This City

doesn't this city just make you want to break things
doesn't this city just make you fucking hate things
doesn't this city just make you want to run
want to invest
in a knife
or a gun

don't all these people just drive you insane
and don't all these people always ask your name
just to forget
in a sec-ond
why they even came

into this world,
for shame
for shame

and wasn't it just the other fucking day
that you thought to yourself

maybe I can escape

and wasn't it just
the other fucking day
you told yourself

I can break the fuck away

but here you are in the same damn place

and here you are
losing the rodent race.

because money is tight
and morals are loose

and who gives a single fuck,
if their neck's in a noose

I mean, baby, or shithead,
all these little games,
come on baby,
my shithead
we're wasting away

bourbon, 
no-
whiskey
the devil in a drink

he pulls me straight past hades,
to deeper depths I sink

And it's the scars that you can't see
that run the fucking deepest

and who are you to say
I shouldn't fucking drink this

How dare you look at me
and say I shouldn't smoke,

I look at you-
and encourage you to choke.

Pond Scum

I'm sick of hearing, "you can't". It's starting to sound like the mantra of the majority.

"You can't live in a 10 X 10 apartment."
"You can't work two jobs."
"You can't up and move to another country."
"You can't just be a writer."

Why?

"Because, because you can't! It's not that easy."

No, it's not. But I don't want to do these things because they're easy. I want to do them because they're worth it. Because the higher the pressure the more liberty you feel once it's released. Because overcoming the challenge is half the fun. Because proving you wrong is inspiration enough to get out of bed, to run instead of walk, to jump when told to sit. Because in a world where the survival of the fittest has become a mere concept, the only true form of freedom is recklessness.

No, I don't want your advice, no, I don't need to slow down, and no, I didn't ask you what you're doing this weekend, because let me guess; you're going to check out that new gimmick restaurant where they lock up your cell phones because you and your friends are a internet-nymphos that can't restrain yourselves from getting off on hashtags in the middle of dinner.

"But why would you want to leave Canada? You don't realize how lucky you are."

Do you want to know, do you really, really want to know why I hate it here?

Because of people like you.

Because you bore the fucking shit out of me. Because you watch reality TV and shop at Victoria Secret. Because you're in a perpetual state of waiting for the weekend. And when it comes, you tip well, and absolve yourself of a 600 calorie coffee with the singular Hail Mary, "It's Friday!".

And as I watch you sacrifice your body to the gods of the Weekend, smearing the innards of an imported danish over your face like war paint, I can tell who you really are. Because, don't forget, I've seen you on Monday.

I've seen you Monday morning when I'm not important enough to even make eye contact with, when you bitch and moan because your 6 figure salary still makes you get up before nine. And for all of the smiles and gratuity that the weekend brings, that's who you really are.
A fucking Monday.

So instead of sticking around and sniveling about my surroundings, I want to escape. To experience, examine and explore. I've taken enough from Canada, for a long, long time.

I see that you're already comfortable here. You've settled in, calm and complacent. Not looking to leave, to move, to run like a river. No. You are happy being still. You are happy being stagnant.

And maybe it's the fact that I can't sit without shaking my legs, maybe it's because I've moved more times than years I've been alive, but I feel more at home in the crash of the wave than the calm of a lake. And you told me that you're scared of the ocean, but while still water is easier to swim in, it's the one that gets pond scum.


never yours,
LF

Now and Then

Do you ever wake up and feel like anything is possible?

As if anything you decide to do that day is the right thing. The perfect thing. You can make no wrong choices. You could get hit by a car and it would be the best thing to ever happen to you, because it happened today.

You decide to wander around the city where you've live. Where you've lived for years, but now, today, you see the place as a newcomer. A tourist in your own town. Every building beckons, and what better one to visit first than the bookstore?

Everyday should start with a trip to the bookstore, you think.

The small shop is full of staff recommendations and ratings from the internet. Every cover tempts you. They all seem so fucking interesting. You want to pick them up and eat them whole. Digest them all at once. This reminds you that you'll never have enough time to read everything, but instead of bleak, this prospect seems romantic. It means that every book you do get to read is much sweeter. And it's cool, because you get to join the book's club. The story becomes the common denominator between you and a bunch of strangers who've also read it.

