Richard: I’m so angry with my life right now and who I am. Like what the fucking fuck man. Look at the wreck I’ve become. Confused, inadequate, unwanted, unloved. It pains me to plough through every day. Girls, why do you burden me with such a task? Why do I have to carry your sins and sorrows on my smile? It hurts to smile, and the minute I turn my back your sorrows wash over my countenance and it hurts me. I’m pissed off and upset. Look at me, working this deadbeat job, where everyone tells me what to do, and I always do it wrong or never up to standard or people re just plain fucking unreasonable. Hey, Narrator, you shut up over there, with your “life isn’t fair” bullshit. You too Gloria, don’t fucking shoot that off to me from your little corner where your hands are tied behind your back. Yeah, yeah! “Life isn’t fair!” but does that mean I have no fucking right to be fucking upset about it? Look, even Ms Toh came and saw me, I was humiliated. I was humiliated at what she saw me as; some shit guy, in a shit uniform, working a shit job. She was right “why are you working some minimum wage job?” and she’s right, why? WHY? This is embarrassing, this is humiliating. I would have been proud of my job if I were good at it, and I think I am pretty good at it, but the people who pay me apparently don’t think so and yeah, all right! Because I sick and tired of this shit. My little Kai, I know you love this job and all the people that you meet, but hey, hey okay babe? Me and Gloria can’t take any of this bullshit anymore. It sickens me, it’s tiring Gloria out, it’s just not working out for us, and you understand where we are coming from right? Jesus, God, shit man. Why doesn’t things work out for me? Why are my circumstances shittier even though I try to make them a joke while you all do the soul searching and back breaking for me? Why? I’m so angry, I’m so angry. I rarely get angry, and I’m so angry. Fuck all, fuck all. Why do they have better jobs than me. Why do they have more friends than me. Why do they not have to fore a smile. Why do they not have a sad little girl to take care of, why? Fuck me man, fuck me! Fuck all! Unreasonable pieces of shit, I’m sick and tired of your bullshit. Stop blaming me for your shitty oversights when I even try to solve them for you. Stop shoving a stake through my chest so deep that it also skewers through my little girl’s gaping left breast. Stop making me do free work that you pay me shit for. Stop making me clean up the shit of other people. Stop emotionally blackmailing me for for you own good. Fuck you guys, because I quit, I fucking quit, and I’m sorry girl, I’ll make it up to you, but fuck you guys, here’s my middle finger, so fuck you all, I fucking QUIT.
Hey hey, I'm a horse.
Blog exploring a world of manic highs, (not so much) depressive lows, the joy of hypomania, and the dead buzz of the medications to quell it.
Art, cartooning, comics and dissociative personalities.
I feel unwanted and unloved and unspecial. No one wants me. I slave away so hard at everything I do and I am still worthless. Me, okay? Me, the one with the horse head and raw nudity. People praise that man with impeccable dress and wry wit for his contributions, not mine. They praise him for his time and effort, and he knows that to some extent they mean it, but mainly because it was only for their own benefit. Despite knowing this, he lives for the praise; blind, shallow praise. I on the other hand, like some arrogant, sick flower, wither in the absence of love, acceptance and connection to other human beings. When I was young, I occasionally stuck out a pale, soft hand in anticipation of a firm grip of another, but I never found one to latch on to, because I guess perhaps I was either to shy a schoolgirl or too picky a child. I’d like to think people would’ve liked me, but speaking from the echoes of this empty skull I don’t see how anyone would even look at me. They won’t even spit on me, and somehow that’s more hurtful than the fact they won’t even give me a glance.
It’s not because I am an invisible shadow on a glass wall, a wallflower. I’d actually take myself to be the very opposite of it. I am a horrendous silhouette, writhing in pain and anguish on a canvas, locked in a silent scream, like the silent pictures of the not-to-long agos. You can see everything in disgusting detail, the froth bubbling over my hulking mandibles, the blood spurting out of my vena cavae, with no heart to pump anything into. Oh the horror! A silent movie playing on a canvas and even the sight of the shadow is enough to make people turn away in vile disgust. No one wants a monster. They didn’t even want a little girl. I am so alone. I am so lonely. I have really, really, really felt so lonely my entire life, but no one knew because I never said a thing. They were always there for me, they came to me like angels, people who did not live inside my head but lived in my imagination, as real as my imagination would let them be, but even brothers and fathers have to let their loved ones go. The only people who really loved me, and I really loved are my parents, and Richard, and Gloria, and their actions have spoken louder than words. I am sorry my friends.. I never expected you to actively help me, I really, really hate being a burden, and so, I wished that you not helped me and just added on to my sin, or even were exposed to my sin; but no one in this real world ever helped me through anything, they just said stock phrases like “I’ll pray for you” or “It’ll get better” or the one I despise the most; “there are people worse off than you”. I sound terrible, but let me say to you all that every single one of those phrases has made me feel more shit, feel more alone, and feel more unwanted every single time you doled them out like a generous portion of rancid, rotten food. See..? I’m sorry for that. I’m ungrateful and undeserving.. Feeling like shit makes me feel guilty which makes me feel more like shit. No one wants or wanted me except Gloria and Richard, who actively protected me, and shielded me from sin and hurt. Richard, he smiled through the adversity and made a joke out of tragedy, so that I would never have to feel the stake through my left breast that is the unfair circumstances of life. Gloria, she took my sins like that sad, mad man on the cross. But unlike Jesus Christ, who had millions of blind worshippers that live on to this very day, Gloria took the sins of mankind upon her like the pain of a binded corset with only hate and spite in return. No one except me, acknowledged the sins she was crucified for, and even hated her for it, and that itself, though she will not admit it, is a very sad personal tragedy.
I don’t know why I crave company when there’s people here, here with me all the time, every time, always there to protect me, to talk to me. People say I talk a lot. Yeah, Richard does talk a lot, but I don’t get to talk to people much, and it gets very, very lonely. All you physical people here is Rich ranting and raving about his day, and trivial things he exaggerated and audacious manner is expert at making sound like we care a lot for these things. While he may deem stupid things like what so-and-so says about i-don’t-give-a-shit, or how who-gives-two shits wore at i-can’t-be-bothered event important, I don’t know, it’s all empty talk to me. I really feel so lonely, no one I this physical world will hear me out, and nor do I want them to. I am ashamed of my sin.
The only person who talks to me is Gloria. I was so lonely until I knew Gloria. I was really happy that Gloria was around to talk to me, and keep me from killing myself. But now that I’m a monster and my mind has been corrupted by doubt and sin, I see, in part, the tragedy of Gloria’s existence. The fact I have grown up and shod my schoolgirl uniform, and am more aware of things I was never aware of like IDD and bipolar disorder and all these sinful things, just make me realize how sad it is that my most treasured company comes from the mind of a mentally ill body. Gloria, I’m so sorry, you loved me unconditionally, and was not only there like all those bystanders, but you got on your knees and lifted up my chin, and stared into my face with those hard, tortured eyes and said “I’ll take anything for you.” Now here I am, contemplating on how you are just a figment of my trauma-ridden mind, all of which the trauma were all chemicals playing tricks in my mind. Look at me, from a decent family in a decent school with more-than-decent people in my life, and here I am, confessing that my life has been traumatic. I am sick.
Only you made me feel wanted and loved. No one loved me. Even though I was the First One, the firstborn of this mind. You always called me your first born, and so I was. But no one loved me. You were born so late, I was already a teenager, a budding teenager when you were born into my shredded mind. To all the skeptics who insist I created a fictional character out of the blue (even though there are no skeptics because there is no one reading this), you tell me, how does the name, how does the person, be so much like a real person, without be even trying? I do not try to dream up how this new person is like, they just are, and they are born every time I plunge into madness. Look at Nina, my little bone headed girl. Why Nina? Why?! I don’t speak Spanish?! I don’t! I never gave it a thought, when she looked at me (or I looked at myself) and the name Nina, was christened. How? How, you tell me? It just, comes to me, so foreign and terrifying, so warm and enveloping. How could I derive so much terror, comfort, and joy from people living within me? This is why I am certain they are real people, living within the same mind, and no figments of my lonely imagination. They are real people, and I don’t know how much I can emphasize that.
