Thursday, 30 October 2014


It’s funny how in a few days you can gain confidence again and feel entirely different, even if the surroundings-, but then even the surroundings glide.

And you can also get heartbroken even if you’ve never dated. But the confidence remained, because there was something, because now I’ve got the guts to admit, even if I didn’t see your eyes.

I am the melon of my feelings.

Someone is picture perfect.

Someone is a deja vu.

I never realized how much of a reserved person I am, until I realized that I don’t speak of it, there are too many things I don’t speak about. And maybe that’s why people presume I have no fear, because when no words are said is when the brightest colours are used and all of a sudden me chewing the canteen food becomes more majestic. And that’s why he seems more attractive

I wonder if you ask the dead enough, would they appear?

Lately I’ve been elevated and I know it feels like love, but if there’s no love, how come a distant feeling is compared to such?

I think if I were to somehow decide that I’ve been tipped over the edge that life’s colours are far too blurred and that I decided that if I would want to see the waters get drained slowly then I would have anger as the last passion, maybe if to choose something cliche I would either just slit myself open or grab some xanax, diazepam, what is it that you mix in the end? And I would listen to Monkey 23 just to have a fitting ending and hopefully I’ll be dead by the end of the song, in lukewarm water to pull me under because that’s how the wrong love feels like and 

It’s scarring when you realize that you’re not breathing and when in sleep you compare a new love to drowning, it’s scary just because you haven’t seen the other’s dice roll.

I think the rift begins when someone suggests you anything, even an apple and you say that you’re allergic to apples, so you shake your head because in the span of a year you’ve stopped eating said apples and talking to said person. Therefor the apple is a reminder that you’ve changed and they’re not aware of it. Sometimes it’s just bodies of people even mentioned over the phone, cord in hand and awkward questions to show sympathy, like are you getting hormones and the suffice nod is not suffice. The only one who could’ve heard was tracing his nails on the wall, waiting with the dial being the national anthem of prison. 

“Your hair is dyed too pitch black.” I say to him and his hazel eyes are upon me and I’m questioned by said parent on the other line. But the other inmate just gets a reply on the phone and that’s when I hastily leave, thinking of the cheap black dye which seems the only which was snuck in with yesterday’s cigarettes. 

I wonder if his silence will overmatch mine, we stay quiet for a few days and right an hour after the shower of the n-th day, hair still damp and his to be washed I mutter it again, the dye sticking to my eyes and he pushes me against the wall, both silences acting in favor until his words are formed in two bigger than us guys who stand behind him as his hands are around my neck and my breath is held for me, as I close my eyes, counting, my body slowly giving on, yet begging for a cough and the breath is met with an officer pulling the dyed hair man away.

“Cunt!” I yell at him and I just get hissed by other surrounding men, my ears knocked out by their mixed silence and aggressive shouting my mind muffled as the dyed hair man points at his throat again. 

I’ve still been in the weirdest of moods at night, sleeping, tucked in and feeling the slow winter cold approaching as the heating season barely starts and when the morning rinses everyone’s eyes it’s as if I’ve been up all night and shit breakfast just makes it seem more surreal, the meaningless of life becoming more monotone as there is constant struggle from everyone to devaluate us because in society openly killing someone is a sin which has to be paid, regardless of circumstances. 

And I wish I had no hope left.

The sadness of love washes over more often than tenderness because fear is the catalyst of all love disasters and endeavors. 

The cult of the world and it’s current fascists is far too strong, people think if the right blood flows in you with the right pearls tucked in gold, you’re fine. If I cared I would’ve killed such illusions, but killing someone next to the stranger on the street becomes ironic because no one notices until they’re dead and even then, I’m the one getting the pearls only tucked in silver.

No love stories are about trans people. 

I think he sits in front of me in the canteen and I’ve noticed him discard the meat from his tray every single time and I wonder how long will his starvation cure his belief. It seems ironic that you put something above when you already discard life. 

