Pt.3. Love, Idie. Love.

“You know what I hate? I hate love.

You bring yourself open and on the shiny dish, completely unarmed and almost willing to be hurt. I mean, seriously, what is this all about? You find some stranger of preferable gender – and you might not even see each other a single bloody time for the whole lives of yours – and then it begins. Chemistry, empathy, simpathy… Bullshit.

Don’t think that I don’t believe in love. Oh, indeed I do. The problem is.. Well, let’s look at the whole picture closely, take it all step by step.

First step. To find.

Where do you find such a person? Could be anywhere, and this game of chances, this lottery with several different way to win – it’s so close to agony. You may spend the whole life – and die alone in a cold bed with dozen of diseases blurting inside your blood flow and body. You may die, as some did, on someone nice (literally, during sex) because of a sudden heart attack. You may have every step planned – and die the   next second, right away!..   You see, people tend to take everything that may be considered as “resource” or  “tool” as for granted.

“Live? Of course, I don’t have my death arranged on Friday dinner, why?” . ” Water? Of course, I drink water, and it’s all fine, why do you ask?”.

We’re alone in a cold dark of outside space, and I’m talking not about our planet, but about us. What do you know about me? What do I know about you? After all, what do I know about myself? Who am I? What drives me, what excites me, what makes me crazy, what makes me ANYTHING? And you won’t give away such information to someone you don’t know, will you? And here you go, circle closed. The only way is to give away. But you have to know what to give away in order to do so. So, what do you seek? Ask yourself, multiple times (at least one or two dozens), and probably consider making a list of what you REALLY want to see in the person.

Where to find? It all depends on you and on the list.

Second step is to be right and to become a happy couple. But here’s the catch. What is love?

I ask you, what is love? Dead romance of dead centuries, full of roses, violet velvet and sacrifice for the sake of? Modern love, mostly growing on a sudden morning thoughts, like “well, it was a great night, maybe we should get to know each other better?” ? Cyber-love, when you will have everything you’ve ever wanted for a small price of your humanity? What, I said something wrong, something offensive? Right, there’s nothing more inhuman than to simulate long-distance relationship with total stranger. I know what they say – “everyone has his own choice, so don’t judge and open up your mind, blah-blah-blah”. I may be even agree with some parts, but – will you ever consider any kind of balance between years of chatting and shit, and a small, but bursting with love kiss? I say – fuck you, if you picked the first. We’ve got online, we lost the sight of the real world right away. You find love in social network? Send me a link, I will press “like”, just so you knew your love IS SO AWESOME PEOPLE TEND TO LIKE THE SINGLE FACT OF ITS EXISTANCE. It’s a sarcasm, if you were nice enought to think otherwise. It makes me sick, truth be told. All these “relationship statuses”, “why did she like your photo” and the whole bloody load of junk – straight inside your mind. Or from the inside? I tend to think, it’s two-way road, but that’s just me. Anyway, back to the topic at hand.

Ok, say you’ve found each other. You both start trying to get to know each other – in your own way, both of you. And if you see something in common, it drives you crazy. It’s almost a whisper “you’re right, don’t fuck it up”. But, most likely, you will. Or your beloved person will. Or something totally out of the blue will “help” the situation.

So what do you do when you’re collapsed? Friends, drinks, drugs, weed, alcohol and random sex, games and joining a players’ community, going “deep inside”, becoming as religious as a monk, or, maybe, immoral party-hard wanna-be nothing, ruin of your own self that once upon the time was loved for what it was. It’s all about people when it comes to the ways of running from – or charging towards, but in the end it’s too personal, and I don’t really give a fuck about how do you handle your sudden puberty-came-once-again times. I have my methods, and they work for me. Fuck you :3

Is there any love? Maybe there is. It became rithorical question even before our grand-grands were brought to this world, so don’t feel down if you can’t answer in five seconds with all the confidentiality you’ve ever had. Is there any love for you? Maybe there is, multiplied by the number of people who could really be the “lost” part of you, your soulmates, born to enlighten your life, and then divided by the number of human population at the moment. What? 7+ billions? Well, it’s not some “easy level arcade game”, this is life. The Life, darn. You have something wrong with it? Either work it out or get the fuck away from the boat.

Maybe there’s a sirene waiting for you in the depth of the dark ocean you’ll face. Oh no, there’s none. Just for you. Why? Because fuck you, that’s why. Why would Live spend its power and chances to make your dirt shithole you call “existance” because of your inability to handle your problems and yourself, bright and peaceful?