There's a woman working at the book store. She talks to you about Thailand and this yoga retreat she just returned from. It sounds beautiful. She's beautiful. So beautiful in fact, you think she may be the most beautiful person you've ever seen. That's nice.

You leave the book store with nothing, as it's too overwhelming to try and pick a book, and it was enough just to look at them.

On the street you notice everyone seems as perfect as the woman did. Flawless. Whole. With their experiences carried on their shoulders, bursting through their eyes and spun into the palms of their hands. Everyone has a million little moments, memories and ideas all caught up in their hair and tucked into their pockets.

And they bring all of these moments into every interaction they have. Everyone who meets you sees you slightly differently. Because when they speak to you, they don't see you simply as you are in this moment. That's how an infant would see you. No, an adult sees you compared to the last person they spoke to, you become tinged with the taste of someone they know who has your same name. They see you with a hint of hatred because your eyes look like their ex-girlfriend's, or they adore you immediately because you said hello the way their father does. Do you understand? When you meet someone, you're meeting their entire life. All of their experiences bundled up and traveling around on two legs. Every interaction unwittingly influenced by all of their predetermined notions and assumptions.

So. Here, you've realized this overwhelming awesome fact. Which you don't really know how to explain, but when you try you find yourself saying things like; "It's like we can't ever really know anyone, you know?" or "When was the last time you cried?" or "I hope I see her again." but in the end you don't mind if you don't. See her, I mean. You don't mind that you'll never see the woman again.  Like maybe she and you were only supposed to have that moment in the bookstore. Just a flash of personality in each others day. A random face that will show up in a dream two years from now. And when you wake up you'll wonder if she dreamt of you too.

That would be ok. That would be good. Because if nothing else, it's nice to be dreamt about now and then. Yes, you think, that would be enough.

Hereditary Debt

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and seventeen

It's funny, they say that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory, but it's the seeing of other people that most reminds me of you. How different you were from everyone else. And -very rarely- I see a similarity. Like today, I met a man that had your mouth, crooked and broken. Gone too hungry too many times to ever leave leftovers on its plate again.

When we kissed I could taste the coffee on his tongue, and knew that he took it like you had, with too much sugar because that was free. A coffee shop favor, sweet charity.

"Dance with me?" He asked.

But I couldn't, because he wouldn't move like you had, and if we did dance, he would stop reminding me of you.

So we talked for a while, and I watched his mouth. It moved like yours. Parting just a bit. Not much to say, and not saying much when it did. I remember, I used to love you like this.

"A soft spoken monster", you called yourself. But you were my Arcadia. The heaven I never thought I could get into.

I still wear your shirt, not sure if I can actually feel you, or am just imagining your skin woven through the fabric.

The tag on it reads;

50% Cotton
30% Polyester
15% Nostalgia
4% Regret
and 1% ....

What is that last one percent? What is the thing that completes the shirt (and by shirt I mean me)?

People always want to touch the pretty things they see, and debt comes hereditarily to me.

Back then, I knew you were yours. Not mine, not theirs, and only fleetingly would I have the chance to take your poverty away.

I scraped off your barnacles while I could. You, so distant, barely noticed when your leeches became mine; your greedy black monkey, now attached to my spine.

I grew heavy with weight, but had a new, impossible, impervious 1%. I had found it in your lips, your mouth, your kiss.

So, the morning you told me, 'I have to go.'
I made too-sweet coffee and said, 'I know.'

And it's funny I guess, in a sort of sad way, that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. Because try as I might, every. damn. night.
I really, can't think what you smelled like.

