“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.” Nietzsche

I never thought I’d be an inept Father. 

Regret by kristelven


I hit him today with a slapstick whip. Each hit echoes as the second wooden board comes crashing on the first. He made not a sound, not a whimper. He made them with enormous amounts of energy, I could see it in the way his muscles tightened and his eyes closed. 

I never thought I’d be like my Father. 

He’d look me down with an inspiring look of dread. You had to love that dreadful look. When you fear something so much, you respect it. With his belt, he’d spare me not, no matter how much I crawled away from him, no matter how much I rolled over like a deceasing body falling down a hill. With his hands, he’d try to rip me apart, starting from my ear, moving to my cheeks, to my stomach; he’d stretch my skin beyond any endurable measure. 

How did things end up this way? Is it my fault? He hit his son; I hit mine. 

My wife weeps after what happened tonight. She weeps the tears that my son cannot shed. As if it is she who I have hit. How could I have done this? 

This is your fault,” my conscience, a woman, speaks from within. “None but your own fault.” 

From the dark crevice of my mind, she speaks, even though it’s too late now. I remember the time when I hit that woman, when she was only a girl, hoping to grow up and blossom on her own, while enjoying the fruits of youth. I remember how I hit her and with that hit, I blew away her essence, pushed her down into oblivion, shoved her until she fell into the gap. 

Regret by virtud


..and now I jump after her. 

I remember when my father’s loud screams were contrasted by my mute rebellion. I remember when my father’s stinging hits were contrasted by my acceptance of them as if they were injections of a favoured drug. 

I remember when she extended her hand to me in the bright light of day, when everything was clear, but I, under the influence, rejected what could have been my way out. But I put her; I put myself somewhere I never really wanted to be in. 

My acts of rebellion were false, passive and uninspired. 

When you fear something so much, you teach yourself how to respect it. And when you respect it, you imitate it. And when you imitate it, you become it. I shoved her and pushed her, and I lost myself with every shove and push. She fell down the abyss and all this time, she has been buried deep. When you become it, you hardly know what’s good anymore. Your whole life becomes a swoon because of your failed revolution. You lose touch of everything that defined you, and submissively, you lose any shard of subjective individuality. You’re it. 

…and I became it. I became my Father. Like many people do become only an image of an authority figure. But no excuses. We’re all wrong. To feel alive, I act like it

My conscience, the sweet little girl who I have forsaken, tells me that it’s all my fault. “You gave him imaginary authority. You allowed him to do this to you. You have a responsibility to yourself, to me, which you forgot and left behind.” 

Tragic wakes. Who I was long ago is no different from what my son was. 

Was. Past tense. 

The slapstick whip is still in sight. My weeping wife is within hearing distance. With my other three senses, I smell my son who’s lying on the bed, motionless; I smell the odour of an empty clay jar; I taste… 

There’s no love in this. There is no love in fear. But he had no other way. Our whole life now will dance upon his act like corks upon the tides of grief. 

My son, lived like a martyr, died like suicide. 

Waning In My Own Light by SelfRecyclable


Memory & Forgetfulness



I have my bag packed. I can hear the shower water pouring, accumulating in the bath tub. I look at the empty apartment. The vacant couch, the piles of books towering half way to the ceiling, the temple of CDs and DVDs. These objects don’t make me want to remember the past week. These objects are not laden with the traffic of memories. They hold nothing. They are just a bundle without a substance.

The sound of pouring water stops. I know I cannot leave without saying goodbye to the only person I’ve seen for a week. I wait for her to come out but she never does, as if she paused time when she closed the faucet. As I stand outside the bathroom door, for the first time in a week I feel like a stranger in this apartment, in her home. It is not a place I belong to. I entered this place so full of hope. I thought that the road had finally gotten me home after prolonged seasons of winter in which nature was painted with different shades of the dullest grey. But it was a spark of euphoria; now time has halted for me to make the decision, to choose if I want to step back onto that ragged stale road of constant wandering; that road of loss and confusion; that road without identity which I loathe.

The silence in the bathroom becomes the silence of still-time, and I become afraid of her stillness; deathlike silence reigns. The knob does not screech as I turn it. The door does not squeak as I open it.

Vapour. Haze.  Steam rises from the hot water in the bathtub and sheathes the mirrors and the walls with blurry droplets. I do not enter, but I can see her lying, floating on the surface of the water in the bathtub. Her body is still and her breasts emerge like waves caught in a photograph. Her hair sticks to her body like leeches sucking off the rotten blood flowing in her veins. But she’d have to be drained completely if she hopes of being toxin-free, to be saved. Her eyes are closed, giving her the solemn image of a statue, battling time and winning eternity.