Good guys finish last? Another funny joke. Look closely. Good guys never run with bad guys, because they’re smart enough to make money on those runs and laugh all the way through, knowing that everything’s already planned and his heart is safe with the one he really loves. So, it’s all just a joke. Except for sex, maybe.

And those songs people think of as of “love songs” or, worse, the “our” songs. What the fuck is “our” song? You were on the session? Played a part? Sang? Oh, you bought it online and uploaded on your player, so you could sing it in the car and mix it with kissing, annoying anyone in a range of sound  (or sight, sometimes). Wow, lovely. Mazel tov, what can I say.

The thing is.. The thing is, there is Love. For every singe one. Black, white, yellow, brown, pervert, bisexual, asexual, loser, winner, worker, billionaire, king, queen, clown, cook, maid and whatsoever. Love – as a possibility of being happy. As a chance of triggering the right chain of right events leading you to someone who will make you more than you could’ve ever imagined – or just someone who will put your shit together when you’re unable to, say, due to alcohol or drug intoxication. Love is billions of faces and thousands of songs, hundreds of poems on hundreds of languages, it’s sex and passion, flame inside and acid revenge burning your face with H2SO4. Love is everything your imagination can make up – and twice as much, ten times much, hundred times much more. It’s hair and eyes that can’t let you sleep, it’s a snow and summer heat that makes you bleed (hopefully, not literally), it’s hidden sounds and echoes of silence…

So you understand why they say “love is dead”. We’ve replaced everything we’ve had with something we had invented – and looking everywhere for a clue, where such a great elephant could be hidden in such a small room of our world, caught in the wires and cabels, WiFi and satellite signals, completly lost within our own handmade simulation. And even though it gives us something we might’ve never had, there’s only one love in this world, and it’s not the one you could get for something-99 or making some sweet commentary on a website.

It’s just love. It’s both the best and the worst you might get into. It’s a drug, so legal you can barely find it, even though you can find thousands of things made to replace it.

Fuck you, if you really think they can. They never would.

There’s only one love in this world, and people will never learn how to make it just as the original was made. Except for runaway.

The rest is false. Fuck you, if they got you,  made you bought their beliefs.

And fuck you twice, if you stole, or broke someone else’s love. FOAD, make the world a bit better.

There’s only one love. One. Love. And one only.

There’s only such thing that tears you down and thus making you so high, burning you to ashes – and yet making your soul a castle, a great castle reserved for two.

So, after all – why do I hate it? Because I tasted it, and it was so strong it made me addicted to it. It’s a “quiter” syndrome, if you want to put it so. And a broken castle where I sit in the middle of the ruin and everyday watch how screams get louder or disappear as another dream breaks up and finally gives its spirit away.

You should’ve seen this, but I will never let you in.”

Idie.

Pt.2. Idie, love. Idie.

“People ask me about Idie. Well, fine, it’s your call.

Idie is my idea. Idie is my creation, my child and my way to live.

 

I love making new words. You just take something simple, take another simple thing, mix it and – BOOM!- you have something so deep one could make a Ph.D. on your brainwork and so on. You see, I love being visited. Being seeing, being listening to, I always seek one’s attention.

But this was lyrical, all lyrical, until Idie. It’s not some brand-placement or something, it’s pure and short, yet deep message. “I die”, it says. “I die, and I want to have my final scream, I want to throw into the world every last piece of thought I could’ve possibly had, but I die. I accept my fate, and I know that it’s is going to happen, and I see the road slowly turning into the curving death track with burnt prints of wheels of cabs before me. I die. I – die. Not “dying” , not “will die” – no, nothing of this. It’s solid, and its simplicity is the one that gets you right into your head. “I die”. The epitaph – the claim, the eulogy, the head turned up against the black mist no one ever came back from.

 

I started it when I was feeling like I was going to die. Things lost their colours, shapes and meanings, people left me behind and here I was, standing in my pills desert, chocking with a dust. It was storming that night, probably because of my mood.

I felt dying. I felt like a genial kid being buried in someone’s backyard by some stupid chain of mistakes and coincidents. Like something really beautiful being raped and tortured for the sake of emptiness, for the blind non-interest of hostile Universe. And I wanted to have a little revenge, some sudden giveaway. “Come on, people, take my seeds, save them, cherish them – that’s all that’s left of me!”