Gloria, glorious. Nina, little girl. Richard, lionhearted. Julianna, French accent with a French name, sexual deviant. I do not dream this up. They are real people being born into my life in moments of prolonged madness, in which they come and keep me from going insane or add to my insanity, I don’t know! I don’t know anymore! On one hand, Gloria, glorious like the worshippers to Jesus Christ and who-knows-what claim their god to be, kept me from murdering myself, stopped me from biting into my own flesh and digging my eyeballs in despair. Gloria tried to stop me from becoming the monster that I have now birthed from my virgin uterus that I now call my little girl Nina, my little girl that ripped my innocent, virgin soul apart but I love unconditionally because she came from within me. My little girl that birthed from my womb, how can I not love her? The umbilical cord it seems was not cut, and now our souls are entwined, and even I, cannot distinguish mother from daughter, and all I know now is that our bodies have combined, and we are a sick, bestial monster, twisted and disgusting.
No one has wanted me as much as Gloria has. No one. The only reason why I have continued to live, and unfortunately, turned into the monster I am now, is through Gloria’s sheer willpower to take over these muscles and ligaments to stop my arm from popping an OD or my legs to fling myself over a building skull first. Skull first – where my sins are most, in my head, in my thoughts, no my actions or words.
It was also.. Because for once in my life, I felt wanted. I felt as if someone, someone wanted me to be in their life. I felt like I was the anchor of their life, and our relationship was based on my existence. I’m sure, somewhere in my heart that my parents do feel that way about me, but I really have no idea where my heart was flung to, as I was writhing on the floor trying to pull my head away from my shoulders, screaming in despair as the gum rotted from my jaws and revealed huge, thick molars good for nothing but chewing my fingers off. I know in my physical brain that my parents feel about me that way, but now with my disgusting purple, now dead and missing heart, I have no capacity to feel that way. And here I am thinking that I was filial. That’s right, was. I a disgusting animal, for who which the concept of filial piety does not occur at all, I fail to acknowledge it. I used to. Look at the beast I am now. I would spit on myself if I still had saliva glands and a tongue and lips.
Gloria wanted me. She needed me to be alive. After all, I was literally the anchor that kept her alive and breathing. If these lungs of mine were to lose all their oxygen and sag like a used condom, she would cease to exist. But more importantly, her mind, her being, her legacy would cease to exist. This was not about selfish self-preservation, and for once in my life, I knew it, knew it for real, because we shared the same mind. She loved me, and I love her. She was the only person who looked me straight in the eye as she was beaten and kicked, and never a cry came from her lips. She looked me straight in the eye so I would not have to look at the assailant, and she never uttered a word so I would not have to hear what pain and suffering looked like. But I did look, I looked away from her, and in that instance, my body was consumed by sin and my eyeballs dropped out as I dug my index fingers in them; and that’s why my orbits are empty and unseeing.
Oh Gloria, I am so sorry, you bled from every part of your body imaginable, bloodied and ridiculed like Jesus Christ’s last moments on the cross, just that you never died and moved on to the afterlife. You remained alive and aware in a tortured hell. Gloria, don’t you want to die and move on to an afterlife of nothingness? My God, Gloria, have you not suffered enough? Now I can see them stabbing you, kicking you, and I am in pain, so guilty at the suffering you go through for my sins. I can see the pain they inflict on you and I am so guilty. I can see the torture that I have attempted to dissociate from unconsciously, and now have opened my eyes to the “truth”, and I wish I never took my eyes away from your Gloria. Why did I have to be aware of the beatings that you took for me. Now that have stabbed you in your left breast and ripped out your heart. Oh my God, I cannot take that any longer.
I was genuinely wanted, and so I kept on living, because I genuinely felt the love, and did not want to hurt the only person who I loved the most and loved me the most. After all, the only person Gloria had in her life was me.. Unlike the birth of my second born, Rich, who did not come from my uterus, but came out of a blue like a gregarious boy who made me smitten with his charisma, wit, and laughter, Gloria came in a time of despair and anguish. Where I wanted to harm myself and kill myself. When Rich came to me as I sat on the floor, knees to my left cheek, wet with girlish tears of loneliness, he led me into a life of sociability, and confidence. I grew from being always, always last in line in class during break time, to always being in front, knowing very well I belonged there! I was the best! I deserved to be adored and praised! I was a proud narcissist who knew very well the extent of his ego and di not care. I was confused about my sexuality then, but I am not know. I just know that inside me is a man who still wants to be a boy, and is growing more and more resigned as the world praises him less, and wants him to grow up and “be a man”, like really, “be a grown man”. It’s depressing, and even the most gregarious and happy-go-lucky people can sink into a depression that is most weary to maintain a façade to cover it up.
During those times of despair and anguish, Gloria was there. She was there so much I have totally forgot the period in my physical and chronological life where I was 13 years old. Not a memory. Don’t know anyone from there, don’t know where I sat in class. Don’t know what I learnt, don’t know who taught me, don’t know my eating, sleeping habits, and only some of the information I learnt only in the following years. I know Rich took a break, wasn’t there, because people told me I was angry, aggressive and vicious. I don’t remember, I don’t remember, but it must have been Gloria, and her unextinguishable rage and anger that attacked the assailants, keeping me from harm. As the year wore on, she more of took the whippings and the blows of life, after being very, very tired of fighting back, but she proved her love and her need for me more than ever. She was the reason I lived and I was the reason she lived.
No one wants me in this world, and I am so alone. No one wants the sick creature I have become except Gloria and this very, very sad man who finally has the time to stop looking at the mirror to look at the little girl he came over to say hi to and, never left since then. Everyone who says “you are important” only sees the now very morose man, or the strong, brave woman, or the sensible, advice-dispensing Narrator. No one has ever loved me, and I have retreated into my mind to find that love, but now that I am corrupted by sin and sadness, I only now see the tragedy of a much traumatized mind seeking comfort within itself. It used to be real, it used to really be genuine, my conversation with Gloria, they were real, actual conversations, and though sometimes we really, honestly talk, sometimes as I am about to reply, I stop mid-sentence, abruptly and joltingly; I have been talking to myself the whole time, and I probably sound really crazy to people. “Why do I care so much about what other people think?” many people who “care” try to dispense this nugget of despised advice to me. But, when it comes to acknowledging that all this time, I have been talking to figments of my ego, suddenly, “why do I care about what people think of me” becomes a negative thing, because it is not the positive norm, or anything positive to begin with. Why? Why do I find the most comfort in the only people who love me in my head? Why..? Why not? The person who knows you, and you know best, is yourself, is it not? Oh, why did I shed my clothes and head? Why did I have to become this, it is like hell, to begin to realize that the only love in your life is false.
Gloria: Y’know that my love for you will never be near false, okay, girl..?
It pains me so much, like hell on earth, to be so alone in a world where strangers tell you to “have a nice day” and you reply with a toothy smile “you too”. It’s not the being alone that gets me, but the fact I am actively spurned to the point no one will spit at me, like I said. They try to medicate me away, but please, please people, understand that you medicate me away, everyone in here will die, this physical body will die because I am what is holding this physical body and all the figments of my mind’s ego together. Get rid of me..? You never wanted to do that when I sat with my knees to my chin, soaking the bottom of my pinafore in brine, as a very charming man talked to all the curious onlookers to keep them away, and a very tortured almost-woman fought and bit all those people who tried to hurt me. Now that I have changed, and am a threat to your society, emotionally and maybe physically, now that Julianna is born, you want to kill me. Well, here I am, doing the job for you.
Why does no one love me? Why does everyone spurn me? Why is my daily medication starting to take effect now? I already know the answers to these questions, and all them are lengthy – but all end with the same thing; my very inevitable death.