The still thought-image which she projects forces me to put down my bag and go to her. I walk into the sauna-like bathroom. Time is still paused; my moving body collides with the droplets. It seems as though I have dug my way with perseverance to get to her sober statue. I raise her head with my hand and I remove the leeches off of her body. She opens her eyes and I remember one week ago, the abominations we committed to fuel the fiery desire we shared for each other. I see the beginning through her eyes, and I sense no regret. Her wide black eyes give me comfort in their serene depths. I feel like a key that has found its door, a narrator that has found his voice. It’s all in the depth of her eyes in which I drown, and while drowning in her eyes she speaks to me; she tells me all I need to know, and I see all I need to see: moments not intended for me.

I stand up and leave her still body. I leave her as a still-image imprinted in my mind. A memory seeking continuity, an image seeking movement.



Returning from a long absence, this alien world feels like a museum. I walk with fearful eyes through its halls and I stare at the portraits which look very familiar. It is the familiarity which frightens me. I left a vibrant city and have now returned to an unchanged city, a city of the dead, and I search for her, the one who I intentionally left as a still-image. I return to give her continuity and movement.

I make my way through the proverbial streets. People dress the same; people act the same, as if they had no tomorrow. The daunting reality of sameness wraps itself around me. My wandering is transformed into a fall. A heaviness pushes me down, but I persevere and channel my way through the immutable roads of this city. This is no labyrinth. I know where she is.

I revisit the image in my mind. I see her in the bathtub, her hair like leeches. I remove the leeches and graze my fingers on her flesh as if my fingers were magic limbs which close lacerations. Her breasts stand like still waves splashing on a shore. I let my hands surf on the waves and they reach the shore, the rough rug of sand which was my home.

I find myself at the door of her apartment.

I knock and the door opens. It does not screech. I step inside, the water is pouring down. Steam comes out of the bathroom and my desire is indelible. Relaxed, I step in the bathroom. I see her through the semi-transparent wall of steam, sitting in the bathtub, her head between her legs, and her arms trying to wrap themselves around her; she is in front of me now as she was when I left.

The water stops flowing; a bell tolls and time stops. Nothing moves anymore. The past is fixed and I find myself trapped in what my memory wants me to see. I find myself trapped in the past.

I left her as an image so that she could persist in my memory. When I left, I killed her. I froze her in time and did not allow her to move on, and now I’m faced with the conundrum of memory and forgetfulness. If I allow forgetfulness to creep through, I will seize to know her; she would become someone different; she would become a stranger. If I allow memory to persist, she’ll be unreal and as dead as a monument, as dead as the city which I have passed through.

I try to step forward. I cannot.

I try to back away. I cannot.

A decision has to be made. To forget and lose all, or to remember and wallow in decayed grave.

The distance between me and her hurts me, but I cannot stop staring. I have no idea how she’ll feel if I allow myself a tinge of forgetfulness. I have no idea how this still-image would move. Will she laugh and break the heaviness of my absence? Or will she move around in circles like a prey around its predator, examining and waiting to strike with guilt.

The answer is within reach and it’s a choice I’ve made a long time ago, before I left, when she whispered in my ear. She told me about a moment not intended for me, a moment not in my memory, a moment I am promised to witness upon my return.

The still image changes. She changes; her eyes brighten up; she shines and she looks at me. These eyes, they utter the truth in silence; art knows more than the mind can ever know for truth is found in the hidden places which art draws. The silent moving-image speaks: It is not okay to remember the way you did. I am alive. You left me with emptiness which did not allow me to laugh. The theatre of absence leaves us all wondering about our failing existence. You isolated me like a single frame of a long film. Your froze me in time and did not allow me to grow. And you thought you knew me. You left me without laughter and melancholy camped over me, and this city drained me with its stillness which you incurred.

I blush. I’m out of words.  She frightens me with her sudden strength, her sudden life, her sudden sublime beauty. Such beauty can only be reciprocated by a miracle which I cannot give. That moment which was not intended for me; her movement after stillness was that of a strike of guilt. I have returned to a city of the dead, but I do not know her anymore. She has changed. I never knew her. I have changed.

I turn my back on her and on the distance, hoping that the other end is closer.

My travelling lost me my only home.



Barbara Kingsolver was/is wrong. A broken, dysfunctional family does equate with a broken, amputated, choking, child.

Now that clarity has come, it’s weird how confused I am.