 

But nothing happened. It appeared to be some “seen this before” sort of “product”, as they say, and I went way deeper in my drug ocean. It smiled once it saw me, and opened its arms to hug me. To grab me. To drag me down as far as my body only could make it to. And I felt nothing, falling down into its pits.

 

Shortly after that I realized what Idie was for me. It was a manifestation, a flame of a fire that burned inside me for years. It wasn’t just something crazy, it was heavily depressed insanity. And I felt my hand in it, my tones in its colours – and I felt proud of that. I witnessed self-destruction, tried it – and got the taste. Got addicted to it.

 

I don’t care what you think. I did it, and I don’t regret it. I spilled my own blood, I did pain and hurt to my own body, so it’s my own business after all, isn’t it? I took what I was able to take and gave it away, shining in its soil glory and never-to-be-sane perpetuum movement towards something new, something I could learn and use to create something else – not asking about any price or prise for that, not doing anything to get someone’s attention. I was full of shit, drugs and will to destroy myself – and I was rather good at these three.

Slowly, I realized what I was really doing. What was the real cost of my actions. I understood it, and it scared me. I will never say something like “oh, no, that was my youth, it’s all mistakes, man”, no, never. It was my youth, true that, but I did it all by my own choice and with my own hands. Therefore, there’s no point in defending me here.

Yes, I was, yes, I did, yes, it hurt.

 

What do you want me to say? “Kids, don’t try this at home” ? Those who would want to follow my blind footsteps are irreversable in their actions, and they have to go all the way through – and either succeed or grow up and understand how foolish it all is. There’s no warning signs, high grounds or paths. There’s a void and a lonely child finding a knife under his feet with nobody around, but whole hell of pain and emotions inside. What do you expect from this combination?

I do drugs, and I see things I shouldn’t. I have “idie”-ed for some time – just enough for me to stop. Or, maybe, to make a pause – who knows?

 

It’s just me, and it’s just you. You wouldn’t do that? Good for you, here goes a candy for you, keep it up. You want to do that? Well, don’t. It’s not like I can actually order you or prohibit doing something – I’m nobody and nothing for you, and I’m alright that way. But in some time you’ll either go nuts or run away, but the damage would be already done. And you were well aware of that all, of the hurt and the choice not to do so, of “idie” and my still destroying me fucked up self. So what?

Yes, I am, yes, I did, yes, it still hurts.

 

What do you want me to say? There’s no light in this void. But there are little things that make forget about the light and just lie down wherever you are and open yourself from another side, find another door.

And I don’t want you to do drugs, no. I just say what there is for me in them.  There’s fake running, and every next morning the feeling of how fake it is only grows. But, for now, I see dreams of impossible and not afraid to open myself up.

 

You want true self-destruction? Fall in love. Fall in love so deep, you couldn’t breathe without that person on sight. Fall so deep, you literally burn with your love, you can see the flames in your eyes when it’s dark and see insanity when the dark’s gone.

Fall in love. That’s the worst and the most hurtful way to poison any possible part of you so deep, it may take years of intensive care in some facility just to start the recovery. Believe me – been there, tried that.

It’s strange love’s not prohibited. It worse than anything I ever took, and the main trap is that you can’t cleanse your body from it. It’s like a napalm, burning until it’s burnt till the fucking ground, never loosing the grip, breaking you, burning you, devouring you day by day and night by night.

Oh, the sleepless love nights! The charm of never-ending thoughts, leaving you no chance to have at least some 2-3 hours of sleep. The magic of hurt you can’t stand, yet you ready to do anything, literally anything – punch some stranger outdoors, cause any violence towards yourself or anyone around, run a marathon and back after 2 weeks of coffee-supported insomnia. That’s the trap you will be bleeding in for long, unless you somehow find a way to cut that part the fuck away and forget the path to the place where it lies.

I love someone. I take pills, I write this and my mind is hazy, and I can’t wish for something else, but to care less. To numb the overwhelming feeling that takes control of me, driving me mad and smiling at me as I go deeper in my obscure instability of anything within or without me.

 

Idie again. You see, its spiral catches you once you’ve touched it. Maybe, it’s kinda like spider web – the more you move, the more you get on yourself and the less are the chances for you to be free again. Dark of it may follow me for the rest of my life. But, on the other hand, I’m young (considerably), I have my pills and I hate you I love you too much. Even in my pathetic try to tell you why it’s dangerous to go idie, you only see the fucking instruction, “what to do” list for a nice friday night. Fuck you, and know that it will be you yourself who will make my saying come true. You will fuck yourself up, and when you’ll meet me somewhere in the depth, I want to see you realizing where you are and what have you become, what have you done and whom have you lost on your way down you was so proud of.

