children of the counter-culture

we wear spiked, leather jackets and pierce our skins with shards of metal, creating holes to accompany the ones in our hearts and souls

we ink our skin with stories that we cannot tell ourselves anymore; pictures that meant something, words that held meaning, names that we eventually but surely forget

we love intoxication; not for the sake of intoxication, but the pursuit of happiness that comes with it

we take flight because, in the clouds, we are immortalised; no judgements can reach us here and we reign supreme

we are the children of the counter-culture who take pills and needles and smoke and drink and paper and powder and weave a beautiful tragedy around them and on them because that’s what our lives are

memento mori

on pain

girei;

it is to be understood that every human being experiences pain at certain levels

HAHAHA I CUT MY FRIEND’S THIGH OPEN LAST NIGHT AND I LOVED IT

but the way I process pain is, perhaps, toxic in the eyes of some

gOoSeFlEsH gIvEs Me GoOsEpRiCkLeS

swallowing everything after processing the source of your pain, learning from it, coming out a more mature, wiser person; that’s how one should deal with pain

K-ILL ALL of those who’ve EVER wronged you

ventilation can occur in several ways, but unless one fully understands the unjust and indiscriminate nature of pain, one will look for foolish avenues of self-harm and abuse to ease it; be strong!

yoU, my son, are drowning and it’s okay, let it happen

don’t let pain consume and change you, though; you might not like what comes out on the other side

Free At Last

on isolation

aspiring artists should always appreciate and capture the beauty the manifests in isolation;

most social experiences, in my opinion, leave us with a false sense of contentment; true contentment can only be found through thorough introspection of all aspects of the self and that is optimum when one is isolated

a slacker in the corner of the classroom, a lone person in an apartment can create more artistic magic than one would give them credit for because they’ve been able to transcend that level of social experiences and isolate their craft from their lives

a question that I have been asking myself recently is- what is true art? is it a burst of creativity that gets immortalised because of its spontaneous and ingenious nature? or does it have a solid foundation; built through steady effort and perseverance?

it’s a bit of both, really, a burst of creativity followed by perseverance; all, in isolation, pays off as something truly seminal

The Man In The Mirror

Ever since he was a little boy, he’d been observing the man in the mirror who’d mirror all his movements. He was fascinated by it in the stage of infancy, attracted to it in adolescence and discussed philosophy with him in the adult stage of his life.

He still remembers the first time he stood in front of the man in the mirror before his first football game. He’d preached words of courage and motivation, the man; pumped up the little kid with determination. When he scored 98.2% in his final year, the man in the mirror toasted to him and cried tears of joy with him.

When he finally found the woman he wanted to marry, the man in the mirror flipped out with joy. When he landed his first paycheck, the man in the mirror rejoiced as if it were him who got the paycheck. The man in the mirror witnessed the boy’s first kiss and never had he been more proud of his steps.

The man in the mirror didn’t come with holy intentions.

When the boy was having a hard time, the man in the mirror inspired him to indulge in intoxication. When he was fighting with his girlfriend, the voice of the man in the mirror screamed in his brains, asking him to beat the shit out of her. When he beat her up in front of the man in the mirror, he cheered for the boy. When he first killed a man in front of the man in the mirror, he felt as if he’d made his father proud. The night when he slashed his own wrists at the request of the man in the mirror, was the night when the man in the mirror won. He’d played all the right cards. He’d made the perfect demon out of a kid who was so good, he could serve as an agent of peace. He’d corrupted something so pure, so young that even Lucifer would be afraid of him. He’d succeeded at spreading death and terror in this world.

And the boy? He loved the man in the mirror. He owed so much to him. He’d been there throughout his life. As a little boy, the man in the mirror would just mirror his movements. As he grew older, the man in the mirror started speaking to him. They clicked real soon and the lonely, scrawny kid now had a friend who looked exactly like him. He’d tell the man in the mirror everything. He’d lay his soul bare and ask for guidance and cousel from the man in  the mirror. He’d always been an obedient boy. The man in the mirror showed him the path to salvation. He did his very best to attain salvation. He obeyed every order the was conveyed to him by the man in the mirror. He’d achieved what every human being only dreamt of achieving. Eternal salvation. He closed his eyes and let his soul get let rip into shreds as this song played in the background. He was finally found peace.

“Satanic verses,

It’s the tales of the evil,

We’ll never have for a victim.”