So, let’s play.
Listen to the thing, then read the thing. yeah.
So, if you listened to that thing with the play button up there you know that this is a thing that makes my brain go into that id more that we all have and you get to the basic primality of the self and ignore things like social constructs, good manners, legality and the entirety of civilized behavior. You simply focus on the needs, the pure needs.
This is me; this is the base me; this is theme that some of you know, some of you have heard about and that some of you are completely unaware of. If you want to not read this because it is all adult like, well, the internet is a really easy place to get the fuck off of and I welcome you to use the mouse and keyboard to do what you will as soon as you will.
Still with me? Good, let’s talk about some things.
I suppose music has to be first. At least for me. It is literally that primal rhythm that makes your heart beat faster, that makes your skin turn cold or heart and makes the hairs on your arm stand tall, or maybe something else stands up depending on the music and what kind of mental place you are in.
For me it is that deep and dark. The drums you feel rather than hear, the screaming voices rather than the sung verses, the guitars that cut through you, the bass that vibrates your entirety. Like I said above, Otep’s Autopsy Song is the best example of this for me. When she hits that crescendo, I mean, unf is the word I have to use and I use it gladly. I want to bleed to that song, I want to scream to that song, I want to break the backs of the unworthy to that song. Drink the blood of the enemies and hear the lamentations of the women to that song.
Contrarily, I like the softest violins when they just begin to whisper to you that magic is in the air. I love when the piano begins its speech and all in the room silence themselves to hear the master at work. Oboes with the depths, piccolos with the pitch so high. All of them running in chaos a thousand times minute fighting each other for position and yet dancing together as if it were something they had been doing of the entirety of time itself, which they have been and will continue to do long after I am nothing but dust and worthless memories of generations not yet imagined.
Written words. My passions and joys. You have the depths of Paradise Lost and Milton’s mastery of single words to create microcosms of perfect emotion that explode and reverse in the very next beat. Warsan with her brutal truths that made me fall in love with modern poetry allover again, tales of long ago Xanadu and tales of an Ancient Mariner from the opium infused mind of Coleridge. It taught me not to go quietly into the night, and rage like the demons he suffered with were added to mine own.
That’s not what the people are reading this for. They don’t care that music makes me feel alive and poetry makes my heart flutter. No, I told you it was about fucking. I told you it was about the things that make the Bear go RAWR, so, I suppose I should keep my end of the bargain and actually tell you a little about that stuff shouldn’t I?
I like my blood dripping from pretty hands and those hands smacking down into puddle of it that have pooled in the hollow of my back and the overflow hit the table I am laying in and turns me red everywhere I can think of.
I like having rope wrapped around things and squeezed tight, blood flow slowed, pain inflicted for the laughter and amusement of others, laying there when the rope comes off, marks for days, memories for longer.
Sitting in a leather chair, staring into your eyes as you face me, coated in sweat and so many other things as the champagne is ready to burst and the screams of repressed tigers escape in a torrent of perfection in it’s truest form.
Quaffing whiskey you should sip and mixing in vodka and rum because who the fuck wants to live forever and if you are going to have some fun, make sure you at least find your way to a semi form of unconsciousness before the end of it all.
Sitting inside a circle of candles, the heat nearly burning but you sit in silence as you move your hands over knives and glass and know that you are talking to a Goddess that will listen to you, or at least who acknowledges that you exist.
Yes, feeling poison course though you with every heartbeat, knowing you can’t, knowing you shouldn’t, remembering the consequences because this is the last time, I swear, no more after this, I am good, I can quit whenever I want to.
Knowing that there are places we go after we leave here that we will be able to punish the people that wronged us, not because we are just, but because we figured out a way to fuck the system over.
I can write these until the end of time and maybe even embarrass more people than I already have, or maybe even embarrass myself by telling you things that even I don’t write to very many people.
So go out. Feel. Fuck. Live.
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