September 30th, 2014

• story about Signe
• 9/30/14 03:49 am
• Signe is ignoring me probably because my last letter just blew her mind away. It seems to have had an eye opening effect on her. I imagine it was like a psychedelic impression of herself tripping on a bit larger amount than the known LD of psilocybe. If there's such a thing as LD of it. But have no worries, this post won't be about drugs, though as it may seem so in the beginning. As it's only the beginning, so I must warn you - would you kindly understand the idea that it has no end? But now it's not the time to talk about that. As the words flow just because of her. So to find comfort one may think of this as a tribute to her or an analysis of our quite unorthodox relationship, that is if we can still use the world "relationship" in the case of me versus her.
  
  Material that came from her dormant garden full of fresh little hidden psilocybe semilanceata that has the same meaning as a little boys open mouth to a catholic priest. This information... so critical... + 2d4 potential heart piercing damage with 10% crit possibility which in case of bad dexterity saving throw sets the enemy aflame dealing 1d6 fire damage per turn (max 10 turns; and the amount is dependant on, first, the size of characters penis and, second, the amount of ingested psychedelic compound that all in all is in constant battle with her relatively small statue; oh please, I beg you god, don't let her grow fat, don't let her grow fat and wide, she's not a "babushka", nor she's a sexy gypsy lady that usually after her firstborn grows far and wide beyond any reason and understanding of modern science; although dianetics have made things a bit more clearer as they sayeth that the cause of this mystical fattening of body is directly linked to lack of happiness and self-esteem).
  
  I feel I must apologize about such an unusually large amount of vital information squished in-between two parenthesis. I am not a writer. My profession is pathetic compared to the one of writers, and it can be observed even with an untrained eye by just taking a glance at this shithole that is my diary, trying to be written in the new language of the world.
  
  So back to Signe we go. She has always been kind of a material girl - a person stuck between two realities, her blood bound to this world of physical manifestation, but her soul stuck somewhere in-between the shaft of the elevator and the exact floor she persuaded the machine to take her to. But unlike the enlightened illuminati high priestess, the whoremother Madonna, Signe hasn't deserved none of it. I mean the suffering that comes with this world that she's still trying to embrace. Trying hard every second of her life, so hard that even in the nighttime she's bound to serve this so called and totally overrated "reality". She even dreams of herself performing different non-menial tasks that the consumerist world is asking politely her to do (usually politeness is a synonym for "money"). Note the words "asking politely". The simplest and most effective way to control a persons will would be the words - "Would you kindly... my dear?"
  
  Exploited kindly throughout her life until her muscles grow weak, her spirit slowly fades away from the seemingly countless years she has suffered through while half of her being is stuck in that shaft of unbearable stench formed by urine, feces and the steam vents that exhaust air from apartments in this very same shaft forming aromas of random dishes that mostly reminds me of mashed potatoes with different additives that make them feel exquisite to our taste buds, but in reality are nothing more than chemically made powders that our mothers with or without intention to kill are poisoning us with. Our guiltless mothers with their guts spilled out on the table and words still sitting warm in their throats: "Dinner is ready." That stench. Seems as it throughout the years has cut through our colourful auras, making way to all kind of disease and disorder. I had a friend called Yonas. He's gone now.
  
  But I'm not the one who blames. And I've never been. It may seem the opposite, and it may suit me as a person that usually points the finger and laughs. But it's just my way of telling to world that I see. That I still want to believe. And laughter is just another method of self-preservation. It's one of most human responses there is. And it has always been like that. Pour me another shot of laudanum, dear bartender, as I have lost the will to go on, to keep going. My limbs and the will to survive - they have grown strangely unfamiliar with one another. But as a means to tell the world that they shall not bury me yet my fingers still make these twitching movements few times per hour or in some cases - per day; Or is it just kind of an autonomous response to the world that I have no idea of? Maybe it's their way of begging to "let me out", and the only method they could possibly know is taking the pressure off, taking the pressure out of me by opening a some sort of a canal in my skull that leads directly to my brain and doing it with an instrument that is not designed for this task. Rather it's purpose is to pierce hearts so alleviating the pressure that has formed there by, in peoples terms, love. I actually have little to no idea what I'm rambling about. Therefore I shall return to the main cause and the main answer, one in another and another in one - Signe.
  
  Why is she still here? What keeps her going? What are the terms, the conditions that makes her behave like that? Is it just simple brain chemistry? Or is it something else? She's too shy to provide me with an answer. But I shall not stop digging for I have not seen any other path worthy for me to follow as the one mentioned in my ramblings here. What makes the human in us and what is that or those things that unmakes the human in us? As the mother I've never had once whispered into my ear: "There's a hidden lake of crystal clear water below all the possessions we've hoarded throughout the years, and just one tiny drop of this water on our tongues will undo the unbearable suffocation of these things that define us. Usually until there's a pile of flesh left - the only reminder that once there was a person that existed."
  
  Not the things.
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