Life creeping up, like a persistent maggot, eating through the havoc with a deadly appetite, reminds me of the side effects of holiness: such a divine place, such a lonely place, except when the suspicion of martyrdom arises. I so like it here, I so hate it here, I am checking on the spelling but not on the meaning, I am devouring the last crumbs of sense, hungry for confusion, lost in the disappointment of a miracle still pending, trusting that my inner voice will stop banging, praying that the noise will make sense as some tune, finally, hopefully. Life creeping up, musing on the nonsense of torture.

Singing in my cage, an exquisite noise muddles to the background of an essential instrument. I take directions, go with the flow, enter the holly of hollies as a whole. My sadness is played in minor, my soul speeds on a chrome arrow, piercing the waves of a resonate rumble. The major, perceived as a cloud of white noise, covers the song of my silent singalong. And from minor to major, the flickering sound is wildly orchestrated when no one's around.

They say whatever the weather, the soul is the means and the means is the message. So I am sending a big fat dove to them, repeating that whatever the weather, the soul is an infinite storm or a blinding sunshine or a roaring tornado or a calm indigo sea, and whatever the weather you have to travel wearing the same clothes, dragging the same old pair of shoes, wishing that "summer" and "winter" are just a way of defining the traveler's mood.

An illusion of light flickers in the background / As the funeral of sores transcends through my pores / Generations of doom make the most divine boom / And the teardrops turn into bells / Sounding out through the ex night the end of all sorrows / Marked in the unshaped intensity of tar-black eyes / That start to see the world as it is / Half perfect, waiting to be fed / And lovingly tucked into bed

Beyond the shadow of art, like Siamese twins joint to the hips, me and my broken arrow / Staring ahead to a bliss never met / And there, as the brown turns to grey, the ruins of affection affect every inch / Through the itch and the scratch of an overpowering grudge / The chords and the noise intersect at a halt / As the heartbeat melts in their firm, crashing grasp / And the nothingness lies in a room full of flies / Disintegrating to a hollow desire / Oh how I wish that my infinite bliss / Was disguised as this empty vessel / How I wish, just this one time / That my toes point at my destination

The unfinished look of an identity on hold, infinite whiteness fading to grey, so many ways to call it anything but "nothing". Today, being a bit short of inspiration, I decided to turn "nothing" into "something". It all started last night, when I began working again on a short autobiographical story in progress and stopped at the ledge, just before I took a step to the void, while touching an old wound. I wanted to describe an experience of molestation that I had at the age of 11, without being too female. I hate writing that is too female, it's like using your sex to get the attention, almost like wearing too much cleavage. The only difference is this cleavage appeals mainly to the ladies, and I want my writing to be as sexless as possible. I think that sometimes a pseudo-sensitive, pseudo-aggressive, openly post-feminist approach works as a substitute for true talent because while working on this approach, you deliberately treat the female psyche as a musical instrument - touching a certain chord has the certain result of a certain note. That is so unfair to the reader and so disrespectful of her attention... Relevance is the main issue while writing and, as I see it, relevance has to be above sexes. That's why I always test my writing on my man first; first, he is a man and second, he's ruthless. So tonight I will go back to the ledge, I will touch my old wound again, neither as an 11-year-old girl nor as a 39-year-old woman, but as a writer trying to document his / her version on the impossibility of triviality.

On the doorway of perception I stood, full of wonder / Vainly contemplating the decoration / Smelling the wooden flowers, he loves me not / Taking in the geometries with a shivering anticipation / And there I was, a fool once again / The white handkerchief over my eyes, a substitute for knowledge / A peace flag begging for mercy to the heartless unknown/ And when I opened the door, I triggered it all / The smell of the unknown tainted by sweat, the cold feel of the stone walls / The taste of violence and the warm stream of the lamb's blood / The ancient fear jumping in my chest like a time bomb / And as my white vision turned into a vision of white / My woman man ancestor took me by the hand / "This is where you belong", she said, with a lying reassurance / As my feet began to sink in the burning light / And then I stepped back and told her, "Bless me Dark Mother for I have sinned" / "I am made of the divine imperfection of the hetaerae" / "My allegiance to you was an urge in my genes" / "But I spit on my nature, I spit on your darkness" / I said, and I went, struck by the hand of death / And into Thy hands I committed my haunted spirit / The blessing and the blasphemy wrapped around my ankle / And as I repent for my vanity, I am starting to love / This bleeding bracelet sent from above