.

I met my killer and he’s so suicidal he’s afraid he won’t make it to my funeral. I wonder who’s the most important person in my life I haven’t met yet. Where am I?
Sometimes when I’m with you, I wonder how long it’ll be before I wake up. Do I think life owes me something? I’m not sure, though I feel there’s something people are not telling me – maybe something I’ve known longer than them (that I‘m fucked beyond this life). I can’t write – there’s no one to talk to. There’s the awful truth and the obviousness of the judgment you make of me.
I lie in bed and I can’t sleep, then wake up too late and miss my entire day. But no, I don’t want to go out, I don’t want visits, I don’t feel like anything at all. I’m aware of time and depression. I’m stuck in my body. There’s nothing wrong with me, but there’s nothing right either. Fuck you. And fuck me while you’re at it. Bla bla blah is all I hear. Static. I don’t want to engage in anything, but I don’t want to be left alone either.
Nothing is interesting enough and I get fatter everyday trying to fill the (w)hole. It’s 3:33am. You know what this means? Nothing. Shit. Yes, the meaning of life: it’s too fucking long and it’s over too fast. It’s creepy when you’ve got nothing to live for, not even a nice sentence to finish it all.

0-2

I’m such a sick person, always in search of objects to fill the never-ending hole I could name after a Finn. I keep falling over, I keep passing out when I see a face like his, and I’m the only one to blame. I don’t think it matters what’s wrong and what’s right and I don’t think I should believe in such things… All I’ve known from my own, personal, subjective truth is that… it all seems wrong. If I’m part of everything, then I must be wrong too. Or perhaps I’m right, for noticing is wrong. Or is wrong right? Or are wrong and right bullshit concepts to control people? People, who are so easily controlled. Us, the domestic animals. Light at the end of the tunnel, a bright side, a way out… You name it, all sons of the same idea. All rotting the same fruits – us – into thinking bright, thinking right, thinking big, acting happy, fucking chicks, buying cars, polluting our corpses, smoking cigarettes and sucking cocks. Oh, not me.
I’m not happy, I’m not sad, I’m just bitter and faithless. But who’s to say when happiness ends and sadness begins? What’s the line between faith and faithlessness? We’re imprisioned by these words, by this duality that leads us nowhere, and still there’s almost nothing else we could use. I’m going mad, and there’s no one to help me. There couldn’t be, for I’m focusing on what really matters whenever I can, whenever it’s possible. Food for thought, anyone? Philosophy for a living, yes. Maybe. Who knows. It’s all in your mind.

Perhaps I could express it in a song.
But it’s best expressed in silence. Absolute silence.

troubled water over bridge

The train is coming, but she’s all alone.
‘Breathe’, her body says, ‘it’s not intoxicating, it’s relaxing’.

It’s a long story – which is short for ‘I don’t want to tell’.

bridge over troubled water

And so I grab a pen again, simply because it's rainy, cold and past 1a.m.... and I thought of you. Life is okay as long as I don't think of the future - or the past. I've bought a self-help book and I'll go on a diet again soon (well, I must), which reminds me I should exercise again. As I write I feel there's beauty in routine, and I wonder what's yours like. What's it like being you? Such questions are very interesting to me.

Last time we spoke you said I was wasting my life on guys I could never get and that I wasn't going to live past my 30s - maybe you're even right, though only time will tell. For now, most of the time, I'm okay with myself for a weird reason I have no idea of. I'm slowly trying to grow within my limitations rather than try outgrowing my limitations - that whole evolution before revolution thing.

I don't have much to talk about my life with others when they ask me what's up, except really mundane stuff which is what most conversations are made of once you know someone. However, if these walls could talk, they'd tell you I'm trying. All within my limits. It's hard having to say something new and exciting everyday, isn't it?

My mind is finally realizing how faraway internet relationships cannot be - but it hasn't warned my body yet, for it's still lost in aimless longing. Maybe it'll happen soon.

Sometimes Dylan's "One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)" comes to mind about us. Perhaps I never realized how young we were and still are, but most likely this was never about age. The magic is that we've been a part of each other's lives and nothing will change that. I have all I could ever have of you: pictures, handwriting, and your voice. One of them is real. It's sad, but so are most things if we don't make an effort to see otherwise. An effort we don't always want to make.
For instance, I was talking today with a friend about life nd if I'd rather be happy in life and soon forgotten or lead a troublesome existence that would leave me on History. I doubt there's a soul out there who never wanted to be famous, rich or loved by many, but... I guess my dreams haven't been of that nature for many years. Using that common sense, if I write a book, plant a tree and have a son, it'll be okay. I don't think small, or maybe I do - but I act small, or maybe I don't. Adulthood calls us all eventually.

