New Age, Chillout.
Feel free to search more musics. This artist is well worth it.
What makes you stay around someone problematic? Someone who doesn't cease to piss you off and to dry your nearly non existent patience? It doesn't makes of you a bad friend for leaving anyone behind, especially if that person keeps on sticking in problems, after being warned way too many times.
I don't repeat myself, when I speak of something serious.
I won't say the same thing twice, three times, a hundred fucking fuck times. Do you want to be and act like a moron? Do you want to have the cops riding the car slow after you on dark alleys, when they're a threat themselves? I really don't need any more excitement nor anymore danger in my life (not those I ask for, myself).
If you want to be a moron, if you want to act stupid, if you wanna get the crap beaten out of yourself, then just go for it! Don't make others hang around more than once - and it's also my fault for accepting to hang around with you, the same way I reject her company.
Go fuck yourselves.
Waste your-fucking-selves, but leave me fucking alone and out of your fucking problems and dramas. I have no time, nor patience to waste.
Thank you. Goodnight!
Let me take this to a whole new level. I need it. You need it. "We all scream, ICE CREAM!"
Oh, no. Wrong "singing"!
Glue your hair. Grab firmly to something.
Close your eyes. Or look around.
Do you like the darkness within? Do you kiss it softly, with glimpses of a glimpse? Do you crave for the questions over your soul and existence itself?
Do you ever speak to the night and you feel like you're being answered? Well, maybe you are!
"The Theater Of Dusk" contains 13 short stories (I think some experts would call it "tales"), that'll leave you chasing something to the darkness. Now it's up to you, to unveil it or not. Are you brave enough?
Any of those links will aid you to find more information about the author herself and even the book. Check out the author, check her work and remember to drop a rating and a review of the book.
Independent authors survive of words themselves. May it be reviews online, on any blog or where you got the book from, speaking about the book to family and friends or even buying copies to them.
I overthink about nearly everything.
I think. And think again. And even if I don't take a single step to change, I think again. Stupid, useless and actually very sad, but I think and keep thinking and thinking again.
One of my latest and most recurrent thoughts is about this blog and it future. With this, I analyze the possibility to annihilate my Twitter and my Tumblr accounts, to start 'em over. What's the point? What's the fucking point? And still, I keep desiring such things and thinking about them. What will change with that? What will come my way by doing that, that hasn't come until now? The answer: nothing!
My life needs immediate changes and it'll only happen if I work my butt off to get all my effort paid. If not, Iit doesn't really matters how much I whine, and cry, and curse whatever is there to be cursed. Action attracts change, not being on inertia.
I see time passing by. I realize how fast it's vanishing and yet I am stupidly enough to stay in my little bubble.
I put people aside and away. I am tired of dealing with them. I am tired of the joy of a day being rhe argument of another one. I am tired of sick and senseless gossip, of back talking and back stabbing. I am sick of people pretending and lying and faking their friendships. And I see this a lot.
One of the most current thoughts (have I mentioned that I think and think and think?... ), is my desire to leave everything and everyone behind, head to North and disappear in the old village where my grandparents were from and lived nearly their entire lives. I wouldn't regret it and I wouldn't think on returning to the city that I curse now. I've had friends and acquaintances moving to a different city or to a different country and they returned not long after. The reason? They missed their friends.
I couldn't return because of my friends. I wouldn't do it.
My desire. My madness.
And all of my thoughts are driving me crazy, letting me without any peace of mind.
The older I get, the more I think. The more I desire.
I've closed the other blog I owned. I mean it, the privacy settings on it allow only invited readers to it and I haven't invited anyone. Why? Well, first and foremost, it's my blog, my rules, my decision. Then, it came a time that the link, the blog title weren't exactly what I truly wanted. A joke (that at a certain time became offensive - and do not get me onto the same level of those Internet users who get offended even by the farts of Gods themselves! ) that made sense, times after, as my allowance to have people joking at me. A joke that I want dead and buried and that I have turned onto something new, on a new platform.