The sky and the sea are still there; the Oriental sky and the Ionian sky give each other the sacred kiss of love each morning; but the earth is dead, dead because man has killed it, and the gods have fled.

She walks, trying to create that which she knows so little about, a sanctuary, a safe space, just like a palace never visited, it becomes forsaken.

The mother’s womb, he was never safe there either. Put under monetary pressures, the only sane option would be to abort the fourth unexpected child. A zygote and an embryo are mistakes which can be reversed. If not for religious guilt which a grandfather instilled in the thoughts of the irresponsible parents, who pressed on each other one month prior, believing themselves to be two chips of flint, rubbing on themselves, and then, when that spark went off, they realized what they are and what they are not. The child that was born was never safe.

When she was born, she did not cry or shout; her parents did with violent impulses of tragic rage which elongated all through her childhood. Even after the divorce, the tension was felt like the terror of the sun; she always knew it was there, even though she did not dare look at it or acknowledge it. Watching her parents fight, she took that as the norm, and now, her only knowledge of a relationship creates and distorts the relationships she goes through. She lives for conflict of interest.

He lived day by day, wishing that his grandfather died one or two years earlier, wishing that the knife was never prevented. Every difficulty was blamed on him, the devil who was forcefully created, the ominous one who had inscribed on his skin the stigma of the intruder: bruises, blue lips, red eyes and tears, and a severed spirit seeking respite from the spiteful circle of hell he found himself in.

Sanctuary, as usual, was sought in all the wrong places, but for all the right reasons. Rebellion; a desire to break free. A revolution, put up a battle. Fight. But most people forget that a revolution is not the war that is won or the martyrs who are sacrificed; it is everything which comes after.  While she thought she was winning, while she dabbled alcohol all the way down to unconsciousness; while she smoked whatever came her way without a care; while she thought she was winning for all the right reasons, she was losing for all the wrong ones. She depressed her volatile soul and silenced her brain. She has no morning after.

He kept to himself. He was trapped. He was chained inside a hostile house in which every member stared at him with disgust. The mirror promised him no Self to rely on. But wasn’t it time to make it all good? So how could he have healed what his parents have done? How could he have run when he was never been allowed to crawl? How could he have filled the hole which his mother dug inside him? Who would promise him a new start?

A child is so similar to a voodoo doll, it’s almost uncanny. As parents play with pins thoughtlessly, as they slowly handicap a mind and amputate a soul, the child can only submit to the effects of random voodoo violence which will never go away. Can you ever scrape a scar away?

She cries because she has masks which hide emptiness. He cries because he cannot but mask himself. Both are not permitted individuality. Both are given personalities they have to abide by. They hear each other and can do nothing but cry for each other; they can do nothing but feel compassion and hold each other. Perhaps love will be born out of this compassion; but neither she nor he will bear it. They will be afraid of the pins which remain pressed inside of them; they will dread the permanent scars.

The earth is dead. The desert is still silenced by the voice of Gods who labelled their children as devils. The Gods only hear their own voice, and it is only her–the child without a safe bubble–and I–the child without a warming womb–who can listen to the silence of the dead earth while the Oriental sky and the Ionian sky kiss each other every morning.

I need a womb and she needs arms to hold her. We both need each other to tell each other that it’s not our fault.

The clarity of current reality is confusing; but we prefer the sacred silent night.

The Arrival of the Sun (The Departure of Shame)


I’m crawling. I’m sidelined, but I need no sympathy. Fear takes precedence over the minds of the weak ones. And will they ever see the sun?

The sun, its terror is so great; we feel it without looking at it. The darkness is full of memories. You only know that a spirit of a person is dead when all you have is memories. Remembrance is the most tacit form of mourning.

I saw her in the dark after she had left me, and she was walking towards me, ignorant of the fact that I’m facing her, that she’s walking back into my arms. She kept on walking until the sun rose up, and she saw me waiting, humble and weak. I did not ask for respect, but for the violent impulse which speeds the inertia which pushes her to me, and maybe that violent impulse will kill us both.  I kept myself in the dark all through the night so that I become a taboo in her mind. The truth is one, once the taboo faces you, you leap onto it in an animalistic violent sexual frenzy, but the erotic leap in itself makes us human, a leap with no calculation, forgetting the past, and refraining from enslaving the present to the future; this is as close as we can die without ceasing to live, it is living equally with death. The sun is transgression.

Will they ever see the sun?

