Madaline [ the Goddess is back ]

[white lines do not lie]

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So much to say. So much to kill.
So many ghosts now haunting me.

I can deal.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ April 20, 2008 07:12 PM: Message edited by: white lines do not lie ]</font>

[white lines do not lie]

I see mirrors. Such mirrors that offers another mind set. A portal into a dark but sensual relaxation. A fear -- A desire. Mine is to go to Wonderland. I can see myself crossing over from the real world -- and into a world where there are no rules. A world that's molded to the creators mind. My Wonderland wouldn't be the one told by the great mind of Carroll. It wouldn't hold rabbits who talked, or mad hatters.

It would be somewhat like the Disney version. Black and white in the beginning, and then - like Wizard of Oz, technicolor. Mine would be vibrant, and living. It wouldn't be controlled by some two cent tramp by the code name of Queen of Hearts. Instead, I'd make mine own suit of cards. Aces, Jacks, Devils, and Angels. Of course the numbers would still be the same but different in some how. I'd make it so that the number represented on the card determines how an sleeping partners you'll sleep with for that one night.

I watch the cards prance around in all their glory, singing a song that they were encrypted to sing. I can see their insides. Fabric networks of patches, and of white thread. I can see Gavin being the Mad Hatter. He's getup isn't in tea, but in drugs and sex. His partner wouldn't be a male, but a female counterpart. Oh, a beautiful counterpart. Big breasts, and swollen lips -- just the way he likes his women. Though, I can see into the mind of the woman and fuck, she's smart. She could talk all day about politics, and what was going on in the world. I watch them and I realize there's something more to Gavin. He isn't what he describes himself to be. Instead, he's begging for a woman with brains, and with some type of intelligence far beyond the techniques used towards putting on a condom, or lubricate.

I can see Emere now. The most gentle side of her. She's like a mother at this point, caring over a child. But she wasn't a mother, and the woman in her lap wasn't a child. I see her with her pants off. I watch her coo, like a voyeur, and I shouldn't watch -- because I know that I'll beginning something that wouldn't likely end with just a smile, but I continue to watch. I coo at the sight of Emere and her partner in crime, but I see now that they are only whispering to one another. Talking about what they are going to put each other through, talking about the pleasure. Though, I see her partner in crime looking down, instead of looking at Emere while she speaks. And I remember, Her Mia is blind. I realize another side to Emere, that side that I never got the chance of seeing. A gentle person underneath all the hardened makeup, and the money ridding techniques. A woman secretly afraid of what was to happen to the world if her Mia wasn't in her life.

I feel the wind. A voice in the strands of life, in DNA and all that makes a human true. I feel blood with my hands pulse as I continue my journey into this one mindless wonderland. I pictured the corners of unspoken verses to be filled with mystery. One that would have me just tingle, and drool for more of that mystery. Oh such a mystery has been sought over so many millennia. Words of unspoken desires, and of sexual excitement filled the core of my ears, as their soft caress came around the shell of my ear. It reminds me of the time I had sex with Gavin, how close his lips received my ear, and how their sweet touch just took everything inside my core, and my soul and turned it into something far more intoxicating then he.

A page turns, and I'm in a different scene. The room of doors. So many doors. I look around at the decorations while I hear laughter, and it touches the most private of places. It purrs against the humanistic folds, and I just shudder. I can breath the scents of so many men and women now -- I'm swimming.

I feel myself lifted up among the stars. I feel little whisks of coldness against my fingertips, and I feel godly. This type of feeling lasts a lifetime, and if so -- if it truly does, why is it that when I wake up, wake up from all of this I know that everything is going to be plain. It's going to be written to code, witting what seems to be a significant explanation. Why is it that when it shatters, when my life --- when the mirror, when it all shatters, and it comes down on all of us, am I going to feel regret? Or maybe honesty.

But there's a voice in my head, and it is he who talks in riddles. It is he who speaks the language of so many dead, and of so many risen. It is he who mapped out the stars, and gave them their exact location. Their exact pinpoint. His voice is liquid fire, and it breathes into me every time I feel excitement. It scrapes me hallow, like a Halloween pumpkin. I'm seedless now, and my flesh is trashed. I feel like the clouds. A hydrogenous mixture of air, water, heat and so many other elements, but I'm hallow in the inside. I'm an X - ray. I'm a map of bones, and a network of arteries.