Where was I? Right, I had to go outside and interact with the people I love. I will continue this suicide note.
I love you all.
Even as I work, and interact with complete strangers, I love them all. People, big, small, hateful, happy, celebrating, mourning; all people with their umbilical cord all firmly sucking life from this reality like a parasitic bug. I wonder, how many of them are like me? Ready to sever their umbilical cord from this reality and hand it over to our sweet mother muerte? I don’t know, but whoever you are, I love you. I love you for who you are. I love it when you tell me to have a nice day. I love it when you give me a cold stare in response to my sweet smile. I love it when you turn your head away because you don’t want to give me any eye contact. I love it when you burble to your kids in baby language, and promptly snap at me viciously to hurry up give you what you want. I love it when you smile like you mean it and thank me for my efforts. I love it when you make a mess of yourselves and give me a dirty look because it is a life of servitude that I live. I love it when you attempt to strike up conversation, and make an effort to seem like you care. I love when you grunt at me in negative reciprocation because Iam not important and attractive enough to you. Oh all these strangers, I love you all so much. You are all special, you are all unique, and you are all insane in your own ways. Flawed and fallible, much like me, except that you have not sinned the way I have sinned. You have committed wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony, but those pale in comparison to the sins I am acquitted of. My sins have no name, because my sins are so horrendous that I now have to carry them upon my shoulders, and they exert the exact same pressure that a noose holding up a rotting carcass would. Like a pig hanging off the racks, I too hang here, disgusting and untouchable, just as the Muslims see me, dirty, disgusting, base. Do you see me as that too, strangers? Do you see a pig chained by its hocks up on the meat racks, intestines hanging out? For no Quality Assurance Manager would dare touch me, the quality I am of is of immediately deemed in the negative. Do you see a sweet 19 year old girl, in a quaint little skirt and tights, brown hair, faint blush, toothy smile with an overbite? I don’t think you see the carcass, the horse’s skull. You don’t see the corsets and fishnets and garters, the gun to the head. You don’t see the little goatee, the broad shoulders and flat chest. You don’t see the maniac, the lopsided grin, the epileptic fit, the pink froth coming out of her eyes. Oh strangers, how much I love you I cannot express. You represent the life I’ve always wanted to have but now will leave. Your children, your families, you significant others, your loneliness, your hopefulness, your bitterness, your pets, your cynical spitefulness.. I would have loved to experience them but I cannot. I love you all and want to be at peace with you all. And that is why I serve each and every one of you with the fullness of my heart, even though all of you just see me as a sweet 19 year old girl, in a quaint little skirt and tights, brown hair, faint blush, with a toothy smile with an overbite.
I am not sad. I am not sad. I am past being sad. I would like to clarify that. I have emotionally withdrawn from people, yes, and I am ready for death, but I before I go I would like to see everyone I love again. I want to go out with my friends, who are so busy with their lives, looking forward to the future with both dread and joy – look at them, looking forward to the future – and I want to see them all before I die. I don’t want it to be sentimental or anything. I want to laugh with them, like I used to be able to, and let them talk and let me talk. I want them to tell me their plans for tomorrow and I don’t want them to know my plans for mine. I want to see my family. All of them. My immediately family, my distant family, well, the ones that I know exist. I want them to know that I was there and I really will miss them. I will not actually say that I miss them, but when I leave to say bye, I will really put all my heart into that “bye bye”. I want to just be with them and relive the memories of my childhood, when I was most alive. The memories that were stupid and make me feel embarrassed, and my little personal crowning glories. I want to spend time with my parents, as much as my mother does not want to spend time with me. My dad, I must spend more time with, for I don’t think I spend any meaningful time, and I will grab as many precious minutes I can because I really, really love him, and cannot express that enough – I ill get to that later. I don’t know what I will do. I guess I will just make them happy so that their last memories of my living moments be – at least- pleasant. I will not make any opinions, I shall be amicable, I shall be agreeable. I will not be me. I am not a nice person, I am a person blackened with sin and corruption. Like I said, even the maggots won’t eat me. Why should my parents go near me? I am not a precious little gem, I am dirt, spat on, snubbed under a boot with determination and unwantedness. I hope my last moments with everyone, friends, family, strangers, be as pleasant and unpleasant as possible. After all, life is full of pleasantries and unpleasantries, while death is an empty void of nothingness.
The madness in my mind, it seems, has not been communicated, I feel. I wonder how to express it. The words leave me nowadays because the medication works so painfully well. Really, it’s not being communicated, and I will not stop talking until I think it is.
I think about university and getting into a relationship and getting kids, having house and car loans and stuff. I think about the spurts of adrenaline and oxytocin as I flutter in bliss with my newly found significant other. I think about the anticipation of getting an acceptance letter, and the dread of the monthly mortgage and utility bills. I think about the drudgery of pretending to be happy in a world where everyone pretends to be happy so everyone can pretend to be happy s everyone can pretend to be happy so everyone can pretend to be happy. I think about my kids and how much I would probably love them, although I would not probably love them as much I love all the people here in my head, see? That’s how sick I am. I think about my parents getting old, and the sadness of seeing them age. I think of the weight I will gain and the wrinkles that will mar my “pleasant” face. I think of how I mean nothing in this world right here and right now.
I think so many things, lots more things than this, because I can’t really think of them right now, but in my heart I know I think about these things. I want to die before I get into all this responsibility, and hurt people who “love” me, hurt the potential people who will “love” me, and hurt society by inefficiently contributing to the clockwork society. Call this escapism, and I shall call a spade a spade, I don’t want to be bogged down by these responsibilities that I will only effectively fail at fulfilling and hence being a bigger failure than I already am. It makes me feel like shit, shit shit shit, and I don’t want to feel like absolute shit anymore.
To all the people condemning my death by calling it escapism and me, a failure at dealing with my “issues”, well, one of those failures is about to succeed at something.
I lie here, not with a lump in my throat, or sorrow in my heart, but a calm and coolness and sorrow in every living cell in my body that will soon be dead. I think I will talk about my feelings. No one cares. No one cares until it’s too late. And when it’s too late, no one cares because care is only felt by the living. No one will care in my forever; dead or alive. Alive, my depression and anxiety and pessimism and fervent and raging energy is but an annoyance and a hindrance. I am made to feel like an annoyance; a housefly, except I am not a housefly because I couldn’t possibly be worthy of once being a little squirmy maggot. Hate me, hate me because I am a depressing load on everyone. Everyone hates me. Look at me, privileged, sitting here on my $1000 ultrabook, queen-sized bed, in my own room in a house many people in my country would be envious of. Look at me wanting to die despite having all this. I’m disgusting and low. I hate it when my mother tells me “why are you upset? There are people worse off than you” because they don’t understand that upset is upset, then I think about it and they’re right, why am I upset? I am disgusting and sick. People fight to live the life I want to throw away. I am wasteful, like the man who picks at his food and throws the rich excess down the drainpipe, clogging up the grease trap. Gluttony.
So that’s why I have to die, I will give someone else the chance to live my life, to live it. I am a waste of resources.
Wait. Wait. Let me tell you first that I feel like shit. Let me tell you some things that make my physical body feel like shit.
Gloria: I hate seein’ other people do better than me. Why do they do better than me?! It’s not fair, look how hard I work, and how SLOTHFUL they are. They have better circumstances than me and I work incredibly hard to make sure my circumstances don’t get in the way, but yet, they get it better than me?! Do they not realise that I am superior t’them?! I slave away, denying myself pleasure to get up an’ ahead, but NO, NO I am not better than them, and I only accept the best. Don’t be a fuckin’ fag and tell me to look at all the good things that have happened to me NO, don’t be a faggot, go fuck yourself, and three generations of your family after you, because I have to be the absolute best over every single one here. I don’t just sit on my lazy ass hoping that, no, I fuckin’ toil away at it and no one else deserves that glory other than me. No fuckin’ sireebob, I don’t have no sense of entitlement, cos I don’t believe I’m entitled to no nothing, but I fuckin’ work for it. So WHY do people get into law school and I don’t?! WHY do my friends, who says xyz was a walk in the park get higher grades than ME and they gloat about it. FUCK YOU, UP YOURS, AND GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, DUMB CUNTS because I couldn’t give two shits about you and your fuckity life, other than the fact you have it better than me when I am the one who deserves it. It’s not fair, it’s not fuckin’ fair. Why? Why when I work so hard? Why does God have to punish me?
