I no longer know what the goal of the site is, I write horror fiction, and love letters to myself.
This site is a tool to facilitate the act of seeing clearly, written by hands that used to hurt myself.
Explanation: I am Damien, I speak to my split personality Amanda. I am two people in love with each other, and I am okay with that now.
I have paranoid schizophrenia, narcissistic personality disorder, bipolar II-manic/depressive- rapid cycling, depression, anxiety, hydrocepholus, narcissistic personality disorder suffering from alcoholism, drug addiction, alcoholic. with OCD and PTSD- was addicted to heroin, meth, crack, alcohol, cocaine, prescription pills.
I am drug addict/alcoholic/dual diagnosis/ex-homeless person.
Through dark horror fiction I rake the muck of the lives of street addicts.
Or in plain English this is an epic poem/novel about addiction told about low bottom addicts in horror style.
Roll the die, I will bet we get a better roll, we the one with two souls, make it good, make it quick, maybe this time, the idea will stick, that we are one, but we are two, and we get one roll, not four or two.
I am standing blaming you, blaming them, blaming something higher, blaming something below me on fire, blaming circumstance, blaming the wind, maybe one day I will begin to win, but not today, snake eyes now, maybe I should just stop staring down, get my **** eyes off the ground.
Ow, you bite me, so I hate you.
You are not a flower, but a tragic reminder, of how much, I said I wasn’t going to do this anymore.
Remember, Ms. Re. I said when I started this, which I did, that this was going to be about the power of memory to harm the human soul, a resentment journal, illustrated by the decay of a human soul, mine, an illustration of the decay of a human soul, mine.
I realize now, how insane that is.
Do you see me in black and white?
Were you really?
Yes, I was.
Then why are you writing this?
Because I was wrong, and I want to prove to myself I was right.
You were right about me, I was, angry, and am still that you told everyone something that was true, I am a drug addict, and I behaved like one, because I am one, and you said this before I said it, and then I behaved like one because you said it, to prove you wrong, and proved you right.
The mist ascends over the river in the dark light absent night of a missing moon, that is not missed, simply missing, a vacant blankness with no space indicated that marks its blankness, no spot where a moon would even be, a blank canvas of lack of light.
I am standing staring out over the water, knowing only that there is even water there, because I am familiar with the place I am. Other than my presence of mind and awareness of where I am placed in time, there is no indicating factors that would suggest that I am anywhere at all, the night is black and I see nothing in front of me, and nothing below me.
I stare forward into the nothingness, keeping my presence of mind, by meditating on the painful cold that pounds in my skin, the rain is falling down on my hands and arms now, I say it that way.. because they are bare, I can’t feel it touch the rest of me.
I look out over the water, the only thing letting me know there is any separation between me and any of this, any perceiving instead of being oneness, is the fact that I remember being a being that sees.
There are slight beings of light on the water now, they dance in the nothing, looking like shadows, which is strange, because there is nothing to cast shadow on, they are dark, as dark as shadow and reflecting to my eyes or to my knowing, not sure which, and they speak to me, somehow I know them, I know their pain. They pace across the water saying nothing, and I can feel their pain, and then, it all fades, a light comes on, and I look up at a street light, there must have been a power outage.
A man is sitting on a bench alone, he asks me how long I have been there, says he didn’t know there was someone else watching, like him, the dancing on the water. I tell him I don’t know, and we leave it at that. He walks away.
How weak I was while I was a lying ***. I am so happy I finally got that I was running to the mouth of a storm that was really inside myself, the chaos I chased was the chaos that attacked me. Amanda is realizing this too, that we both existed as a dance with death and wondered why our friends kept dying, and we kept being haunted by reapers that are the characters in the lives of an addict that is why we speak the way we do, through poetic analogy.
My wife and Joy are hanging out in the room talking, and it is nice, because I am remembering that I used to hear voices differently than I do now, I would hear people say things they weren’t saying and be compelled by paranoia about things that were not even things that happened to ruin my life myself. Like I said before, this is Amanda’s backstory too, and her life was the same, we would talk in dark moments, through people. She would see me in their eyes, because for awhile I didn’t have the spirited strength I have now. I was half a person as was she, but I lacked physical form because I lacked… I don’t know the ability to admit I was even a human being?