I picture myself as being a Mona Lisa. I'm beautiful in such a way that is inexplicable. I have no past, and I have yet a future. I feel as if I put my hand ; my palm against a window pane, air would eventually pull it away. Not strength from myself. Oh no. I would never dream of pulling away from such a sturdy background. It would be a spiritual journey into the realm of the unknown. The under studied, and the feared.

I would not feel a tense of muscles, and the turning of blood. I would not feel tired, or some what amp to do it again. I will fell relaxed. My brain won't go back into time, and watch reruns of my own murders. I will find a happy place, I have found one. I'm like a cloud, high above it all, but cautious not to wonder too far. For if I do, the sun and his rays will tear me apart as if I was a ruptured blood vessel. Though, if I was a vessel, I wouldn't be fixed.

No. I'd be behind the mirror, inside its very soul. I'd be fed through its power that it gains from the owner of vanity. A muse, and a liar. I would show the image that is sought over. The image of power, of beauty, of mind. I will cast that out. I will allow the owner to take envious pride in such a lie. I picture myself being a child, and looking through it onto the other side of ugliness. I hear everything, and I see everything. I hear the things I don't wish to hear, and I see naked lies. I'd be the very soul that is ripped from such creatures, and I'll be the muse screaming in eternal damnation.

I'd be shattered after a while. Maybe by a shoe, or a human fist. Maybe by accident. This doesn't change my outlook. I can still see. I am the soul behind the mirror, and I will linger out into the world of the living. I will live inside every single being I come in contact with. I'd be a ghost, breathing down ones back with such coldness. I will listen to each conversation, and I will make present my being. I will leave notes on the windows through hot breath, and I will write in such a way deemed childish.

I watch the spiders weave their webs. I feel it, and it's sticky. I don't like it considering I have a fear of these little spinning disasters. But one reminds me of the black widow from Charlotte's Web. It seems kind, and gentle like. Though, just like a spider -- I feel that if I had a heartstring attached to someone, I'd too eat them alive. If I had the ability of spinning white, sticky silk from the tips of my fingertips I'd suffocate the worlds` problems. Including myself, because you know people like myself are limited.

We're hunted because we kill. We aren't the hunters anymore, we're the ones hiding away from the mask that humanity has placed on the limitations of free speech, and the ability of doing what we want -- all because of ten commandments written down in a book. Thou shall not kill. Thou shall not take the live of another human being, then why is it alright for badges to take the lives of my kinsmen? What give them so much power over this blanket of deceit that this city lives under.

Yes, I've realized I've moved on from the Wonderland getup.

Seriously now. Why give men and women the chance to also commit these same crimes that my kind commits? Is it because they believe that they are also, like myself, protecting the ones that they love? Or is it that they like the feeling of splattering blood on the New York streets? I know that I get a little hot and bothered when I see a body tied down, when I hear the struggling through sown lips, do they get the same feeling when they discover the body the next morning, the next week, or the next month?

Though, unlike them -- I do not bring my work home with me. I do not bring my work and discolor the world I have with Ian, and my two kittens. I've once crossed those two lines, and I got lost. I don't being lost, or having felt disconnected in some way. My life with Ian, with the people from January Arsonists ; Emere, Gavin, Bri. These are someway social in life. They are very far apart from my own likes, or passions. One might say.

I wouldn't change the way I lived. If I had a chance to relive my life, with a different outcome; I'd find myself miserable. I don't want to live normally. I have my own fears, and I have my own wants. I have my own passions, and my own creativity. I have my own mind. I have imagination, and my own voices in my head.

Second thought, I don't want to travel to Wonderland. All the things I've already seen, I've known. That's what I love about. And the voice, the one who riddles, and the one who is liquid fire -- that's no one but Ian himself. And if I had to leave a last message. It be simply this ; Break the mirror.

past. present. who cares anymore. wonderland is the world we're all living in, and the white rabbit is the addiction that we're all chasing after. my addication just has added screams to it, and it's very messy.

2003 November 15