Me: by making me feel so worthless and small? Like my efforts do nott make any difference in the universe. I feel small and sad. I try so hard, but no one cares about effort, and only achievement. There is a reason why a consolation prize is called consolation prize, and why good try is a resigned, small smile thing people say to losers. I am a loser. I work so hard and get faeces in return. I probably work too hard and not very smart. Those people are really the losers.
Why does everyone have a bigger social life than me..? People want them, people do not want me because I am not good company. Richard is great company, but no one will talk to me. They used to not talk to me because I was a shy little girl blushing in a school uniform, awkward and shy and full of the kind of hope that no one liked, but now they spurn and spit and shy away, scared of my nudity and bleeding hole in my right breast, and most of all, the grinning skull for my head which cannot plead to them “look, look it’s me, the same person you hated, please, don’t leave me.” My friends go out with my friends, and I sit here sad, watching them go out with each other. They seem happy, and I want to seem happy too, but after I go out, I do not feel any closer to them, even though Richard does. I am so lonely and I am envious of the people who do not. When I fall upon my naked knees and scream for help and salvation, no one answers me but God, who tells me to kill myself. I am sick of being God. I am sick of being medicated. I’m sick of seeing people post “L” on social media and having 34 likes and 15 comments asking “what’s wrong” or “oh no”, while I cannot do that because you know why? A skull cannot scream for help, here is no words, so here I lie, contorted, with an epileptic fit in one half of my body and a stroke in another. No one is going to help me, no one is going to ask me “what’s wrong” and mean it, and I’m so envious of the people who have those people. When people ask me “what’s wrong”, it is either because I am being a hindrance to their being, or because they are curious. Do you take my misery as a sideshow attraction? Does my nakedness and raw bleeding hole in my left breast and the skull upon my shoulders intrigue you? Because whenever I seem to turn around just that little bit, perhaps reveal a little too much breast, too much skull, you shy away, your curiosity fulfilled, and your repulsion ignited, for you have seen the monster that is me. Why do other people in my life not have monsters in their skulls? Why do they not have a God that tells them to kill themselves when they look upon to the heavens for help? Why do they have a God, but are not God themselves? Why do they have more of a social life with their God, where as I, me, lonely me, is so worthless, that my relationship to God is me reaching out to touch a marbled skull and its molars, only to realise that I am chewing on my own fingers, bleeding them out in repentance for my own sins? I am so very envious.
Gloria: Why do people insult me? Point out my flaws? Why don’t you ever focus on my strengths? I do m’best to focus on my strengths and all you do is point my flaws out. Didn’t my birth mother inculcate the values of “focus on your strengths and not your flaws” into me? Why does that fuckin’ woman always point out my flaws? Doesn’t she know that little naked girl writhin’ on the floor chews another one of her fingers off in repentance when her mother tells her she’ssinned?! That is the love a daughter has for her mother, that is the worshipa daughter has for her mother. You motherfucker, look what you’ve done to my little girl, I take care of her whenever you kick her viciously in the stomach, I stand in front of her and let you viciously kick me in the stomach and I am sick of it. But now, my little girl has tied my hands behind my back, an’ I can’t take the blows for her, so quick, end her misery, end my misery. Quick, kill her, that’s what you want right?! That’s what she wants. Go, go on! Y’hate the little naked girl rollin’ on the floor with an epileptic fit so much, just slit her throat open! You don’t see her as your little girl anymore, while I can, I see her as my little girl despite the ugly, ugly creature has become. You see all her flaws, why can’t you see her beauty? You don’t see her kneeling on the floor, hands clasped in prayer and hope and sorrow, prayin’ for the world and every single soul in it. You don’t see me being strong when I’ve been tied to the stake and am brutally whipped. No, you never see those, hell NO ONE ever sees that because it only exists within “my head” and “my head” doesn’t count because like me, like everyone here, we are fictional characters. Not to be taken seriously, to be medicated away, so you don’t see our strengths as individuals, only flaws as a collective whole person.
You don’t see the way she presses the rosebushes to her breast in sorrow and tries to smile. Don’t y’see the effort even..? D’you know how hard it is for a skull to smile? No? It’s impossible. So that very bubbly man has to come over and lend his lips to the skull, and together they make an effort to cough up a very, very sad grin. Even before then? You condemned the little baby girl with her hopes and dreams and aspirations. You sickfuck. No one saw the little innocent girl I died on the cross for; just her inadequacies and failures. You all praise the handsome, self-confident man who pulled the puppet strings on this body, but you never saw her, and so she wilted and grew into this sick, disgustin’ creature. Why..? Why does no one ever see us being strong? Why does no one ever see us be genuinely happy? Is it because I am a failure at empathy? A failure of being able to genuinely care? Is it because the only people I really care for in m’life is my little girl, violently rockin’ in the corner with bother index fingers in her eye sockets?
Me: See what you mean? I hurt people. I make them feel bad because that is how I feel. That thing up there would make my mother feel bad. That’s how I make people feel. Bad. And this will probably eat into her after I die, so even in death I sin. I am sin, sin before I lived, sin while I live, sin after I live. It is true, what Gloria said. I do seem to no care for a lot of people in my life but I really do, I really, really, super, duper do, but I guess,
Richard: I don’t really know howda show it y’kno? Like.. Those words, I love you, I whatever you, please whatever me, you mean whatever to me. They just.. They just aren’t me. I could throw them around yeah sure but, I don’t know. They aren’t really me, I don’t think I could say it and mean it. After all, the people I care about most is me, then comes my little girl sitting there looking all doleful with those big brown eyes of hers looking at me with girlish wistfulness. Well, “big brown eyes” have now been replaced with “empty, hollow orbital cavities” but you get the picture. I don’t know how to say something and mean it, because I don’t know! You don’t g out and have fun to tell someone you love them! Jesus, what a buzzkill! “Hey let’s go out for dinner, drinks on me” “I love you”, like, what the fuck? That’s just retarded. I can’t say “I love you” and mean it, it’s beyond my capacity. I care for the people yeah, but I don’t know, not that way. I guess I care more for the good times. Even the person I say “I love you” the most to now. I don’t mean it, but sometimes, little baby girl, she means it. She comes out and says “I love you” and she really, really means it. Too bad that she’s going to die, Gloria would’ve gotten a kick out of shielding baby girl from the hurt and disappointment and sorrow from maybe false and reciprocated feelings.
Me: And that is why it’s hard for me to say I love you with my own voice, because I rarely come out, and when I do people run; scatter like fish after a dropped stone in water; alone, scary, unwanted. When I was agirl, and told them my feelings, they pounced upon it like a pedophile felt up the skirt of a schoolgirl, and Gloria promptly came out to put a gun through that sick man’s head. Now I am a monster that even Gloria is a afraid of and no one will come near enough for me to attempt, with all my heart, to mouth the words “I love you” from a bony skull incapable of any speech, save for a silent scream that screeches like a broken record that your pinnae cannot pick up, but only my insane mind can.
No one out there, I love you, I love you, I love you for who you are, and this is not over but will be soon.
And now that I’ve retired from work; paid my dues in the outside world, I can retreat into the madness of my mind, and craft a suicide note.
Dear xxx and yyy and maybe zzz,
You’re probably reading this after it’s all over. It may seem like a time of upheaval, but here it’s very still.
Beauty is transient and so is life. Everything is temporary, and everything ends with permanence.