I’m not proud of that. But I accept what I have done for what it is, and I write this because this kick, this crazy impulse calling for the resolving, the revealing and liberating is driving me again.

I wished I was sleeping, but there’s no sand around, so it must be the reality. Well, if so, we’re all fucked.

Idie. Don’t you fucking dare follow me there.  If I ever see somebody behind me, I will care enough to go back and beat you so hard I only can, just so you would understand, after all, what the fuck you were doing all along. And I hate all the people making martyrs of themselves.

You made your choice. What’s your problem? Take it as you bought it. Accept it as it is. And don’t fucking come anywhere close that road.

It’s my storm, my pit, my life, my mark and my chance not to wake up one day. Mine enough for you to try to get a hold of it, alright?

 

Fuck you, if you’re still here. You make me sick. All this place makes me sick. Fuck you, love, I never begged for anything anywhere close to the misery and pathetic state I’m in. Of course, it’s my fault I’m in one, but still, I’m just to angry not to share the guilt.

Sincerely offensive, yet not hiding anything

                Robert Idie.”

Pt.3

M!nd. Chapter II. Pt.1. Faces

“It all started with a face.

I was young, even younger than now – say, 15 or something. I was at this party back at the End, and some dude said, like, want some pills for free, brother? And who am I to disagree?

It kicked very quickly. I heard whispers behind 2k Watts of music, saw faces behind people faces. One gal even tried too give me some, but I just couldn’t stand her face. It was blinking, like she had one normal and one shiny and light, constantly meeting and crossing each other. She was eager to make it alright, but I was so scared there were no such option as sex, not to mention normal orgasm. Fuck, it took me several years to get ahold of the feeling.

And I started to enjoy it. I see your souls, and I see your wishes. I see your desires, sins and regrets.

I’ve never felt anything even remotely close to this, except for the first time.

 

Faces. Eyes as a soul mirrors? Fuck that, your face can tell me more than you can tell sitting next to me, wasting the time of your stupid lives.

I see it all. I can touch it. I can touch a girl, and she won’t remember a thing, athough her throat would be as soar as a garbage bag.

I can touch things you can’t even prove to be existing. Well, mates, they do. And I enjoy myself with this fact.”

 

He clicked “Publish” and watched the view numbers grow up and up, higher and higher each time.

It was hilarious. Every next time he got more and more, doing nothing, telling strangers story of his life and lying about almost everything in it. And people bought it, he was offered several book contracts and magazines’ colomn. No, not like that, he thought. He found himself in the Internet, and felt pretty comfortable about that.

Phone – zero. Any kind of network – zero.

The higher numbers go, the more you cherish old, thought he. Fuck this, fuck it all, if only he could have one…

…call.

 

“Hello?”
“Never”, replied synth-like voice.

“No, not like this”, thought Robert, switching his phone off.

Another call. Unknown number..what is it, asian? What language is that?

He opened up the body of the phone and threw the battery out of the window, leaving the phone as it is – and still ringing.

He opened up the stash and took several sparky pills. Then he opened a bottle of gin and mixed it inside. World changed the way he wanted to. He should sleep it off, get laid and write something else. Yes, that what would be tomorrow….

 

Desert. 

He kept seeing the desert in his intoxicated dreams for years. Pyramids, wrong sky – he got used to it, thanks to the pills, – and no one around. That’s the way he liked. Alone.

“No one cares”, screamed he against the dusted wind. “Nobody cares, so neither would I. They fucked it up! They did, not me! Why should I be the one responsible? I’m not some Chosen One, I’m not some hero with his thighty costume every conscious man would laugh on!”

He woke up. For a second, he saw the desert reflected in the surfaces around him.

 

There was something coming. He felt it.

He looked up.

Sky had its own face now.

Pill, gin, pill, pill, gin, good ol’ friends. 

 

He slept well that night. And of course he spent it in the desert.

Until he heard somebody crying as nobody ever did. It was almost inhuman.

 

In the morning Robert made three tattoos : Rose on the one palm, Eye on the second and their veins and roots mixing on his chest. There was a huge deal to paint in, but he somehow new he had to make it.

He was on his way home when he looked down and saw it.

Tattoos had now faces too.

That was the last day pills, drinks and random sex ever happen to relief his soul.

 

To Pt.2