Death Fractal v.1

You're standing under a tree. It's leaves are a brilliant green, drops of water hanging from it, and silken, fractal webs delicatly woven between the limbs of the peaceful being. A golden arachnid takes her place in the center, eight legs all stretched out in a symmetrical fashion, patiently waiting for some adventurous little creature to find it's way into her trap. Her abdomen is spotted black, eight dots, eight legs, eight ever-watchful eyes.

The sun is bright, shining directly into your bleeding eyes. There is glass stuck between the lids, cutting at your eyes as the blood runs down your face and you tear at it in frustration. This is terribly uncomfortable for you, I know.

There's a scent in the air, soft and beautiful, sweet, aromatic. Flowers, red and golden, orange and silver, purple, blue, white. Acres and acres of wildflowers. You collapse amongst them, letting out a pained groan as the glass continues to dig, dig, dig, making it's way deeper into your eye sockets. This is painful for you, I know.

Snap! The golden arachnid has moved. She's wrapping a gift, a paralyzed gift up in shining silk, strong as any another string. The fly twitches pathetically, bitten and sticky, unable to move as it is trapped, wrapped. You wonder if the creature is claustraphobic and hope not for it's sake.

The puncture wound in your side is covered in flies. It's as if the spider is doing a favour for you, as you devours one of your enemies. You lay bleeding and wounded, fingernails taking off layers of skin, the pieces of you becoming trapped, folds of skin under nails. How pretty.

The sun blazes, your burnt skin curling and peeling to reveal a fresh layer. 'Water', you murmur to the spider, but she answers none, either unhearing or uncaring, probably both.

As your eyes glaze over, the last thing you see is the beedy eyes of the spider locked on yours, all eight everwatchful eyes burning into yours. 'You did this', you mutter, and a thought crosses your mind.

'Silly fly'.

Earthdance 09

Wake up. No. You don't. Not yet.

Cigarettes are bad. Joint after joint we roll, passing cops, praying to imaginary Gods that they don't catch the scent of it as they check our driver for alcohol. I'm fucking high as a kite, but I can't tell that, I just know I should be. It seems I've abused all substances to the point where, I can't get high, can't get drunk, can't trip bawlz anymore. Solution? Eat more drugs.
I don't like this not being able to smoke cigarettes in the fucking car idea at all. That's okay, we pump her full of liquids. She'll have to take a piss break soon, then we can have a cigarette. Also, whenever we get pulled over by the pigs, we light a cigarette and say "Yeah, we were just trying to hide the scent of the weed, man ;D".

We finally arrive at the doof.

It's dark by now. We struggle with the tent and the packed-as-all-fuck car for several decutes, before missioning it to the D-floor, looking out for the rest of our crew along the way. We find the van and they welcome us to the doof.

A few hours in and it's time to munch some acid.

Rasta feeds me a Pink Panther, but not ten minutes into the whole, it being on my tongue, he gets this douchebag idea to start slapping me on the back and it flies out of my mouth, to become lost amongst the Earth. It's okay, though. He insists he wants me to have a good time and feeds me more. :D

All the while, he's forcing himself upon a girl who's completely off-chops and can't decide if she wants her cunt penetrated or not.

So, Rasta and I are patrolling the doof, being generally intense characters, moving with confidence, speed and agility, our energy being LOUD. We are on the hunt for some prey. For Rasta is of course, Dracula. We come across four young females and lead them back to our tent, where Rasta ends up scaring the fuck out of three of them. They are eager to leave, and he's tripping bawlz. One of them stays for a while, she's lovely, thinks his stories are interesting and shows no fear.

I spend some time with Emily and her lovely little Scottish pet, then pass out in the tent later on, between Rasta and Phoenix, warm and snug and awake to a beautiful face.