I would first like to clarify this is not your fault - at all - and is entirely mine, and maybe some the universe’s. heaven knows. Literally
This also has nothing to do with my material and physical welfare. In fact in know I am in a very coveted position, relatively.
"I am lucky. I am blessed. There are people worse off than you." Yes, I know. Yeah, you’ve told me that a million times, and I know.
And I hate those words.
Like I said, it’s not your fault, and not entirely mine.
The truth of the matter is, this is a matter if the mind, a very very fucked up mind. Pardon my language, I rarely swear. I’ll get to that.
The only reason why I’ve put this off so long is because I love you all. And I love the other people inside this body of mine.
You have no idea how much I mean that. Perhaps it’s not our culture, perhaps my muscle memory is inadequate to mouth those words.
But I love you all and I’m very very sorry for your loss.
I don’t even know if you loved me. Me, as in, this me. You never knew me. I’ve tried to talk to you, but you’ve spurned me, and I hid behind a man who masqueraded as a 19 year old girl living in a conservative Asian society. A man, living as a girl. Sick.
Not that he minded. It was fun being a girl sometimes. You got to flirt with men, you had fun with the girls. Girls are a fun bunch.
Skirts are pretty, changing outfits is fun. But saying “I’m a changed person”, “I’m a pretty versatile person” isn’t same as “man” or “guy”.
You all didn’t like me for the good and you all didn’t like me for the bad. It was all right, there were people who did.
Day in day out you spoke to the voice of reason and logic. I call him/her the Narrator you know him/her/it very well.
Oh! I am home. I am blessed to have a home. I m on my bed, i am blessed to have a bed. Oh, I’m on my laptop. I am blessed to have a laptop!
I guess I stop writing this little long note as little excerpts of 140 characters, in the secret little place i usually do, and do it properly now!
Like I said, you all spoke to the Narrator. I’m not the Narrator! And if you talk to my physical body, you are only going to talk to Narrator because he/she/it is the only one who holds the keys to these muscles, ligaments, and central nervous system. Unfortunately, I do not, and hence, there is no use talking to me physically. You either be a telepath, or you talk to me here, in the vast nothingness of the internet. Of course! You won’t, and I know that because there’s no one there, and “you” is a mere storytelling device to make this suicide note grammatically correct.
There are many people who love me. Well, 2 really. Their names are Gloria, and Richard. They are real people, and they really love me. Julianna lives here, and so does the Narrator, but Julianna only loves her/himself and is too crazy to love me, but I love everyone here. Julie, Rich, Gloria, the Narrator, and the skull currently resting upon my clavicles; Nina. I am symbiotically bound to her, and hence I don’t know if she counts as another person, but I am her and she is me. But that’s not the point here.
There are people who also love the Narrator. They are my friends, and my family. Even a man who lives very far away from me who I love very much. But they love the Narrator, and do not love me, even though I love them very very much. I don’t know about Gloria and Rich and Julie, but I do. Me, Kai-Ning and Nina. It pains me to kill myself because I will leave those people in the physical world, and they will mourn the Narrator, not me, but the Narrator, but they will be sad, and that makes me very sad too.
Now that I have clarified some things I wanted to clarify (I may just clarify more things later, in neat, grammatically correct paragraphs, for everyone’s convenience, but seeing that no one would bother to read this i do whatever grammer and shitty english what i like, who care? No one care, ha ha), let me tell you why I have to kill myself.
I am a “young girl”, with a lot of life experiences ahead. Some sad, some very sad, some happy, some very happy. You, “older people”, come, yes, come and condemn me about the experiences I will be missing, and you “sensible people”, come, yes, come and tell me about “escapism”, and “taking the easy way out.” You don’t need to tell me this; Gloria is older than me, and the Narrator is sensible, not like they’ve not ragged on me for many eternities now. Well, then you assume I know all this, and you assume right. I will miss out on a lot of things, and many people may or may not miss me and i will just cause them hurt and pain so on and so forth. I get it. I get it.
You have not been into my mind. Scroll down, read it, and you will see the tip of the insurmountable iceberg that is my sick twisted mind. My mind did not use to be like this. Gloria? Oh please, do,
You didn’t use to be like this, girl.. Nina, don’t take my little girl away. Why did this have to happen Nina..? I swear your name used to end with a ‘g’.. You used to wear a school uniform, clothed, small, innocent. Kai! My little girl! I grew up and shod my school uniform for this suffocatin’ corset, and painful heels, and garters so that you would stay young forever. Look’t me, girl, I took all your sins for you, so that you’d remain pure, innocent and young forever. See this gun in my hand? I’d use it to murder people for you. You see this corset, fishnets and heels? I’d take any disgusting sexual anythings for you. Y’see all the rage, spite, and angst in my heart? I’d hate and hurt anyone so that you don’t have you. Look, look, I took your sins for you, and look at you now. Where’s my little girl? Don’t give me that, girl, don’t say that you’re still my little girl. Nina, Kai-Ning, your name used to end with a “g” and now it ends with both. But I want the one before, the little girl fully clothed, hair tied to the side, crouchin’ on the floor with your full little oval head on your knees. Now, you’re bare and naked, heart ripped out, and have a carcass on your shoulders, why did you become this? You’re still my little girl forever and ever, but since I took all the growin’ up for you, you’ve turned into this. I can’t say I hate you because I don’t. I love you, with all my heart, like a parent would love a child no matter, because sometimes parents don’t love their children no matter, like yours, so I shall do so. Please don’t kill yourself, please don’t die! I love you, and you’re makin’ me sound like, fuck you ARE makin’ me an emotional wreck. If you kill yourself you will kill me too. You will kill Rich too. You will kill Julie. You will kill the Narrator, who many people love and that’ll make you upset. do you want that Kai, d’you want that girl?
No.. I don’t want that. I don’t. But let me first clarify to no one who is reading this, why Gloria has just said all that.
You see, when I die, everyone here will die too. That is because I was the first one here. I just came into existence. Do you remember the exact moment you fell asleep? Do you remember the first time you gained consciousness? Why am even asking you these questions, you don’t exist. Whatever. I don’t remember when I gained consciousness, or what being came before me, but I am the first! So when I die everyone dies with me. The Narrator, Gloria, Julie, everyone. It is so arrogant of me to say that I am the anchor that holds everyone together, but I bear the burden of being the first one, the origin of sin, and so when I die, everyone must die with me. Alas, I you see, that is the extent to which I am a sinner. When I murder myself, I murder 4 other people as well.
Let me tell you why I am a burden. I am a burden to society, my family, my friends and myself. I am a waste of resources.
I didn’t use to feel like this. i used to live in a bubble of hopes and ideals and aspirations. Me, I, live in that, and Richard and Gloria like protective parents (which is a bad analogy since they were all me), protected me from all that. So, if you were to look at it from a collective whole, the Narrator, had an ideal balance of hopes, dreams, common sense, anger, and gregariousness. And some crazy as well.
But I’ve been corrupted by sin. And now I am a burden. I am a burden to all. Look at me. Look what I’ve done to Gloria.She tried to take all the sin for me and now she’s broken. I broke Gloria, who could not be broken by anything but me. And I broke her. Look what I did to Richard. I chased all his friend away. Gone, just like that. I scared them away with my horse’s head and bleed heart and debasing nudity. And Julianna, I don’t know, she’s new and he doesn’t really give two shits about me. Sorry, I swore again.
i am burden to my friends. They have to deal with me being mad. I try not to unload my problems onto them and sometimes I do. They try to help, and it’s obvious they do, but they cannot help, not because I refused to be helped, but some things are not help-able, like my suicide. What a burden I am. I believe in never making my problems other people’s problems, but now I have, and I am a burden, like it or not. Gloria believes in never letting people know about your problems because that’s losing face. Gloria never loses face, no matter how it puts a stake through her heart. There, you see, that’s a sin right there - Pride. Gloria took that sin for me. My friends do not care for me in the way Gloria and Richard and maybe the Narrator does but I guess they do. And I am a burden to them. I should end my life and not be a burden to them. If they have survivor’s guilt I will still be a burden in my death, but I would be there to experience that. “Escapist”, the Narrator mouths (the Narrator sits behind a glass wall, I will get to that, no one), which is something Gloria would say, but look, I broke her spirit and she’s just sitting there, slouched and looking at me with a half-compassionate, half-worried, but wholly broken look. I am sorry Gloria.