I cannot keep on walking through this discontinuous cycle born out of fear and restraint. It all feels the same. The same fears, the same inhibitions, the same irrationality, the same impersonality, the same sidelining, the same unimportance. I realize that it is an epidemic. It’s religion, but misunderstood; it’s monotheistic and it commits people to a human life of work with no animal respite. Alienation made divine. What happens when the fear is gone? When God dies? Irresponsible, undisciplined degradation in a dark abyss.

I am not comfortable writing this. I will be the victim, the words act as torturer.

As civilized as I try to be, my silence always comes out as violent, but I dare not speak, and now Language, my tool, betrays me, and treason tastes bitter when I realize that I’m the executioner as well.

I cannot project a complete corporeal image on anything around me. I am finding trouble defining my spirit in this place, among these people of constant deficit change. Will they ever know that their ways are faulty and their thoughts are part of a dictated narrative existing and feeding on differences. They live on negative definitions, and negatively, they try to find a purpose by looking at origins from the past, and passively they die in the darkness of history.

But a purpose does not imply an origin. An origin does not imply purpose. Knowledge was made not for understanding, but for cutting, an anatomical cut which opens up gaps and formidable abysses.

She is thirsty still and confused. She will always think of herself as incomplete, missing, lacking. She will never be satisfied because a part of her has been cut, but not anatomically, disfiguringly, and knowledge has been lost, growth has been impeded; a mind has been scarred, and a soul has been amputated.

I sense a desire in her, a desire for uninhibited freedom which scares me. This city does not help. This city will not let you stand tall if you are not submitting to its shallow routine. This city will not let you stand proud if you ignore its calls for lavish spending and religious devotion. So how can one not lose his way in this city of religious fear? The rotten morning breath of fear stinks up the empty streets at dawn, intoxicates the population in their sleep, that great punisher who will lynch them in their slumber, choke them for a misdeed. Fear replaces everything: duty, responsibility, morality, care, respect, compassion, aspiration, freedom, sex. Fear becomes a belief based on deceit.

The more I know her, the less I can contain and understand the various impulses that control her. I wish I can cut through her, correctly, to open her up before my eyes and gaze at everything in her, everything which makes her a complete whole. I cannot trust her until I know the truth which lurks inside of her.

But we revel in discontinuity, and suspicion will remain a monster which tears me with its million claws and deafens me with its thunderous roar.

For now, I’ll allow my silence to take the form of violence, and my language to be dubbed as civilized, even though I’ll know that the violence is silenced, and it is not the silence in itself which is violent. I want no sympathy. I know what is needed and I know how to get it, but now is not the time. I can’t force the sun, the creator and destructor, that great eye in the sky which will shine and finally we will all be able to defecate comfortably without shame and reach a sacred continuity.

Red Rape


I usually escape my house to go to my home: the abounding darkness of the streets. This day was just like any other day, full of frustration and anger. Blue waves of grief come and go, and that little friend called Joy becomes a foe who waltzes around me like the jester of an enemy. But I could not kill that jester, for I would be enticing the wrath of uncontrollable Woe.

The music stopped and it was my sign that I should leave. I packed my bag and left to meet my lover, the darkness; the mystery of gloomy alleys; the stories behind closed doors. All transpired as I walked through the streets, alone and unabated. It was that which I looked forward to so keenly, it was that feeling of uncertainty, of fright—the sort of fright you get when climbing up a staircase in the dark, feeling as if someone is just behind, feeling as if someone or something is waiting for you on the next level, waiting for you as if you were its prey—which kept me going, kept me breathing. This unknown gave me hope.

I took the first taxi I could find—it took me is a better phrasing of it. Silence; Tranquillity; Transcendentalism; Awakening, before the imminent death and the following rebirth. It all happens in a space of seconds, in the transition from light to dark. But the car stopped and I opened my closed eyes to see a road blocked. The taxi could go no further.

The venom of rage spurred from within me, filling my eyes with fierce red blood as I approached the blockade. I tried to pass, but I could not. Soldiers in dark blue uniforms carrying big loaded guns approached me vehemently. Dogs were on the ready, and I heard a rifle being cocked nearby. I want to pass, I said. I want to go that way, I said. Why is this road blocked, I asked.

No answer was given except the staunch orders to back away from the territory. I did as requested but looked forward towards the end of the street where I saw black cars with black tinted windows. Instantly I knew what was going on. Instantly I had an urge to kill who I did not know. Instantly, I held a huge vendetta to the person who sat inside the black tinted, heavily guarded car. Instantly I went from an unsuspected ignorant itinerant to a hateful, maddened, belligerent fucker who wanted to act as vigilante and saviour to his home and kill the faggot pussy attracting thousands of eyes with blackened windows and shiny, cocked machine guns.

