subject: murderer.
time: 4:26am
music: demolition lovers - mcr.
mood: frustrated.

yes. lets just pretend like you dreamt it.
"won't happen like this because there won't be a next time", i said to someone. it didn't sound like my own voice. but there is no meaning or method and i feel nothing. funny how quickly i've changed. i am barely a new person now. i am barely the old either. shredding foreign documents and cutting ties with the people i thought mattered. semblance; i am everything. i am everywhere. no restriction. i can go anywhere. i can do anything. i can be anyone. i am going to keep my feet moving. a frosty cold liberation. i am not afraid.

but how thick a line can you draw to seperate the two? - the dyslexic reality versus the bona fide dream? the power of the subconcious mind, that is THAT powerful - so much as to switch faces of lovers with victims of tragic serendipity over and over. so much as to blur the line seperating these two entities. and when this is such, i would rather sign up for the life extension program where i can live my life as a lucid dream for an eternity of logical impulsion to tomorrows and days after. once in awhile, your face changes between scarred-beyond-recognition and perfection and it keeps swinging between these two until you start questioning your sanity. in reality, your heart won't hurt as much.

how cruel would it be if dreams weren't dreams? yes. i killed myself with the butter knife and got my hands so bloody with murder. but when the police came for questioning, i was hysterical and incessantly cried like i loved myself and was sorry for my loss. but sir, i really did cheat for the statistics exam. i shouldn't be here. somewhere along the continuum of nightmares, i lost the only place in the world that was ever beautiful to me - the one with the garden and the trimmed hedge of thorns. the musical fountain and the grass is greener than green, stretching out for thousand miles in the distance. and you. by me.

how cruel would it be if you couldn't tell the difference between places and people? you fall asleep counting stars in your room and wake up on a dirty street in a country that you know doesnt exist. you're in a parallel world and cannot speak the language. so then, you realise, the person you love and the person you killed are one and the same.

who are you?
it's me, kin.
no. you're not kin. where is kin?
stop being silly darling. i am kin.
you're my exgf. you're supposed to be dead! you died last year!
but... no. i am your wife. please. i am
where is kin?!
wake up! i am her!

... and you wake up in a prison cell. she's dead. you killed her last night, tied her to the bed post with the telephone wires and sat by her side, all the while stroking her hair. each time you asked where kin was, she cried, insisting she is her. but you've pruned yourself to selecting only what you want to hear. so you sliced through one layer of her skin and then the next and the next; on her face, her pretty pink lips for lying, and then her hands for clutching your heart in her fists so tight you couldn't breathe sometimes. she is finally dead. you killed her. i killed myself. i killed her when we were on the tallest building. i screamed for her to not jump. but she did anyways. she jumped with not so much a glance behind as soon as i screamed that i loved her. she jumped and became just a memory; shattered to derbis on the concrete pavements twenty-five meters below. kin is dead and i killed her. we did. now, she's dead.

how cruel it would be if you died fifty years ago and this is all a dream, this entire life is solely dependant on a consciousness you bought years ago at a flea market, to eliminate the possibility of death...

....
it's going to be a killer day tmr. and the day after.
i need a break.
from
e-v-e-r-y
thing.