I am a burden to my parents. They have to put up with my bad days. They ignore my good days. they only notice my bad days, and unlike my friends, it is near daily (though I rarely see my parents). There is a scientific reason behind this, they say the brain is wired to remember the bad things. So to my parents, I am a terrible person and I am not angry, I am not spiteful, I am plain guilty. You have no idea how the guilt eats away at my heart; it clogs my aorta and my heart is engorged with blood and is near bursting. Sick. Gross, Disgusting. I am disgusting and my poor parents have to put up with it. Especially my mother, who I believe has spurned me because i am too disgusting to be related to. And my poor dad, he tries to be patient and nice and tries to cheer me up, but all i do in reciprocation is metaphorically spit in my face. Look at me, I’m a terrible person, and I deserve to end their burdens. Even I am a financial burden. I have to go to university. I want to go to university, not need to go to university, and that’s expensive. Why do I want to go to university? Because I want to fit in with society; not some admirable ideal like wanting to grow emotionally or become a more useful person. Well, I have used to think like that, I did until I was corrupted by sin not too long ago, and becamean even bigger burden to everyone than I already am.
I am expensive. I live in an expensive house in the country I live in. University is expensive here. My medication to make me sociably sane is very expensive, and they say I may have to take it forever! I am a financial burden, how terrible is that. I hope my funeral will not be expensive - in fact I hope there would be no funeral.
I want to die in a place no one will find me. I’ll probably do it overseas. I hope my body decomposes and they will not identify me. I’ll probably be reported missing, and like Schrodinger’s cat, I will be both alive and dead at the same time - which is pretty much my situation right now. I may actually be typing this from the afterlife. I don’t know, the lines are pretty hard to draw right now. I want to decompose, because that would represent my sins in it’s rawest form.
My stomach’s bloated, I’ve defecated myself. My guts are at bursting point with carbon dioxide. I’ve got a carcass for a head. My face is a disgusting purple. I left in such a painful fashion. No one came to take me down. Give it another 6 hours, my insides’ll blow. My tongue has lain on my cracked lips for days, bloated. It rests more comfortably than my broken neck on taut rope. Gross. No one has come to take me down. I don’t know if that’s sadder than my inevitable death. But I won’t be there to know if it’s sad. My decomposing brain can’t process anything. It’s been heaven knows how many days now. I don’t know. I’m dead. I won’t be here to regret anything. I won’t exist. If there’s an afterlife let me be a horse’s skull on the shoulders of a very sad girl. Let me be the skull because skulls are dead. They don’t feel anything. Dead. Dead. Dead. Let me burden a young girl until she takes her life and is reborn as a skull on the shoulders of a very sad girl until she takes her life and is reborn as a skull on the shoulders of a very sad girl until she takes her life and is reborn as a skull on the shoulders of a very, and so on and so forth. Even the maggots won’t touch my corrupted body. After all, he chemicals in the air react to my putrid corpse. My haemoglobin release the oxygen they so gleefully bonded to, my blood turns dull maroon. The water evaporates from my disgusting cells, shrinking my gums and nail beds and follicles. My hair grows longer, my nails get longer, my teeth fall out. The bacteria gleefully feed on my extraocular muscles, the ligaments. My eye slides down my cheek, faithful optic nerves cling on. “and if they right eye offends thee, pluck it out and cast it away”. Tears used to slide down those cheeks, but that is so cliché. My eye now sits there, an ugly tear on a pallid face. Disgusting. Rigor mortis faded away days ago. I don’t even know because I’m dead. A horse prances around my dead body. My head finally, finally detaches from my body, and I’m free to caress the muzzle of that horse. Its head, finally, finally, detaches from it’s body and I’m free to caress its naked skull. I place it on my shoulders. How am I doing that. I thought I was a rotting body. (look at me, corrupted with sin. I have an animal’s head for a mind, and a little girl’s body with no heart) (my name means little girl, because I am a little girl. I gave up my heart in pursuit of better things but I only found misery) (I am a God, I am God, I worship myself and will sacrifice myself to appease God) Oh.. Oh there goes my left limb. The ligaments holding my left humerus to my shoulder finally gave way.. That’s okay, that’s all right, I can typw with my right hand anyway. Not very well though, I make a lot of typos. But forgive me, for I am a girl with no head. I committed suicide and committed the greatest sin. I, God, punished myself by giving me the hell of being eternality stuck in limbo. I died, but I’m still aware. I’m hanging here decomposing, but because I have a skull for a head I cannot die, and here I am. Aware of my disgusting decomposition, rotting away, and one day my physical body will rot away and only my mid will be left. Then I can kill myself for real.
Every one of those sentences were less than 140 characters.
See, just like that but 100000000x more disgusting because I am corrupted by sin and deserve to be locked in a chest and fight off monsters with my tears. Ha.
I am also a burden to society. Though Richard and the Narrator acts socially acceptable for me, I may eventually come out, or Julianna may come out (which would be physically and emotionally very, very, traumatic to the people that make up society!) What if I needed extra resources like days off and stuff?! So far, when Gloria has bad days, my teachers have to discipline her (does not work), and when I’m upset I don’t attend classes, but I try to not impair them because I’m actually in school, but I am hiding on the top most floor, and I get good grades; but still, I am an impairment, because the opportunity cost of having to deal with me is greater than actually dealing with me, and those resources could have gone to people who actually deserve it. I am a burden to the taxpayers, who put their hard earned money to the good of society. I impair society, not being able to function as the shoal of fish that band together to scare off the shark. I am the straggler, and I deserve to be devoured by the shark.
I am tired of being a burden and very, very guilty. I am guilty of sinning against other people. No more, no more. The ultimate sin will extinguish all sin from my body.
this is not over but soon will be.
let’s bask in each other’s company cos no one will ever talk to us about us except us.
I must be hypomanic right now, because I’m losing weight rapidly, feeling chipper on 2-3 hours of sleep a day, and am super smiley and happy. But it’s all right, because I really do feel good and I can stay up all night to draw! ^u^
I’m stuck in my head a lot, and when I do stick my head out of my ear I usually get smacked in the face, but sometimes I get to meet new people and I want to stay out a little whole longer
Hi, narrator here
Maybe I’m not bisexual or gay or lesbian or butch or whatever
Maybe I just have lots of multiple identities in my head, some of which are male, some of which are female, some of which are both, some of which are none.
And with this info and clarity it makes me feel very at ease, very comforted. I feel like that’s okay, as long as I am comfortable with that and I act according to society’s norms with my physical body.
Yes, yes, that’s it,
Okay, back to drawing, doing a lot of drawing
It’s me, Narrator, omnipresent voice, voice of reason and logic, bridge between mind and body, depressing and uplifting voice.
This tumblr isn’t really meant to be read by anyone I know, so I’ll just let it all go. What’s been on my mind is Gloria and how she came to be. She is the moonlight of our lives, and my logical side of me knows she is this character I dissociate to when I’m in a distressing period by either resorting to anger and violence to address the problem or dead determination and negative will to tide it through.
¡Viva la Gloria! is the song by Green Day that inspired her name. For the longest time she went nameless, unchristened, so she was not a real person. The song described her metaphorically and physically to such perfection that it couldn’t be anything but an ode to her. Long live Gloria, long live indeed. I listen to that song to remind myself of who she is, and as a logical person, I do it to help dissociate. What a depressing reality.