Perhaps I never loved you, only the idea of never being able to have you for many, many reasons. The body always wants, but the mind plays a different game. Perhaps my obsession towards you was all about getting me to show myself once again I'm unlovable.

I'm still trying, though echoes of your un-sexualization sometimes make me act that way too, which ends up only being something I say in the heat of the moment and not something I can actually do. Some things are hard and most of them are yet to come, and very likely love isn't the biggest issue here - oddly, it doesn't seem the most likely to get me killed, as you might know. You've chosen Jesus, I just might choose Nietzsche.

yours,
yuri.

i am we

I want to be impregnated by men from different countries, I want sons and venereal diseases from each and every one of them. I want to carry them with me, I want the world in me. My plan is to have sex with as many men from as many different countries as I can. I want to be fucked by a beautiful man from Poland, and I want to be bathed in Swedish cum, still hot from extraction. I want the warmth of your body in mine, for I’m so cold. I need you to fill my hole. I need you to fill my holes. I need you whole. I want your children.

I want your underwear after a hard day’s work, I want to wear it on my face for as long as time can exist. I want your smell to take me. I want your urine right at my face so I can reach the golden halls of desire. I want it all, I want to much, but we all know it’s not nearly enough. So I want your hair, and I want to rub it on me after feeling it softly through my curious fingers. I want to clean your round and delicious butt with my tongue after you recycle, as long as I can lick your double heir production center and feel I hold all your future generations in my mouth. I want your rock-hard cocks splitting my willing ass, finnish man. I’d like it all for a hedonistic second or two just between the moment we ascend to the moment we’re back. I want to kiss your belly and follow the trail of hair (such a wonderful vegetation) that leads, any way I take, to dreamland. I want to hide myself in your bush, I want to sleep on you (and I want you to sleep on this). I want to lick the sweat out of your armpits. And if I’m ever insatiable, I want to be a big cook and taste your flesh. And when I’m satisfied then we can both be sure I am we.

waves

I don't expect you to understand me, though I might've someday. You'll never know how it feels anyway. As a matter of fact, it's almost good you don't, for I'd hate to be understandable through your mentality. You, who makes self-destructive feel good. You should've seen behind this shining silence I shouted, I thought you knew better - though, to this day, I'm not sure I know you at all... though you're predictable in hate.

Don't knock on a door that's trying to stay close. If my sign says 'keep away', don't just stand there. Come.

to me you are

Your face works its way through me in a manner I cannot describe by words or gesture.
Your unkissed lips (by me, that is – I do not know who else walked your grounds), so intensely desirable and protuberant. I can almost feel the texture. The way they just pop out of your face is pure magic. Your chin, right under it, crashes like a dreamy wave that just adds up to how perfectly imperfect you look.
(I’m travelling my way through you right now, can you feel my thought?)
Your skin, untouched by sun, includes so many cells I’d willingly kiss. Milky white, it gets pink in certain spots. Just as perfect as it gets.
Your expression, looking so troubled either because you want it or because of something you’ll never tell me.
Sometimes I think the divinity you preach has touched you from second one. How were you as a child? I can only wonder. You seem to get better in time, but I doubt you’d ever unplease me.
You may lack in personality what would be needed for us, but I also lack in sanity when it comes to you, and I always have. A lot has changed, fortunately, but you still touch me by silence.
This isn’t a closure, because I’ve chosen it not to be. You’ve once said the bridge was burned, but I always knew I’d find a way to stand on it again, you always help me rebuild when you destroy me, even though it’s a dynamite bridge we end up on.
The years got me in my place and I do believe I have a much larger mental landscape than once we met. Sometimes it still hurts, but most of the times I've learned how to live with it just as I should and just as we eventually do.
This isn’t poetry, it doesn’t follow a line and quite frankly I’m ashamed of making this public. It’s just that every time I see a new picture of you I feel the need to write down how much I appreciate the work of art you are.

And I haven’t even mentioned your eyes. But I don’t need to, do I?