The heavily armoured security forces gave me a reason, a need, a deep unwavering urge to kill the protected individual. I stopped in my ground, my feet parallel to each other and I looked the soldier in the eye. Mal intent showed in my eye and he hid behind his cocked gun. I laughed in his face, laughed madly and maniacally.

Excess of security breeds excess violence and crime. Excess protection breeds the need to be protected. The best way to be targeted is to make yourself a hard target. The easiest way to create suspects is to question everyone. The fastest way to be frightened by the people around you is to create a fear which does not exist.

He was afraid of hell, so he made an army of angels, and whence I saw his mighty army, I became HELL. He wanted to be worshiped and idolized, but he summoned his twilight when he showed himself as the light of day. I became the night.

The rage I suffer is my hell, but the hell I dwell in soon becomes a heaven when I voluptuously indulge in the frenzied slaughter.

I laughed at the adversary in front of me, but he took none of it. Non Serviam, I shouted, Non Serviam, as two soldiers held my body and threw me away. I fell on the ground and broke like a statue falling from the sky. I found myself scattered into a million little pieces on the ground. I lost hope of reformation, of peace of mind, of tranquillity, silence and transcendentalism. I bid hope farewell and with hope went fear. I ran into the closed off area, meeting my Fortune in the eye. Fortune I saw as a woman whom you cannot but rape in order to exist! Beautiful Fortune.

She told me to stand down, to cool off, to gather honourable equanimity. But nothing could pacify me. I killed the jester Joy and enticed the wrath of uncontrollable Woe. Fortune always has the upper hand.

The barricade created the criminal. But it was I who was the victim of red rape.

Nothing as it seems


Nothing is as it seems.

I am just an ordinary man. The infant next to me is just an ordinary dead baby. Raped and drugged mother. A hopeless situation. I am just an ordinary doctor. I do not fight for lives because my opponent does not exist. Who am I fighting? The mother had white horns on her forehead. Flowers replaced her genitals and I understood why we bury the dead six feet under.

Everything is a simulation, a bad representation, a murdering image, a very sharp or very blurry mirror of everything else.

Nothing is as I dream.

Feelings, emotions, ecstasy, all end up being twisted by Fate’s irony and I call them my Passion, and they crown me as their king. I reign over them miserably. They are not real.

There was never anything called real.

The individual is a myth.

All parodies lack humor.

All secrets are known.

I am known to all.

No one ever experiences me and I always experience everyone.

No one is as they seem.

Live every moment as if it were your last.

He had a lot to say. He had a lot of nothing to say. We’ll miss him. We are gonna miss him. They all said.

Live every moment as if you were going to live it again and again and again. To begin again and again and again. To end again and again and again. A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.

She told us almost a century ago that Sugar is not a vegetable.

Today I know that we cannot digest fibers. This means that if you swallow corn as they are, they will appear in your shit the same way they entered your mouth. Your mouth is just the other end of your anus. Don’t suck too hard from either end.

The good carpenter suffered for the friend who died after him. The carpenter never finished a table. Two days later I saw horses in the city among cars, blindfolded, shitting. I did not see corn.

Two lovers make one bread. He said that one craves your mouth, your voice, your hair. He said you are the only one that can nourish me. He said that you can show me something real. I saw you, I did not crave your mouth, your voice, your hair and I lost faith in my lover.

She let me watch porn videos so I can do the same for her. I gasped every time I watched. She slept and I was petrified every time I slept with her.

Disney land is full of adults. The ‘real’ world is full of little children. Where would you rather be? Where would you rather live?

What flower? What rock, what smoke showed you were I live? You came and no one will ever love as we did. It’s ancient and it is extinct. Gone and empty. Only a memory. Feels more like an illusion. We Love. We start to love the love. We start to fear the love and love the love. We end up fearing love and its subject.

Did you not sacrifice your son? Why are your hands all bloody? But I forgot that your hands fed the roots, but now I see your fingertips bloom, he said. It is natural peace. The peace which passeth understanding. It is all about the rebirth. When the light was moist, I felt the drop of dew on my tongue and cheek. When it entered my eye I saw your son in fear still alive, and you in love, dead. I bowed down to a statue and your love accused me. Your son’s fear empathized with me. We fear. We start to fear the fear. We start to love the fear and fear the fear. We end up loving fear and its subject

Furious fear and sorrowful love. All passionate, crucifixes. It is not real.

We are all living in one big museum. Buy and sell. Live and act and perform. The world around us is one big Mausoleum.

Nothing is as it seems.

Nothing is as I dream.

Nothing is real.