As for this very old blog... I thought about closing it too. I mean, years passed by since I have opened it, to share images to which I'd add somr phrases of my own. I got advised to write longer texts and I did so, after deleting those initial entries. In the meantime, more entries and images have been constantly deleted. I don't regret it, but I'd pretty much preferred to have kept it the way it was, with all it flaws, with all the revealing traits of my personality.
I feared (and fear until this day) the opinion and the idea of others about me. This is the main reason why I've allowed such mutilation to my blog.
Back to the point, I thought I could block this blog for a while an try it out somewhere else. I will try it somewhere else, for sure, as I did with my Portuguese blog, but I'll keep this blog up and running as much and the best I can. In the due time, what has been deleted will return. Of course it's not exactly the same, but... Well, I am still me and many of my tastes haven't changed that much. I still like hot, muscular men, especially if they're wearing uniforms. I'm still into some forbidden pleasures. In the end, it's still about me, myself and my own life, thoughts, desires. I am myself and I am happier with who I am.
I still need to rant.
But the sun has risen outside and I haven't slept yet. I need to sleep a bit - and no, sadly I am not a vampire. If I were one, I'd possibly have fanged off the head of a few morons.
We live and keep living. We meet and keep meeting.
There is nothing else than those quiet nights. Or agitated nights, when you feel the stress of danger. There is nothing else than the night.
We walk those streets. Talk and feel the night, feel highed, feel everything and nothing at all.
Go. Keep going. Keep fighting and struggle. Do not give up now. That's not an option. Not now. Not anymore. Keep going. Even if you don't allow yourself to feel, to love, keep going. Keep fighting. What you believe, keep believing, keep fighting for your beliefs. We've been made for that.
Our ultimate belief is that we gotta annihilate each others. And we keep fighting. We keep working on our own extinction.
Quiet night. And none of those phrases make sense. Do they?
"Why are you crying? " the man asked.
The little girl kept crying, under the pale moonlight, silently.
"Why are you crying?! " he then insisted.
"Because you're dead" the little girl said, with her face hidden between her hands. Then se proceeded: "you juat don't know yet!"
The man grabbed the little girl from the shoulder, with a face of incredulity, and yelled ferociously : "What did you said? "
The little girl turned to him, with a huge open jaw that had enormous fangs coming out and cuted the man's neck. He fell on the floor, with blood gushing as his body shaked, until the last drop of blood dripped. The little girl's big tongue became a small, normal girl's tongue in a nlrmal girl's face.
"I told you" she said, as she kicked the corpse before walking away and disappearing in the woods, "we were dead. You just didn't knew it"
No one gives a damn.
No one knows either.
I feel the night passing by the music that I listen to, I feel the melancholy burning in my soul. One cigarette after the other. One thought, another one and even a third one. They race like maddened horses.
No one gives a damn.
No one even knows.
They see through me and some have even chosen to try it out. It wasn't in that night, but I an aware it'll happen. I am OK with that - the desire of one is the desire of another one. It harms me not. It kills me not.
They see through me. They don't see in me. They don't realize how deep my soul goes, they don't feel the madness in my heart, the sadness in my life.
People aren't aware.
I am not reflecting everything in me anymore.
I don't hide. I don't open the game up.
I live according to what I am, to what I feel. And it's something. It is a big something.
Do not test me. Do not test my patience. Despite my low patience, despite my sarcasm, I'm a nice guy. I can be a very good friend, even though I fail - people justify this with my humanity.
Do not test my good will.
I am aware of who you are for a very long time. You haven't fooled me that last time. I knew you was taking the money and not giving it back. However, do not keep asking for more - those €5 have been enough and do not text me with excuses (I see them as lies), do not text me asking me to pay you a coffee or you take the risk of getting a reply equal to the one I sent you right after: "I wanna see the day that you're paying me something".
You haven't replied.
There is this other guy - he used to be a mutual friend. This other dude doesn't calls or texts as often as he used to.