The Hero of Humiliation

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and fifteen

Everyday I hang myself

I nail myself

I staple myself to the wall

Everyday I bleed myself

I let myself

I rub my blood out in the hall

Everyday I hate myself

berate myself

I get out of bed and mandate myself

to update myself

to curate myself

Artist the fuck up and create myself

Everyday I design myself
define myself
I put on my face and outline myself

Everyday I dissect myself

I correct myself

Take out my parts and infect myself

I change myself

rearrange myself

I paint all my organs and stain myself

Everyday I reword myself

martyr myself

Use the strings from the Beats to suture myself

I collect myself

Resurrect myself

My volition in life; to perfect myself

If I fail myself

derail myself

I'll have nothing but a cheap veil of myself;

a shattered bulb 

a melted fuse

a pack of matches burned and used.

No supernova, 

glory,

fame.

No concrete star,

with golden name.

Forgotten, faded,

dusty muse.

Mona Lisa,

cut and bruised.

My blood still smeared all down the hall,

my skin still nailed up to the wall.

My body scarred from mutilation,

mapped attempts at self-creation.

A jagged, 

torn up,

constellation,

The Hero of Humiliation.

Don't we all fear failure's kiss?

For if you shoot 

for the moon 

and miss,

you'll rot away in the abyss.

Best Girly Movies Everrrrrrr

GUILTY PLEASURE PICTURES

the girls edition

OMG yes I have a uterus. Yes I indulge in typical womanly things from time to time (selfies, holiday lattes, Friends). And yes I have a soft spot for certain movies. It's pretty well known that I love blood and gore and seeing the bad guy win. But every now and then I visit the world of women and have a girly night where I paint my nails and drink too much wine and eat things with avocado in them. I blame my mother.

Here are my top fifteen classic girl movies that get better and also worse with every viewing.

15

27 Dresses

At least one Katherine Heigl movie was sure to end up on here. I prefer this one to the Ugly Truth because BENNY AND THE JETS. That song is yes.

It's our doom to feel like that at least once a week.

14

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

Marilyn Monroe is the women of women. Her most iconic role as the best friend to diamonds, this movie and her performance hold up as hilarious after all this time.

13

Romy and Michele's High School Reunion

Baaaah so much teased blonde hair, so much synthetic plastic clothing, SO MUCH 90'S GOODNESS.

Seriously this is movie is our childhood. And also our future. All rolled up in a feather trimmed OHMAH-GAWD fest.

12

Breakfast at Tiffany's

Probably the best movie to get drunk to while feeling ridiculously girly and classy. Feel free to indulge in cigarettes and french baked goods as well.

Like a real gentleman.

11

Bad Teacher

Cameron Diaz not giving a fuck about her job or basically any other human in this movie is how I am most of the time. About everything. But instead of fake tits I'm saving for student loans.

Everyday.

10

(ps lol at Rose McGowan just mooping at the bottom of this poster)

Death Proof

QUENTIN TARANTINO MADE A CHICK FLICK AND THERE'S SEVERED LIMBS AND IDLE CHATTER AND THE SEXIEST FULLY-DRESSED LAP DANCE YOU WILL EVER WITNESS.

That's not a lot, really.

9

Clueless

This along with Romy & Michele are what's under the definition of the 90's Girl in the dictionary. Feather boas, flip cell phones and Brittany Murphy, what more can a girl ask for? (other than some Lisa Frank).

Look at lil Brittanyyyyy ooooooooooohhhhhhh.

8

House Bunny

Anna Faris + Emma Stone + slightly outdated university stereotypes = a really stupid movie that screams for poor girl's margaritas (mix & liquor, no blender) and Facebook creepin.

So dumb. So good. Anna Faris is a genuine babe.

7

Miss Congeniality

Every tomboy had her day of having to be a woman (9th grade grad was an eyeliner filled mess) and there is nothing that makes a girl feel good to hate being a girl like seeing Sandra Bullock get waxed and then twist her ankle in heels.

Little did we know how true this would become.

Also if ever I get forced into a talent show I am doing this;

6

You've Got Mail

UGH THIS MOVIE. It's one of the few romances that not only doesn't give me nausea, but it actually gets me. Every time. 

Something about that fucker Tom Hanks gets my heart growin' like the Grinch's. Plus independent book store vs big bad book store. Plus New York. Plus internet chatting that is so real and accurate and oh fuck this perfect film.

