This Accursed Internet

WHY does the Internet refuse me at every turn? I try to watch a Linkin Park music video on youtube, which is hard enough because those money grabbing RIAA fuckers keep taking them down, and when I do get it, it plays for about ten seconds before telling me that it is finished. Done. End of story. Goodbye cruel world.

Thus I cannot have the musical release my soul requires. Goodbye old friend. I'll never see your face again.

The Sky Is Falling

Stars drift past me on the wind. It is as though the sky has fallen.

I Cried.

I was walking through the cold streets this morning amid the bitter flurries of snow, the wind biting at my skin and the snow gleaming its transience on the black of my clothes for a moment before the engine of my blood melted its beauty to tears.

On the step outside Waterstones, where I went on hunger strike last year until they agreed to buy a ramp for wheelchair access to this so spastics wouldn't have to use the goods entrance and get to see cool areas I'm not allowed to see, I found a terrible thing. Among the snow and the detritus of every town centre Sunday morning - needles, condoms and empty cans of Nurishment, there lay the headless corpse of a grey pigeon.

I wept to see such violent death in an unexpected place. Its head had been cut off with a blade. I can only assume some sick fuck killed it for a ritual or something. Animal sacrifice is so fucked up. I wish I knew who did it so I could hunt them down. Hunt them down and beg to know why they decapitated the pigeon when I could have died. Why should a pigeon gain the sweet release I crave but can't buy enough paracetamol to find?

I wandered the streets, looking for clues. I got stopped for shoplifting in BHS when I checked a dodgy looking woman's bag while she was in the changing rooms, but they let me go when I cried. Mum's going to kill me for not buying her the phrase book she wanted me to pick up for our skiing holiday next week.

I hope I break my spine and don't know how to cry for help in French, then no-one will rescue me, just like in the rest of my life, and I will die, sinking into the embrace of the beautiful sky-flakes.

I am ill.

I am deathly ill. I am swimming in a sea of vortices of my own creation. I wish I would drown. Drown, sink, tumble into a never-ending dream. There's chemicals in my blood my body clings to even as it begs to reject them. An evening's relief from the darkness feels like lighting a match in a pitch black cavern. A few seconds where you glimpse how tiny you are compared to the cavern around you. Then discomfort, a burned finger and the darkness returns, its breath tinged with sulphur and the burn in your eyes making the dark darker than it felt before.

The cycle turns, a tiny wheel in a giant machine.

I need to stop pulling randoms.

I was at a club last night and I ended up with this guy who was a lot uglier than I thought he was. That's sobriety for you. I probably wouldn't have followed him home if I'd been sober either. Following, making sure he couldn't see me, hiding on corners.

I'm seeing him again next week.

~Love is Shivering~

I feel like a trembling egg. I am a chick, trapped in the egg. If I cannot break the shell, I cannot change my world. I will die, still trapped in my egg. I must revolutionise my world.

Though I know in my heart what awaits the bird that breaks free from its egg. The birdcage. A new small world to be trapped in. How does one escape this baroque matroshka of captivity? Never truly finding free will?

I went back to work yesterday. It was like being stabbed through the soul with a dagger made of frozen shit. I never want to work again.

I...

...am sadder than a grape.