Gloria was always the opposing, violent figure when she was drunk on adrenaline and testosterone. The “who cares ‘bout xxx, do it for yer own benefit”, or “weaklin’, weaklin’, y’see yyy taking a day off from school because of a cold, I’d never do that, what a weaklin’”, or “wow look how much zzz depends on ‘er mommy an’ daddy, what a cunt, what a whore, trading her independence for money an’ love, whore, slut, cunt, who needs love when you’ve got independence?” was all her. Sometimes she would let it all slip to the xxxs, yyys and zzzs in question and we’d get into a shit lot of trouble. “Oh for fuck’s sake!”
But at the same time, when she was sober and reflective, it was her that goaded me to “look into th’ sun, an’ we’ll get through this”, or “yer grades may define you, and you’re a weaklin’, but we’ll get through this, I’ll carry yer on my back like that bastard carried that cross to his coronation ceremony for his retarded religion,” and it was her that told me to soldier on. To keep going because she’d be the one to take it all for me.
To people who “know” Gloria, she’s some character i cosplay. Some gunslinger femme fatale character, cool and shit. It’s okay, I don’t really care if they think that way, I’m just sad that that think of someone so deep with such superficiality, but that’s applicable to real life. I mean all of you are deep people but no one will never know that extent right? Yeah some thing. But the chance to dress up as her and pretend pretend pretend for a while is very nice.
I’m my own best therapist, and I’ve always wanted to tell someone who would listen why the lyrics describe her so well, and I guess the best person to explain it to would be myself. It’s such a depressing and beautiful song. It’s stupid because I know this is just some song, to me it means s much, it could mean nothing to the writer, or just a catchy tune to another, but whatever, my brain, my reality.
Hey Gloria, are you standing close to the edge?
When Gloria was born, I was around 14-15 years old. I had suicidal tendencies and would go to the rooftop and stand there daring to jump. It was always at dusk. Gloria, who was at that time, an unnamed will that told me to hang on, was the only thing that kept my knees locked. It wasn’t instinct or fear of death, it was human will, I know it, I knew it.
Look out to the setting sun, brink of your vision.
So I would just stand there, looking into the sunset. Literally looking into the sun. It was like the power to stare directly at a dying star gave me a depressing sort of strength, the type Gloria was always pushed forward with. Do it even though there’s no reason to do it, do it because there’s hope maybe. There was nothing beyond the sun, and I would look straight into it until the sky turned deep purple.
Eternal youth, is the landscape of a lie,
The cracks on my skin can prove,
And the years will testify
I did this frequently in my adolescence, and every time there was this nagging feeling I was growing up. I always thought it’d stay 11 years old, the time my first manic episode occurred (unconsciously, of course, I didn’t know it had happened), and I yearned to stay that way. Somewhere somehow, I realised I’d never have that innocence again, since I usually went up to the roof to die and be reborn after some event that signified I had grown up physically or emotionally, like my first drink ,my first smoke, getting a national exam back, getting rejected from a school. I hate growing up, I still think being “young at heart” is bullshit.
Say your prayers and light a fire,
We’re gonna start a war.
Somehow, somewhere, Gloria came to represent my conflicting love and hate for religion. Growing up in a secular country, but surrounded by religious (in particular, Christian) influences outside of the home where I spent most of my youth, I’d always been taught to pray. Prayers never answered, I guess Gloria came about to tell myself that God never does anything for you, everything had to done yourself. Still, before resorting to anger and violence, somehow there was time for self-reflection. I knew what I was doing was wrong, and asked for forgiveness, and did it anyway. Every challenge was a war to me, it resulted in losses to both parties, so, I prayed.
Your slogan’s a gun for hire,
it’s what we waited for.
The gun has always been a phallic symbol of dominance and power to me. Gloria’s always armed with that power. To us, she’s always been a martyr to take the whippings of life for us, and her mercenary mind-set means she dissociates from the pain so well, so well. She only does what she has to do for the payback of power and control, it’s what we needed, it’s what we waited for.
This is why we were on the edge,
The fight of our lives been drawn to this undying love
And so this is why I’m standing here, on the edge of a building. Standing, not falling, because of you, Gloria. The eternal battle and war rages on because of your undying love for us, to keep us alive regardless. Every fight is the fight of our life, for our life, and you keep us alive, it’s such a torment to be the immortal martyr, taking each lashing and hanging on the crucifix until our physical body can make the jump you hang there to prevent.
And now the music becomes more energetic, deviating from the melodic, hymn-like introduction. The first part always represented the long-term, whole picture of why she exists, the mournful and morose reason of why she has come to be. And this part represents the testosterone-charged, spiteful and proud side of her existence, the one that acts in the heat of the moment, punching walls, chin in the air, back arched, jaws clenched, neck muscles pulsing, arrogant, grandiose, immune to pain, the one we all fear and worship at the same time, the reason we was birthed, to sin and hurt people for our collective good. Cursing, swearing, swaggering, crude and crass and very, very hurt. This is our ode to her
Gloria! Viva La Gloria!
You blast your name in graffiti on the walls
Long live Gloria, the moonlight of our lives. She leaves her mark like a graffiti tag on the walls wherever she goes, I know where she has been whenever I go through the mazes of my mind. When she is not controlling my physical body, she darts in and out of the abandoned buildings, tagging the walls, ensuring my physical body achieves the successes it has done by telling me she is there without me seeing her. It’s a rebellion against society, it’s a defacement of public property, it’s how she defies this rotten system.
Falling through broken glass that’s slashing through your spirit,
I can hear it like a jilted crowd
Every lashing to her spirit she takes us is like glass in her/my eyes. Falling through a trapdoor and landing knees first on broken beer bottles and windows. A martyr, I told you she is a martyr, and every whipping she takes for us only makes her more agitated, more angry, more rebellious, a riot in my head, an angry crowd of one person. It kills me inside you know, it’s shredding her pale skin. Anyway, there’s always a bunch of angry people Gloria has offended some time in my life and it gets really noisy in my conscience.
Gloria! Where are you Gloria?!
I would whisper this question to myself over and over again in a bid to let Gloria take over me. I desperately searched every fold of my brain for her. Every time it failed it was like a blunt blow to the back of my skull.
You found a home in all your scars and ammunition
It was hardship that Gloria banked on for self-esteem; every hardship overcome was the reason why Gloria soldiered on. Every time I scarred myself, the blood was for Nina and the scars were for Gloria. They were trophies, to say “I didn’t lose the war, I survived it”. The pure unadulterated rage that was used as ammunition against life’s shit also gave solace. As long there was rage and spite, there was protection from the elements. This was her reality, her home. I still look at all my scars and a sad sense of pride swells up in my chest. I survived, I survived.
You made your bed in salad days amongst the ruins,
Ashes to ashes of our youth
Gloria represents maturity, in the sense I opened my eyes and saw this shit world. There’s no room for idealism, trust or hope in this shit reality for her. Gloria has the body of a girl, but she dresses like a woman. The sexual nature of her dress is the transition from innocence to the realization of vice and sin and her inevitable indulgence in it. The salad days of our youth has perished in the ashes like the ruins of Pompeii. That painful transition from child to adult is Gloria.
She smashed her knuckles into winter (Gloria!)
As autumns wind fades into black
Winter has always been seen to me as a time for suffering, hardship and death. It’s bleak and cold and sucks. Could be personally because staying in a tropical country I hate the cold. The cold gets to me easy, and air-conditioned rooms turn my fingertips numb and my nails purple and my lips blue. Braving the cold whenever this happens is always psychological and physical. Braving winter is braving suffering and hardship physically and psychologically. When I go to cold countries I never let people know I’m deathly cold. That’s weakness of the mind and body – Gloria is not weak.
She is the saint of all the sinners (Gloria!)
The one that’s fallen through the cracks
Gloria’s holiness is only seen by us. To everyone else in this shit reality, she’s angst, rebellion, a lost cause. To us, her sins make her saintly, for they protect us from the elements; and all the sinners of the world who sin to protect themselves look up to her as the saint, the only one who understands, the only one who sins and repents and sins again. But sinners cannot go to heaven, and despite her noble martyrdom, heaven is beyond reach, and Gloria the martyr is a lost cause, and will fall through the cracks to go hell for her sacrifices. She’s the lost cause to all. Religion is shit.