This guy also had to learn that I am not to take only.
Oh. And yesterday night. Cigarettes and coffee? How did I guessed that you too wouldn't be waiting for me for an hour and a half outside, if it wasn't because you wanted something?
I walk the streets alone, once again. People only want to take things from me. People hope to get and yet, they never givr anything in return. People take things from me and when I have nothing, they go and give things to the other friends and shit in my head.
And this is why I prefer to be alone, to sit alone, to walk alone.
I just had an idea what to write about and it just vanished from my mind. What a surprise.
I should be sleeping by now. Some people are even waking up and I haven't even laid in the bed to sleep. How do I expect changes, when I am the first one pissing in any possibility of making them? It doesn't matters much by now - Sunday morning.
I was on Tumblr a while ago. I look at certain Tumblrs - people share beautiful imagery of scenery, beautiful quotes, sad quotes, feelings of all kinds. Some share nearly explicit erotic photographies and then, on a second account, they make somewhat of a photohraphic diary of their lives. I suppose the same happens in any of their social utilities. It doesn't really matters.
I feel somewhat of lost. Frustrated at the feeling of not being capable of setting myself free of doubts of all kinds, of doing whatever I have to do, of doing whatever I feel like doing. I feel frustrated at what I see around, at what I feel like being capable of doiny and getting myself in somewhat of trap. It'll be OK. Everything is going to be Ok.
I am a mix between light and darkness. Joy and sadness. Erotic and behaved.
I am getting to a point where I could be extremely comfortable, if it wasn't for such doubts.
I need to move on.
I am always wanting to do something. Too many things at the same time. I want to draw. Then I want to write. Oh, maybe I should craft something. And I end up with nothing done.
I know, I know. I should stick with priorities. But what are my greatest priorities at the moment? Getting a new daytime job. I have added the lacking details to my curriculum, so I am ready to order a few prints of it, to distribute them here and there, to e-mail them to some stores. Another of my priorities, perhaps the greatest one, is to live - and I keep living. I keep on trying and trying and trying. Isn't it enough? I try again!
My art... I do it when it has to be done. When I feel that the right time is there. For now, I am just back on re-writing my diaries. I think I can call it of editing, since there are lots of things thrown away. Years of moaning and groaning, writing three days in a row the same thing? I need to keep only what's important. Not everything is for one's eyes - not even mine.
I think that, despite I keep on doing and moving, insecurity still is my greatest flaw. And it's what makes me want to edit all my diaries, to re-write by hand all of my poetry, what means nearly two thousand (2000!!!) poems so far. But it's what I feel I have to do. It is what I have choosen to put as my main priority on my "creations and recreations". There are ideas crossing my mind. I just need to get myself straighten up, ready to go ahead. Because this next task... it isn't easy at all.
I see nothing.
I feel nothing.
The birds sing at four in the morning - I thought I was going crazy, but the birds we're really singing.
She makes me happy. I feel happy for the times we talk to each other - others think I just wanna fuck them (or get fucked by them ). Fuck them all. Burn them all down.
Ideas flow in my mind and yet I won't write, I won't draw, I won't make the small things I want to and feel like to.
Ideas flow in my mind. Some would be unread, unseen. Others, would possibly delight the world.
I am back to reality. Reality bites. Everything bites.
I know what you're made of - I guess I simply wanted to fool myself, young man.
I see you online, wandering the streets and you shit in my head, when I help you whenever I can, even taking the damage on my own budget.
You say nothing and keep on acting like shit.
I know how shitty you are. You don't surprise me. Not anymore.
I remember looking at the night sky and seeing the lightning cutting it in two. Or three. Or ten.
I remember staying outside as it rained hard and the thunder shake even our souls.
The scented smoke in the air.
There is no such thing as unfortunate numbers. Like 27.
People die at the age they have to die. It just happened that a certain unfortunate group of young people, living dangerously on a borderline, had the end of their lives at that age. Blame their options, not the numbers.