5

Bridget Jones

Oh Bridget. This is possibly the most lol-inducing film on this list. Seriously. And boys, if you somehow got onto this post and have made it this far, you have to love this movie. You have to. HAVE TO. It's just fucking fun for everyone. Cheesy christmas sweaters, british accents, a girl who can't cook and eats Ben & Jerry's wrapped up in a duvet;

There is not one part of this movie that I dislike. I would say Hugh Grant but he plays the douchiest douche so even that is satisfying.

My life.

4

Coyote Ugly

LeAnn Rimes, middle parted hair, and the man that I blame for all of our inexplicable swooning over the aussies. This is one bad-bitch flick with a good girl feel? I don't know how they made something so slutty so fucking wholesome and great. Although John Goodman may have something to do with it.

It's only gonna get worse, John.

And if you can stop yourself from singing along to this entire soundtrack, you don't have a uterus. Or a soul. Because real women CAN'T FIGHT THE MOONLIGHT NO.

3

She's the Man

A personal favourite, and how we all want to remember Amanda Bynes. So quotable, and I drop em on the daily even still. I refuse to grow up.

This is the Anchorman for women. Right down to the easy-to-imitate voice and real-life-applicable sayings like, "Rub some dirt in it." or "Ohmygod he knew." or "Bros, brothers, brethren?" or "check out the booty on that blondy" or "I gotta lifetime of knowledge." or;

2

Devil Wears Prada

Back when we used to buy DVD's and actually put them into a machine and then watch them on a screen that was meant just for that, I watched this movie almost everyday for a looooong time. It's got everything a girl needs in a film. A little drama, a lot of fashion and a homely girl fighting her way to the top for the job she wants. Quite sincerely inspiring for success, and really a stand up film in many ways.

Not too sure who Meryl Streep is but she's pretty good in this...??

Miranda Priestly is one of the sharpest female characters to grace us with her presence. Ever. Like a modern day Cruella De Vil meets Gordon Gecko.

And look at Emily Blunt being all new and fresh and playing supporting roles. PS you guys know she bagged John Krasinski, right? She really did do America right.

Of course, the queen b of them all;

1

 MEAN GIRLS, duh

Could any other film be number one? There's really nothing that needs to be said. This is the ultimate girls movie. Lindsay Lohan, Rachel McAdams, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler? Nope, nah, can't and won't be beat. 

So did my high school.

This film stereotyped many classes of people, but did it took it so far and did it so well that no one could possibly be offended. EVERYONE was torn apart in this film. Also this film is why I don't condone the term "betches". Because Tina Fey told me that we (females) can't keep calling each other derogatory terms. Normally I'm not uptight about it but betches is one that we made up for ourselves. If you haven't heard of this, it's sort of the female equivalent of "bros". Yeah, the Woo Girls who are the reason we have pumpkin spiced everything now. They made up this word that even makes them sound stupid. And that's ok for them, but I do not support the term "betches". 

...or Michael Kors.

I was always very glad we didn't do this at my high school. Why do american schools keep allowing these sort of ridiculous events that encourage hierarchies and then complain about clique-ieness and bullying. IF YOU PUNCH A HORSE IN THE ASS DON'T BE SURPRISED WHEN IT KICKS YOU.

My sentiments exactly.

So that's that, the pussy's out of the bag, so to speak. Now you know, I'm a woman and I partake in womanly things sometimes.

Ok brb gotta go rub some dirt in it.

LF

Lost in the Move

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and twelve

"Lost in the Move"

Forgotten in the rush of things. Packed up, thrown out, thought broke- no doubt. Picked up, dusted off, turned over; "Useless stuff". Tossed aside and left alone, someone else can take it home. But no home needs what's never needed and we'll never see what we've mistreated. It's left behind, dropped down some groove, forever gone; lost in the move.

"Do you want this?"

"I'll never use it."

"But you bought it."

"But you did choose it."

"I didn't need it."

"Neither did I."

"Then- what's it doing here?"

"Don't ask me why."

You left me lying, on your sill.

In the basement, softly spilled

out on the concrete

cold and hard.

You left me frosted,

in your backyard.

I could have fit

in all your boxes,

just lain on top

or slyly dropped in.