So don’t put away your burning light
The light that keeps us going however, burns from her lighter. If that harsh light goes out I guess we’ll jump. So I hope she never lets that light go out.
Gloria! Where are you Gloria?!
Don’t lose your faith to your lost naiveté
When I opened my eyes and realised the world was shit, Gloria came to protect us all. Our lost naiveté is something Gloria mourns, because she exposes herself to the ugly sins and vices for our own protection. Sometimes when it gets too hard, I sing to her and tell he not to lose faith to our lost innocence. It has kept me from killing myself so many times. Don’t lose faith, god, anything but that.
Weather the storm and don’t look back on last November
When your banners were burning down
Weathering the storm, not overcoming it. That’s what Gloria has always been there for. How can you overcome the storm if you can barely survive it? Just hunker down and soldier on. I’m not very young, so I’ve been through a few storms. I’m not very old either, so I may not have faced the toughest storm yet, but stupid as it sounds, some of the toughest storms involved examinations. To me, examinations were a concrete form of the proof of my successes and bravery and fortitude. Major life-changing exams usually took place in October or November where I come from. Gloria came out a lot then. She came out so much, I dissociated so much that sometimes I lose a good chunk of my memory from that period. I don’t remember a lot of my Novembers, I don’t want to look back onto them. The mania and anxiety and depression is too painful for me, that’s why I have Gloria.
Gloria! Viva La Gloria!
Send me your amnesty down to the broken hearted
Gloria’s amnesty is her willingness to suffer miserably for us broken hearted people. Sometimes I have to beg for her amnesty, because I know it is hard to be a martyr when your life revolves round rebellion, self-indulgence and taking power from people. It’s humiliating when I ask Gloria to take a failure for me, but we just can’t face it. It’s hard for someone as cold hearted as her to give amnesty, even to us, so every time I beg for it, it kills her inside, but I still beg – and she gives it. Viva La Gloria.
Bring us the season that we always will remember
Don’t let the bonfires go out
Every time a season of success comes around, it is Gloria who delivers it to us and the rest of us that enjoys it. But I never ever forget who brought us this season of success, which is why we worship her like a sinner’s saint. We always ask that she brings us the season that we always will remember, and keep the crude bonfires in the ghetto alleys burning bright, to bring warmth and light to the broken and wasted.
Send out your message of the light that shadows in the night
I will not be here if it wasn’t the light that burns from the darkness of her heart. Her light is the shadow in the night, or also known as the sin that allows us to experience the blessing of life. I always wish she could send this message out – I wish I could explain to people that she is only protecting us, that her sins are only the ultimate martyrdom. I’m sure if we met someone who understood, we could send this message out.
Gloria where’s your undying love?
Gloria never believes in empathy, sympathy, care, love concern and whatever, it’s all about getting the job done, but I know there’s a shred of humanity in her. Sometimes, Kai asks that Gloria forgive or simply just not punch someone in the gut, and the tool is always her undying love for us. Every time Gloria shows empathy, she’s more given to it, and that’s maybe why she’s so weak now. Empathy and sympathy and care is weakness.
Tell me the story of your life …
Gloria’s creation has always been a fascination to me. She’s a person, a whole living person, and I always talk to her. She tells me the story of her life, of how she came to be and how she grew up and realised she needed to protect herself. I lik how the song ends because it tells me that the story is ongoing, and she’ll keep telling me of how to came to be and someday I’ll understand fully.
I loved making this post, even if no one will see it. It makes me feel good, it reminds me of the energy and strength that is Gloria. However, things have changed ever since my 3rd huge incident. Gloria is no more like that, and it swells my heart with despair. Did we put her through too much? I thought she’d never break. Maybe it’s because the more I believed she was a person, the more of an actual person she became, and people are weak, they falter and break. I was lonely, Kai was lonely, we needed a person to talk to, we needed someone strong to talk to. There was no one in this shitty fucked up reality to talk to, and we were weak and needed someone to deliver amnesty to the broken hearted.
Maybe she should have stayed as that black saint forever. All I can envision now is me mourning the dead martyr in my arms after her crucifixtion.
I’m speaking this from the bottom of me. I have a child’s voice and a philosopher’s mind. I’m depressingly optimistic and miserable.
Things only seem to go downhill as my physical body grows up. It’s not just the responsibilities and the fact that people kick you out of their lives because you have become more physically acquainted to this shitty reality. Your brain seems to betray you too. Like I guess like mine did, and I don’t if that’s because you’re corrupted by this world, or that’s some natural thing.
I don’t feel very connected to this reality. If I left it I would be at peace. My physical body is afraid of death - I run at danger, and cry at tragedy - but my soul is ready to leave. Very hard to comprehend. So, sometimes, I feel like I may not really be corrupted by the shitty reality I seem to face time and time again whenever I happen to stick my head out of my ear. Maybe my brain is just going downhill and I’m waiting for my physical body to be ready for departure.
For example, the monstrous, blissful birth of Niña, my child, me with the hollow eyes and the head of monster wanting to be a person. The soul can be such an ugly and beautiful thing at the same time. Niña’s existence came unprecedented, I would have never expected it. One day she burst forth from my back, and unwillingly I christened her.
Those were one of the most painfully blissful times in my life. It made my soul not at peace, and made my physical body want to leave. When Niña is is a painful ecstacy it’s all about worms, and anxiety, and vomit and digging out your eyeballs only to find out you have none (which is quite depressing in itself). Compared to me on the other hand, my version of a painful ecstasy is carving words into my skin and running my lips on throbbing skin as liquid calm washes over you. Niña made my physical and soulful existence a manically woeful one.
Another example would be Gloria’s decline. I have the voice of a child but now as the dominant one (for now, maybe for a couple more minutes), I speak as the most senior and insightful one of everyone of us. I was the first one of come about too. I don’t know where I came from for who I am, but I was always here. Just like everyone else - but I was first. My point is, I am in the best situation to comment on this situation.
Gloria’s decline came with my physical aging, and was probably exacerbated by Niña’s birth. It is very hard to take care of a new birth, especially one that came in late to the world with pent up anxiety and serotonin (1000x serotonin). Gloria was our pillar of strength, well, in a sense, because everyone is everyone’s pillar of strength, but Gloria basically was the martyr and took on the whips and the cuts and the wounds of life without purposefully doing any to herself (I would soon learn that it was Niña who was doing all that). Anger, spite and hate for the world as well as her love, adoration and devotion to me kept her going.
Adrenaline and testosterone made sure that Gloria would challenge anything and anyone that would cause our soul to be at unease. i was the restraining force, and we would be in balance. Her unrestrained anger and spite was what caused my physical’s body’s second breakdown. Never before had our physical body been so depressingly consumed with rage and spite. It was terrible.
After our physical body’s 2nd breakdown, Gloria became the pillar of strength not for revolution and upheaval of the system, but the undying urge to conform to it. I should have seen the warning signs.
I needed to be special and to be given attention, and I needed to be the best in society’s eyes. that means being bright and brilliant, eccentric and unique, a little quirky but human, able to relate to, empathetic, and her determination got us through that. I still think that the increased human relations and the boost in being able to have human relations helped make our soul more satisfied, but in the end, I still lived in my own reality, because the outside one was too harsh. I should have seen the warning signs.
Well, I don’t really know what triggered our body’s 3rd major nervous breakdown, but it did lead to Niña’s birth, which so far is the best and worst thing to ever happen in our life. The serotonin and adrenaline pumped determination was shaken to the core andI guess Gloria became like a Nam vet with PTSD and it broke her. Oh goddamnit Gloria.
I’m going to have to stop here. First time I took my sleeping aids in four days and it feels really disgusting. I love sleeping.