹us› in ‹dust›. Stop. I can’t. I just fucking can’t. My silly thoughts change literally nothing. Nothing will fix this. Ever. I will always stay this way. Giving up my vacant imaginations, uncomposable with the tools I’ve been given, I feel like rain: mostly invisible, rest translucent, falling in futility on the oceanface. Useless cyclone. Uselessly pointless. I drown in the ennui of stars, the radiant redgreenblue idling apathetically. Masochism of any kind is an acquired taste: like whisky older than yourself; or dark chocolate; or cold showers; or gari ginger; free jazz; long, long novels. I have weaved myself dead. Addiction to agony. No. No, instead: imagine living at the bottom of the ocean. An everlasting fog wherever you look, and the only certain thing, discernible, is the bottom. How is the sky so black despite all the stars? I come back a place. That would be home. Seems like everyone means something when they say it. Maybe they really do. Maybe it is me. I put a song on: throughout years I have loaded this one with the worst moments of my life, accruing tears in terror. My sleepless years. My first breakup. My second breakup. My unutterable aimlessness. Some deaths. This night feels like museum paintings, especially now with the diptyque candles lit about, endlessly rebrushing the impressionistic kaleidoscope of eve outside my window. It opens into some other season. A last winter, forgotten between the random smudges of all the others. A branch strokes percussively paranoiac thoughts on glassfalls inside their pane, the idea being to mock me. Tip. I marvel at the jesters of doom in my sick delicious spite. I must be mad. Of course I gaze outside and get stopped by my own reflection in-between. Despising this body ahope, a body that most would exchange theirs for. The addiction to mirrors. Universe is just you inverse. Fanatically shy before my own image; she’s narcissistic, I’m not. I have known for a while that she’s not real, I can’t cast this foreign phantasmagoria on the mirror’s edge. I’m a self-biting vampire, bleeding, not reflecting. A nymph drinking her own lymph. I can’t afford indulging in my overzealotries of anxiety anymore; pricey habit of living in Limbo for love. I can’t even recall that first eddy of butterflies. My own stomach, so distant. Opening to the paradox of Pandora, I finally encounter some resemblance of emotions while spilling deltas in my sink. The shape of a candleflame is the same as that of a tear. Shortlived, worthless gift, as I manipulate myself into apathy again. Sociobath. Stygian spa to forget all the worry. Shave off, porcelain china doll. I’m less like being, more like unreal. Closed within the sanctuary of sensations. Suicide by asphynxiation. Imagine the amount of hate you have to carry within to want to annihilate yourself because you don’t know an answer to a riddle. I’m not entirely conscious of what I’m doing. Maybe that’s why I finally can. The diaphanous liquid starts to outline a rising surface. Water; half an echo. Warm mirage of the window molds a cavy reflection on the ceiling, myriads of meandering mermaids swimming through it. Last lost lights dancing on the vault. And it’s all my fault. I spill the shampoo right under the showerhead stream, into the tub, let free, whole bottle, until the entire vague shadow squeezes through, then bath salts. I don’t even mind if it’ll burn. My senses are trying to at least get the scent across. Calendula, juniper, lavender rosemary, aromatherapeutic marjoram and voluminous ylang-ylang. I know it’s too much; I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t. Soap of dead. Suffocate. Suffer. Do you remember your first smell? Mine was traumatic; never found out what it was exactly. Foam it up, I’ve got enough of mirrors. Foam. Fo am. Scaffoldings of the molecular conspiracy. Why are all my thoughts always so against me? My god is dyslexic, I’ve got mental wealth instead of health. Use eggwhites they say: mountains of bubbles. Blooming with alien flowers and odd and ghostly, unalive fetuses cover the fields of Asphodel. Thank you, but no. I’ve got enough of ideas reminding me of samsara. I don’t want to ‹reincarnate› into anything. I want to exit. I just want to exit, okay? Unbecome. Never have happened. Unbe. Pour-soi-side. What better thing to live through than death? I descend, submerging my cold feet in the hot silver of froth. Its effervescing reminds me of the television snow and is even similarly glassy in touch. A shiver goes through my body, shaking my bones, reminding me that there’s a skeleton inside me; a souvenir of my imminent demise. Or one of the grotesque relics of void imbued within. Every couple years there comes a moment when I regret not killing myself the first time I thought of it: at seven. As in really regret, not like feeling sorry for myself or fantasizing about it in the dark. I mean regret. I mean this like not having said ‹sorry› to a dead loved one. I mean this like a wishless birthday’s midnight. I mean this like procrastination up until old age. I mean this like miscarriage during the sixth month. I mean this like dead puppy. I mean this like misadventure on opiates. I mean this like original sin. I mean this truly. I’m begging you, just fade please. Please. I want to go to sleep a dead girl. It’s somewhere around this metaphor that pills wear off, by brute flash, briefly letting me apprehend the scene: I’m putting me back in my own wombtomb, embalming myself in the amniotic syrup exhumed from within me. Hung from the umbilical forget-me-not, both mother and daughter to myself. Sink in my veins’ ink. Maybe that’ll be dark enough. I imagine my skin afterwards, the one that someone will find void of breath eventually: pastel-pallid milk surrounded by cherry blossom; an inverted Japanese flag. Accidental occidental geisha in her final act. Me as my own nemesis. Water croons threnodies for me. I consider calling someone. I wouldn’t know what to say. Nobody will just say ‹goodbye›. Really mean it too. I don’t wanna listen to all that noise said with guilt or fear or purpose or whatever it is they’ve panically got. If someone called me… I would just ask why. Are you sure this is what you want? Okay. No, I get it. I think I would too. Sorry I said that thing. It was nice knowing you. Or I wish we’ve known each other better. You didn’t deserve this misery. I won’t stop you, you probably tried everything by now. You know best. I honestly hope you won’t suffer anymore, I truly do. I wish you luck. Really thank you that you existed, name. Goodbye. Silent hourglass. Slept out of sight. Pour my wine into it. My first true tears, all in vain. Softest I’ve ever. I didn’t even notice when… Foam snowed. Redpetalled hibiscus. Ruby bath. Some smell. Soma scent, sound. Moan. Soon. Sun. Moon. Monsoon… And during this one moment… Everything happens once more. Insert your life here. It’s only way after, waking up, that I realize what happened. The feeling when you stand up too quickly and all blood drains from your head downwards. I’m sorry I can’t make up a better comparison. Tumuli swell in your eyes mantling mine. Sunlit moonlid. I’m so sorry I never told you how I felt. There aren’t enough stars to scream it on. I couldn’t say ‹I love you› without whispering ‹I hate me›. Everything I touched turned mirror and I couldn’t have that for you. I’m sorry I’m hugging you signed by scars of surrender, through thin veils of barely. That I would let Styx lure me out from you. For this silly thing, this jejunely dramatic dream. I know you’ll forgive me, the perfect tyke you are, and I’m sorry I disbelieved so far into the tempest. Maybe one day, one distant birthday, yours or mine doesn’t matter, we’ll wish for the candlestars. Maybe I’ll comprehend that if you just whisper love, the true kind, then there’s no volume left for anything else in the world. And that doing it on one planet might be more than enough. Maybe then I’ll learn how to lay with you, on the dewed grass, at dawn, blowing at the stars, blowing off the dandelion of universe into the passing night. Would you like that?