I could have slid

just down the side,

I know I was

an easy find.

But if you took me

in the van,

You'd surely lose me

underhand.

I'd roll back under

leather seat,

drift to the bottom

of the sea.

See when you got me,

I was doomed

to be the thing

lost in the move.

The Lemon Lady

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and eight

There is a lady like a crayon and she's melting in the rain
She's moldy yellow, streaked and mellow,
drifting down the drain.

But as her fattened thigh hits tide,
she pulls up from the gutter
Out she gets a cigarette,
and a lighter that just sputters.

Standing sadly, dank and dreary,
she flicks her bic again,
a yellow candle without flame,
a waxy tower of chins.

With luck a tiny fire sprite
wakes up to light her smoke,
and there the crayon lady stands
like slimy, shaky yolk.

She covers up her cigarette and forgets about herself,
Her thin hair runs in gross grey lines
down her bosomed shelf.

Like a lemon with grey mold on top
she teeters to and fro,
disgusting people passing by,
with her extra citron growth.

But the lady takes no notice for
She's got a game to play;
to finish off her cigarette
before she melts away.

I Did Give You Warning...

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and four

I've something to tell you

my darling divine,

you have become 

unlawfully mine

I've leashed up your magic

and keep it in tow

There's no possible way

I'll allow you to go

I did give you warning

when times were ahead

"Lay with me now,

but sleep not in my bed"

And my poor lover

you list' not my words,

for night after night

you stayed unconcerned

And I regret saying 

you cannot return

for lust me; you'll live

but love me, you'll burn.

We Will Live Like Smoke

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and two

      We will live like smoke. Free and flowing and forever changing. Shaped by the wind and carried by invisible powers. Love will lift us, trust will twist us, energy will enter us and in the dark assist us. We will be tendrils tumbling smooth. Never captured never controlled. If people were fire, you'd be a pyre and we'd be the sparks in the wind.

      We will live like shooting stars. Bright and surprising and ever-enticing. Burned in your sight so even when you close your eyes we shine. When you sleep we will soar, when you're wishing for more, t'will be us that you see out your window.

      We will live like dragons of old. The legends become us, and we become told. You'll hear of our ventures, 'How daring!' 'How bold!', but your eyes only glisten with the flash of fool's gold. We dragons have secrets to uplift your soul, we can strip off your shackles and let wings unfold. If only you'll listen to tales gone untold, we whisper the truth; You're being controlled.

      Just like the mice who are trapped in a maze, you sense out your prize and move on your way. But all routes have been found, to keep you contained, and though down on the ground, you feel unafraid, if you look up and around, you can see that you're caged.

      Even our paper has lines there to rule us, but essence and vapor have no need for cruel 'must'. So if you find out that the chains are unjust, remember that even iron can rust.

      A word of advice, for those who revoke, do not fear fire, once you've awoke. There's no hidden danger, dagger or cloak; For it is us Dragons, that live in the smoke.

The Spark

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred

“Take my hand.”

“Where are we going?”

“Take my hand and I'll show you.”

“But holding hands makes me sweat.”

“All the best things in life do.”

Mystery. The blistering history betwixt him and I was all of one half hour and twenty two seconds long. His name tag said Mister E, but I knew better than to fall for that one.

“Mister E?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Mister E? And what, you have a cat called Miss Tick?”

“No.”

“Oh, because a cat's not mystical enough.”

“No, because that would be a ridiculous name for a cat.”

And so it went when Mystery walked up to my booth on the sweltering shores of Pontianak. It was the bi-annual TUT, the Trans-Universal Travel convention, and I was there handing out brochures about the newest ESP heightener. How they used to have steroids for muscles, we had them for minds. The conventions were always packed full with wizard-wannabes, Joe Blows who couldn't keep their mundane little fingers out of the interstellar honey pot. And 'Mister E' here was no less a scoffing skeptic than I was disgusted by him.

“If you're not going to check out the product, you're gonna have to walk away.”

“I don't need your product.”

“Sure sure, because you've got all the multi-dimensional intelligence you need, right?”

“I have enough.”