I want to dissolve as the sugar and in the night when everyone snacks some sleep right between two and four I hear the faint footsteps and I just solely allow myself to keep thinking until I get the hands around my neck and I try to sit up but instead he pushes me back and eyes adjusted to his silhouette already, I can’t see his features just how he is and he’s a bit frightening and I gasp as he tightens the grip.

Death can be sexual with the flashing fear.

It starts as a numb pain, springing further like a bullet, body giving in again and soon he lets go, as we hear more footsteps and all he does is push himself lower and the footsteps fade as I just hold the cough, my breath coming in harsh gasps and soon enough he pushes himself away-

killing me would just give him more years and that’s when he pauses, my body aches from lack of suffocation and touch. I massage my neck and just dig in back to the pillow, swings and mood are a roller coaster because you’re fed to dread being alone.

Does age makes us more bitter because we have bitter souurindings? So then it’s an endless bitter machine. I cough and I wake up the roommate near me who spends time just reading whatever they find in the library and their decision choice isn’t better, grabbing alphabetically whatever there is on the fiction section, this week it’s the letter O. I wonder if it’ll make them paranoid and how much more paranoid can you get in prison from reading Orwell?

When you wank in a cubicle, you’ve got the luck that someone else might be in the next one, since showers is a bit less personal with everyone peeking and screaming. Cubicles are less popular and as the days gather like rain water I start raiding through the newspapers, showing how evidant of a citizen I am and nearly each headline has a face I have seen and he starts showing up with all evidence covered, that all the murders are tracked and never confessed like my own. 

Love is twisted and it’s love once you admit it. 

Love becomes noise because you don’t know why it harms and what makes you settle with your own insanity.


I have far too much anxiety, because Nanowrimo is approaching and I've decided to do To Miles because all the new ideas I have I have to instantly write them down, I dunno I can't keep them in my head long, the characters start talking to me, the events start unfolding. I can't really keep ideas stored, I have too many and that's why I have so many started stories and eventually the chapters build up in my head and other stories get updated and sometimes I just binge to the very end. So yeah, I dunno. And anxiety doesn't help it, like choosing what the fuck to post. I also have a constant fear of a story not getting liked or a chapter and it just follows me. And in general I haven't been in the best mental places of all with anxiety firing and depression dunking me in. 

So it's always a constant struggle and I dunno, I just post it out and sometimes I have full stories written and I get terrified to post it, so yeah.

And regarding this story to be honest, it's awfully rough and I still enjoy it. I've been called a hypocrite recently, so that was… lovely. And I always hate myself so there's no fucking need to make me hate myself more, trust me. Even if I have ideas in the back of my head who it was. I cut off people because I frankly hate people, so I'm in this constant circle of hating people and wanting people to read me. It's fucked up, I'm fucked up and anxious. 

So the whole story is quite rough because I didn't even properly decide on the character's names (and being vulnerable becomes a question since I've been ridiculed for my openness and then the question arises again how much am I even valued?) 

In general I've been bugging myself for not writing enough fiction and trans characters, so I got quite excited making the main character trans and in general I got really angry at Orange is the New Black being another transphobic show and luring people in by saying that Laverne Cox is a main character when she no longer isn't. And yeah, I'll just keep silent on the other trans characters.

I was in a weird mood days ago and I was just writing down the rough thoughts so this chapter was nearly built sentence by sentence. And I like the whole obscurity of the prison and how it's non-linear as well and how messy it is. Also I'm happy to go back to writing about different mental health illnesses. 

The new photo of Jamie in Scarfo surfaced and the whole super pitch black hair inspired to give the second character the same tone and I just mused for a bit and made the character vegan as well. I know, I'm too inspired.

I hope you enjoyed it, please tell me if you did.

And I'll explain the title as the time comes. Sorry I'm quite anxious and I wrote everything in the story, really.



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