Bobbie and I, after she found me in the morning, decide to go on a little adventure up the mountain side with a couple of guys who thought it was a fine plan. We journeyed upwards, and took interest in the purple blanket of flowers, and the enchanted tree standing and swaying amongst a garden of yellow. Before we journey onwards, one of the guys squirts a few drops into our mouths. :D

The sand is hot, and red, and thorns burrow into the bare flesh of our feet. We exit the feild of purple and head towards a welcoming tent, to meet some lovely people who roll us a joint and give us an assortment of drinks, chai tea, beer, goon and the sort.

By now, Bobbie and I are Tripping Bawlz, Man! and are on quite a similar mind-level. We're both eager to get up and head back to the other side of the rock, since everyone and everything is situated on that side. Even though the place we were at and the people there were grande enough... It was time to leave, and we stumbled off, off-chops, with no idea where the fuck we were OR where the fuck we were going.

Eventually we stumbled upon the wrong group of people who did not enjoy the fact we were under the influence of illicit substances and I fucked off out of that area as soon as possible, Bobbie close behind with a very concerned/angry/suspicious female at her side. We sat in the tent, trying to make sense of something, anything.

We then went to find food, feasting upon chips and other unhealthy delicious treats. The night seemed quieter, perhaps, and we wandered back and forth from dance floor, to van, to log, to car, to tent... Until I once more went to snuggle in the warm blankets of the tent, and was joined later by Bobbie who snuggled up beside me. :D

Morning came, and I missioned for a morning cigarette, enjoying it upon a log. I encounted a few people I knew and travelled with them for a short time before I decided it was time to search for some of my crew, coming across Bobbie once more, getting our goon on on the top of the rock, and spending the rest of the morning drinking a scrumptious jam-mushroom-chai tea. I had a very comfortable morning trip, laying in the van and having people deliver artwork to my legs and arms until I was painted to perfection, decorated in striped of brilliant colour.

I relaxed in the back of the van, warm and snug in the sunlight, paint drying and cracking on my skin. As the sun began to set, we figured we weren't going to head home 'til Monday morning, and I ended up sleeping right on through 'til dawn, a spit-fire blanket as my best friend. We packed up the tents, teh van, the car in the morning and began the trip back home.

The van encountered a lack-of-fuel just on the outskirts of Trayning, and we rolled into town, a friendly guy helping us out with some deisel as we muched on Soy burgers. We continued the mission.

The van arrived home before anyone else. We ran in to share our individual tales with our housemates who didn't attend Earthdance 09, whilst waiting for our fellow doofers to get back. Spent the early afternoon drinking goon and chillin' with Emily and Jaymes and such at home. ^.^

Experience was what you wanted. T'is what you got.

The watchtower.

When you understand how somebody works, you have complete control of them. You know what will make them flinch, ache, moan, lie, deny, smile, be comforted, lust, and yearn. You have access to every single one of their thoughts, and little do they know. There you sit, comforting them over something you know they made up. They want your sympathy, or some kind of attention from someone. You nod your head and listen, offer advice and a reassuring hug, even though you know they're full of shit. Why fuck up the power you have by admitting to your little game? You say things like 'it's okay', 'it'll all work out', 'hold on, I have faith in you' and 'things will get better, they have to', but you manipulate these cliche phrases so it doesn't seem like you're reciting from a book. You're gathering more information. They can't look you in the eye, and you already know they are telling tales. But you don't say 'you're full of shit, you're upset over the fact you're still single and unwanted, so you tell me this story because you think I don't know who you are. You think telling me about your fictional boyfriend and his fictional fists will make me want to console you and make you feel better, you think it'll make me feel sorry for you and spend more time with you. You saw the way MY girlfriend treats me, and you envy all the attention I get, and how everyone else seems to be happier than you, so you decide to fool us all, and you got them, yeah, those cunts are pretty fucking fooled. Oh, poor you. Not me, I'll just pretend to be your friend 'til I get what I want from you, then you're on your own, bitch'. No, you don't say it, but that's what you're thinking while you're rubbing her back and telling her she's still got you. If only they knew just how deep you've travelled into their dark little minds. If only they knew you knew just how fucked up they really were, that they are fucking fake. Of course, so are you, but at least you're intelligent enough. We all use people, conciously or not, but it's people like us, little observer, that know how to get exactly what we want from everyone, simply by figuring them out. You can't go wrong. Of course, you shouldn't trust anything I've just said, little observer, because I'm just like you. What I say and what I think are completely different things. You already know this though. I know you do, because I know you. Everytime you look at someone, you're looking through, into their mind. Aren't you fucking clever, fucking fantastic. You will never get a look at me, little observer, so don't bother, I have no use for you. You're too observant, I couldn't possibly manipulate, use and abuse you. My deceit will go to waste. But then, why would I tell you anything?