“Then why don't you go set up your own booth on space jumping and leave me in peace?”

“You don't seem in peace.”

“How so?”

“You look warm.”

“Well we're dead set on the equator here, it's hard not to be a bit melty.”

“I'm fine.”

He didn't look fine. Mystery looked like the definition of a psychopath. Like a coked-up werewolf. Long black hair, eyes bright as a punch to the face, bulking shoulders ready to burst through his linen shirt. He was right though, not one drop of sweat on the bastard.

“You're used to the climate.”

“I just arrived from Norway.”

“Oh.”

You should know, the only reason I'm here right now is because my brother got himself arrested. On Europa of all places. No one gets arrested on Europa. It's the most laid back of all the available planets. There's nothing to do but surf and dive there for god's sake. A planet full of water, and he breaks the only law; don't feed the Krakens. In their right mind, no human would attempt this. But my brother having the rightest mind there is, will refuse not to use it to it's full potential.

Now, he is a creative genius. A new-new-new age artist. Ever since space-time was fully navigable by us humans, the really gifted ones have started exploring all over our universe. And where there's new material, there's a million artists trying to make it their own. Meet the New Wave of Avant Garde Impressionism. Meet Jean Luc Warhol. This is William S Banksy. My brother won't answer to anything but We. He says it forces people to include themselves in their judgements of him. 'We are so inane.' 'We just aren't normal.' 'We have NO talent whatsoever.' And so on and so forth. You can imagine what kind of shit he comes up with. This time it was to feed the Krakens different barrels of food dye and film their rainbow coloured ink trails throughout Europa. With a planet covered in water, he figured he'd get a good two, three days of footage that he could loop at the next TIFF, (Terra Interplanetary Film Festival; Terra being another livable planet only the most right minded could reach) but his tentacle-painting was cut short when he was arrested. Indonesia lets in anyone, except Kraken Violators apparently, thus, here I am, selling his shit steroids to fund his next project.

And I get to deal with psychos like Mister Mystery E over here. Not very impressed.

“If you want to stay cool, why don't you just let your mind do it for you?”

He meant magic. I can't do magic. I shake my head.

“What, your drugs don't work?”

“To build a fire, you have to have sticks to work with.”

Mystery nodded wisely.

Idiot.

“You can set fire to almost anything, all you need is a spark.”

“Great, thanks.” I shuffle some brochures around uselessly.

“I can give you that.”

I didn't see him as dangerous before, but now his eyes seemed brighter in a hungry way.

“How?”

“Come with me”

“To where?”

“Take my hand.”

“Where are we going?”

“Take my hand and I'll show you.”

“But holding hands makes me sweat.”

“All the best things in life do.”

And so here we are. Mystery and me. Me and Mister E. This beast of a man is about to take my sweaty hand and show me a spark somewhere in space. This is what my life has become. Following random men through wormholes. Welcome to 2013/1006/6781/All Time and Space that has Ever Existed. We can access everything now. Well, the chosen ones can. You and I are just here for the ride.

Wind. Walls of blowing air thicker than possible. Dazzling lights flash by in watercolour blurs. Inter-dimensional travel is like being the light fractured through a prism to make every hue human eyes can capture. You are blown apart into compounds of original skin; Iron, Carbon, Calcium, Nitrogen, a big bundle of vibrating Star Stuff. You can taste the sounds and hear the sights. Just on the verge of forgetting how it was supposed to look, my body slammed back into shape. 

“Mystery?! Somethings's wrong.”

“What?”

“I can't see anything!”

“I know.”

“What did you do? Where are we?”

“Erebus.”

“Great, where is that?”

“Seven hundred and fifty light years from Earth.”

“I could just be locked up in a basement, for all I can see.”

“Erebus is the darkest planet known to man. You're not blind, you're just not looking.”

“I am looking.”

“With what?”

“My eyes, obviously.”

“That's not going to work here, obviously.”

