~ CALAMUS TASTES LIKE DEATH ~
"the comradery shared between men"
2025
this is a work in progress...
my existence has decayed. I don't know how to feel anymore
The time shows on the PID of a C class tram, running route 109. We are at st Vincents Junction. I am filled with dread. Waste. Such waste. I feel sick. I feel hollow. My muscles do not release- my breathing is wrong. In what way is it wrong? I don't know. I mourn my lack of productivity. I mourn the waste of my life. I take steps but never forward, why am I never moving forward? I am still suffocating. Still salivating. The moment passes.
i am letting myself become me once more
your feelings don't mean anything, tear them apart, rip them down and eat them up, meld them into something new then do it again, constant and neverending. Don't let it fester. Give it a potentiality that's un fucking heard of. your feelings mean the world. they are everywhere. they are nowhere. who the fuck cares just keep it fucking going.
sliced meat
He drags his body across the floor, chest thumping and focus waining. His body gives a shudder before falling to the ground, leaving him in a puddle of his own blood. The iron of his soul. "What have you done to me?" his shattered voice begs, only to be met with mocking echoes. "You did this to yourself, you will rot here, a mangled mess. The world will feed on your carcass." With that, the final remnants of his stomach are mixed with his blood as his body tries to rid itself of poisons. It is no use. Nothing will save him now
deliverance
How does it feel to have a blissed out puppy curled up at your feet? In your arms? On your chest? Weaving its way into you and around you. It is yours now. It doesn't say that because it belongs to many people...it doesn't say that because it doesn't know if that is something that you would want. All it knows is that your hand is in its hair, on its leg, around its back. It knows that YOU leaned in to meet it in the back seat of that car. It is yours and yours to keep. But maybe that is cruel. It is just a puppy, how could it understand these things?
emotional-slave-labour-voluntary-nightmare-hell
where is the line between effective communication and forcing emotional labour unto someone? What am I allowed to tell you? What is too much? What is wastefull and unwarranted? At what point does my apologies and my affirmations that the labor be not yours a form of manipulation? Is telling you not to worry a form of guilt? Perhaps if I turn every aspect of my langauge unto myself it would seem more genuine? Or maybe that just sounds self centred. Fuck, who knows anymore.
BOOT.LOG
>i get it
> i understand
> i get it
> i understand
> i understandi get it
> i understand it
> i get it i understand i understand i understan
> i am you
> you are me
> i get it and i am you and i am in you and you are me and i get it
> i am wrapped up in it and i inderstand it
> i understand you i am with you
> i love you
doedog
I usually see myself as a dog. It's extremely cemented into my reality to be quite frank. That said, when I'm with you I feel like a doe. I'm melting at your presence. I can't take my eyes off you. Everything about it is painfully obvious to everyone around us, probably even you. Usually I like to be a domineering force, protective and wrapping myself around those that I care for like a blanket. Standing to attention at their side like an attack dog. Following from the back of the pack to make sure nobody is lost or led astray. You however. It all falls away. I don't want to be fucked by you but I do want to be grabbed by you. Thrown around and clasped that little bit too tightly by you. Protected and domineered and led...by you. A sense of security that comes with your sanity. A stability I haven't felt in years.
bore
this is a monument to how weak I have become, it makes me reflect on if i ever really was that strong
tether
sitting, cocooned. head on your chest. silent on the phone for far too long. heads in crooks of necks. breaths peaceful. your hand on my arm. always tender. stangely refrained. a brief kiss. maybe another. no more than that. it's peaceful though.
three part harmony
I've been ideating so hard that I think about calling a cat team on myself.
I need a level of support that I could never put my friends through.
I can't though. I have things I need to do. Chores so I don't cut off any semblance of hope I have left. The fact I think about this means that perhaps the ideations aren't valid though. I must not be worthy of a cat team if I think like this.
What's better than death? Jail. I wanted to leave, move up north, take up the life I lost to my own illness. That's too hard though. I've made it so bad that I wouldn't be able to do that. Jail however. That could work. I could societally suicide. Leaving myself with free accommodation and food for as long as I will it. I could have fun getting there too. I could hit everything I've always wanted too but avoided on the concept of it being too 'hot'. It would be perfect in a way.
Something in my room smells of mold and death.
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