Cream coloured ponies and crisp apple strudels,
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnizel with noodles,
Wild gees that fly with the moon on their wings...
STOP RIGHT THERE
Let's cut to the chase. I wish these were my favorite things, and that I was a pleasant person, but I am trapped in the shadow of the dystopian world I came from, and my favourite things don't even rhyme.
Syringes, quarantine, sickness, sedatives, paralysis
Small amounts of blood, weakness, states near death,
Unspeakable conditions, deprivation, sweat, grime,
The colour grey, tears, rain, darkness,
Vulnerable positions , agonized expressions,
Degradation, lostness, fear, need, breakdown to insanity,
Desolation, dilapidation, rubble
Ruin, apocalypse, gas masks, big guns, the Nuclear
Interrogation, experimentation, isolation, execution, war gone wrong,
Veils, blindfolds, hoods, defeat,
Restraints, jumpsuits, incarceration, capture, maximum security,
Brokenness, helplessness, possession, total control.
Sexuality, let alone fetishes, are against my religion.
I believe so strongly in inner strength, defiance, purity, transcendence, and dependence on nothing that my zeal is incompatible with my being human, thus, a dreadful demon of duality has sprung up inside of me to contend with my impossible devotion to the Religion of Resistance. The very essence of this cruel world wants to bring me down to its level by making that which I oppose with all my strength and despise with all my heart turn me on.
Or, as a a psychologist would say, my masochism developed as a coping mechanism to all that was constantly inflicted upon me for 18 years of my life. Inflicted upon me because I never once submitted. They say there are only four options--escape, lose your mind, submit, or grow to love the consequence of refusing to.
O, paradoxical me. Why, God, why would you make an anomaly, a contradiction, such as I? You forsake me to myself, O God, forsake me to myself. My colours clash, my waters swirl, you made it so yourself. I would rather be lost to chaos than remain precariously balanced here.
I escaped, but Fate would not let me go so easily. It had a final insult in store for me, a degrading addiction that I have tried everything to break out of, and I do mean everything. I swear to you, no one else on this planet has travelled so far, staked so much on success, fought so hard, only to fail and lose it all.
I'm imperfect and painfully human, but I figure as long as I remain ashamed of it, I have not yet been fully overcome. I am at the precipice of surrender, the end of the world, the edge of the earth, holding on with all I am.
At the same time, the dynamics of power struggle are beautiful and intricate when the sexual side of it is removed from the picture. I should just forsake it all, but if not for its penetrating artfulness, if not for the secret truths in it, it would not be a part of me.
There is also a frantic empathy that drives my fascination and my careful study. I love The Afflicted so deeply that I leave thousands of idle tears on their alter. I love them because I know them in and out. Unlike Jesus, I loveth my own
. I would die to liberate any one of them. I would open my arms to their tears and never let them down. But, if I go through this life helpless as always, and all I can do is sketch, highlight, colour and unbury their suffering in my useless fucking art, that I will do.