“Dick.” I shook my head. The ground didn't feel like ground, more of a dense fog. As though we were walking on cotton balls. Standing on this alien planet, we weren't freezing, burning, rotting or suffocating. I've heard how they do this, the wizards. (Let's face it, Mystery was no wannabe.) They have the brain-power to reconstruct the molecules of the universe. All that Carbon and Calcium from earlier? If you rearrange it and force it to vibrate at a different rate, it can basically become anything. 
This kind of atom-manipulation is how we aren't dead. With Mystery constantly sorting out the fibres of space we can go to un-inhabitable planets and travel at speeds of light and see in the dark and keep ourselves cool in the desert. Correction, he can do this stuff, I'm just a hitchhiker, a shadow, a ghost. I'm a vagabond girl in his mind-made world.

If you can't tell, I was starting to feel a bit useless.

I rubbed my eyes and stared into nothing.

“The widest eyes won't help you.”

“Neither will you!”

“You haven't asked.”

“Will. You. Help. Me,” It wasn't a question, it was a threat.

“Sure thing. Close your eyes.”

“They could be closed already.”

“But they aren't, I can see.”

“You're infuriating.”

“Close them.”

“Ok, now what.”

“Now, you sit.”

I lower myself cross-legged, “Like this?”

Silence.

“Uhm?”

“Oh, I nodded.” He laughs.

“Funny,”

“Close your-

“Eyes, yeah I know, I got that part.”

“You sure are cocky for someone who doesn't even know where they are. I was going to say, close your ears and open your mind.”

“Right, right. Open my mind. Close my ears. Then how can I hear you?”

No response.

“Mystery?"

Still nothing.

“If you're nodding again that doesn't even make sense.”

I'm talking to no one.

“Alright then, the hard way we go.”

Can you start something cold turkey?

Just like that, close your ears, open your mind. Breathe in, breathe out. Think about nothing. Keep your mind totally empty. Don't think about Mystery watching you in the dark. Don't think about We in his restrictive laser cuffs. Don't think about why this planet is so black. If Mystery is that powerful, couldn't he have just rearranged me a light? There's probably shit-all to see out here anyways. Out here in space. Where there's no one around, not just for miles but for years. That's a whole other level of loneliness. And if you've been left here, then it's just you and this small pocket of jimmied-up oxygen that will last who-knows-how-long. Completely abandoned on Erebus. In the stomach of the God of Darkness. Sitting on a compressed cloud, closing your ears and opening your mind. Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in.

You know the next part.

Breathe out.

Don't

think,

just

breathe

.

.

.

Slowly, you feel not so forgotten. You seem a bit lighter. Little pinpricks of weight are being lifted off of your head. Shard by shard, crystals are appearing in the blackness, like the remnants of a dream shattered by waking. There's a glimmer here and a shine there, and you don't move for fear of losing them. Eyes still closed, you realize you're not alone. In fact, you're surrounded by tiny gems of glowing light. Fairy dust across the sky. And there it is, the Milky Way, a lifetime away but you can see it in your mind's eye. Sitting here on Erebus, I can see a trillion stars with my eyes closed. It's beautiful, breathtaking, I would give my breath to look at it forever. To feel the energy of the Universe, to know the unlimited potential in each vibrating molecule. This is what humans were meant to do. This is what the rest of our brains were built for. This is raw, awesome, magic.

When I open my eyes, I can see everything.

Mystery is there, and he smiles,

“There's the spark.”

The DAA

365 Days of Creativity

day ninety one

the DAA

Have you ever heard of a damage addiction?
Also known as a mutilation vortex
A dramatic chain
The circle of self-destruction

Have you ever met someone so totally addicted to their own problems, they are beyond the reach of help?

Take for example, someone who tells you they have a secret, but they never tell you what the secret is. Though whatever it is, it's terrible, it makes them tremble and glisten and stutter out "I can't." as a refusal to letting you in. And you get this feeling that it's not for your sake, but for theirs. Because they need this secret. It makes them mysterious. Interesting. Special. This secret is the only thing they have.

Yes, you've met someone like this. Someone in love with never being loved. The princess in the tower who cuts down her own rope. The boy in the well who never calls for help. The girl who leaves behind drawings on her desk at school, but never explains what the graphite tears mean. Oh yes, we've met them, lived with them, tried to save them. But they will not be saved.