Take me to Wonderland.

I want to be your doll.

Once upon a time, you used to carry me around, keep me warm at night, play with me, love me. I belonged to you, and I felt protected.

Take me to wonderland, because I'm the girl who knows a lot about everything but can't make sense of anything. Maybe in a realm where nothing is supposed to make sense, in fact, it is supposed to be nonsense... I would be at peace with it.

Bring me eccentric characters and good luck charms.

Take me to the datura tea party and sing me a lullaby.

Skip the twins, I've had enough of stupid, quarrelsome boys.

Where is my wise and disturbing Cheshire Cat?

Where is my Mad Hatter?

My White Knight in Shining armour?

Hearts and cards, tea and gentlemen, insanity and logic BEFUDDLE a cunt so that whilst I'm trippin' balls I AM the Cheshire Cat for six hours.

They're painting me a white rabbit at the top of the rabbit hole. Down we go.

Let me be your Alice.

I want to meet a rather violent and slightly insane gentleman who will make me know I am his, his possession. I want to be your doll. I want someone to show me power, control and protection.

Clocks and teacups... Mirrors and chess pieces... Rabbits and roses.

LSD has become too real. It won't take me to Wonderland anymore. All it will do now is try and break The Wall.

I want a world where people talk funny. Where they say 'm'lady' and 'delightful' and 'top of the morning t'ya' and 'how do you do, good sir?'.

Top hats and vests, corsets and laces, ties and pinifolds.

Why are these urges so frustrating? Wonderland and The OtherRealms...So frustrating because they are completely unessecary. I'M ALWAYS GOING TO BE STUCK HERE. AND WHEN I DIE, I'M NOT GOING SOME PLACE BETTER. I'M FUCKED. THERE IS NO BETTER PLACE, NO CONCIOUSNESS FOR ME TO ACHIEVE, NO FUCKING EXIT.

Death may be another episode on Earth. Death may be a time to feed maggots. Death will not be fancy hats and crazy gentlemen... What the fuck am I trying to achieve here?

I don't want to be human.

I don't want to exist in this body, this world.

But I do want to exist.

Just not here, like this.

Same voices prt. 2

"Why are you dressed like someone out of the 17th century?", he asks, first thing he's said to me all night. I hope it will be the last, I'm much too high to deal with this shit. After spending an hour smoking weed in a little cellar, air-tight, continually smoking by just breathing... Lam was the last person I wanted to see.
I've been dating Kirsty for two weeks now. It doesn't feel like a relationship. See, the both of us have indulged in sexual activities with almost everyone bar eachother. She cuddles up to Lee at night, whilst I make myself at home in Michael's bed. Our shared words are limited, and I believe the attraction is dying. Already? The attraction that lead to me asking her to be my girlfriend, and the attraction that lead to her saying 'yes' and giggling as she kissed my lips, dead already?
It doesn't help that the both of us are chasing after someone else, anyway.
I find myself in awkward situations like these all the time, like the other night when Michael left the room and I wanted to put on fresh underwear and slipped a pair off and was just about to get into the second paor when in he came, jumped into the bed and put his arm around me. I spent the next ten minutes trying to pretend I wasn't trying to put on that pair of underwear. I don't know if this one and the Kirsty situation is at all the same, but it's still amusing to me.
So, I was drunk in the shed, and Adrian is giving me lessons on words and numbers. I'm no good at Maths, but somehow I manage to do Z to the power of Z + Z to the power of 6 + C to the power of 3. Amongst other equations, and one of them answers with 21122012.