They can, but they choose pain over pleasure. Their pain is their pleasure.

Now imagine how hard it must be to always be so successfully misunderstood. No one will ever congratulate your depressive achievements. You're sweet isolation is bitterly unrewarding. Maybe once in a while it would be nice to hear how well you're doing at keeping everyone at bay. At letting the audience hang in the dark while they wonder at your dramatics from a far. All you need sometimes is an appreciative nod, or a pat on the back. 

That's where DAA comes in.

Damage Addicts Anonymous.

This is where every wednesday, all the cutters and bulimics, dumpees and artists (oh god, the misunderstood artists!), the narcissists and rape victims come to debate on regurgitation tactics and where to cut themselves, (where is too obvious and where is too risky). The narcissists discuss how to simultaneously keep a conversation on themselves while letting others know their lack of worth.

Meetings start at seven and can run all night.

Lucy, she's been eating lunch alone since she was fifteen, and tasting it twice since she was sixteen.

Meet Sid, he wears his sleeves rolled up until people ask about his scars. He wears his hair over his face to hide his smile when they do.

Charles is an online poet. Only he posts his work half-finished so people think he's self-loathing and gives up on everything. Charles doesn't even like poetry.

Genevieve has been dumped twenty-six times this year, four of which were caused by the abortions.

Jacob loosens the bolts on his bike to get in harsh wipe outs. He reopens his wounds so they leave disfiguring scars.

"Hi I'm Phil, I've been a damage addict for thirteen years. I've burned down three houses, all of which were mine."

"My name is Cherry and I always bet on the sure thing to lose."

"I'm Dylan and I've tried drowning in the ocean four times. I don't want to be saved."

"Hey, Mike here. I've jumped off the wagon again. I'm drunk, and I don't want to be saved."

"It's my first time here after my second time being raped. I didn't call for help."

Meet Megan, an orphaned girl who started DAA when she was eighteen. Megan was not born an orphan - no one is- but she became one just weeks after leaving the womb. It turns out shotgun weddings don't usually hold up past the accident's first birthday. Every time the orphanage would set up an interview for her, Megan would sabotage the meeting. She would spit or cry or insult the lovely, lonely couple.

The orphanage sent her to a private school in the next city where being abandoned made her unique. Kids looked at her with wonder, boys tried to save her and girls tried to comfort her. Megan realized if she ever got adopted, all of this attention would stop. So she kept spitting and crying her way out of being loved.

Once she graduated from school she realized she was so alone, there was no one to be amazed by her pain. So she posted a notice at the community center for 'Damage Addicts Anonymous; a place where we may be alone, together'.

The first week brought in only two. One woman who mistook the hall for the bathroom, and Lyle, a twenty-eight year old who had been faking seizures for over a decade.

Two people this fragmented often think the other can complete them, no matter how rough the fit of the pieces. The couple fell into a dangerous love, the kind where all of your messy weights find a precarious place of balance together. The rocky, turbulent seas of their relationship were calmed only by the gravity of the group they lead. Two tornadoes tied together with a leash. 

Megan and Lyle, the earthquakes that rocked a coastal city to its knees.

The wounded wolves that circled the edges, never accepting assistance, never giving anyone more than a beautiful view of a terrible creature.

Megan and Lyle, they loved each other because their conditions were complementary. Lyle was abusive because of his constant experiments with different medication, and Megan used makeup to make her bruises look, not better, but worse.

Every meeting started with Megan giving her own testimony. As she talked about how her old orphanage Director urged her to leave Lyle, a gloating glower would hang on her face, a satisfied smile sneaking over her cheeks. "The Director says I'm losing control. She offered to pay for my plane ticket home this week." Megan's grin cracks open her scabbed lips. "Mommy thinks I'm broken."

This is when she blows a kiss to Lyle at the back of the room.

Megan and Lyle

sitting in a tree

K-I-L-L-I-N-G

first comes drugs,

then miscarriage

then comes the day they jumped off a bridge

Can you tell she used to be beautiful?

It's hard through all of the bone.

The only reason they died together

Is because they lived alone.