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.
I will follow you
Follow you wherever you may go
Except that storage unit, anywhere but there, anywhere but there, I am going up the stairs, I want to be anywhere but there.
It tells me it knows what I think, that I am going to Hell, and that it will be okay, that I have nothing to fear, because the devil, a man who lived, is just like me, and everything will be alright, that I can have whatever I want, once I get there, and that I should just swear allegiance now.
I laugh, if I have to swear allegiance, that is all horse ****.
Feed me your bull****
Feed me your lies
Tell me your stories of deep dark cries
To heads that love you, so very much, that trap you and keep you like an animal stuffed
and suffering in a deep dark hole
They don’t want your friendship, just you sullied soul.
I was walking once, in the middle of the night. It was about three in the morning. I had been drinking after hours with a group of people that I had met at the bar that seemed interesting enough to be worth talking with a little longer, so I went back to their place and stuck around till about 4 in the morning. I like to watch the sun rise, so I left with enough time to be able to catch the sunrise.
I began walking from the house, unfamiliar with where I was and trying to get my bearings, I was beginning to return to hated sobriety, and had the very beginnings of that having slept in a whiskey bottle feeling, like the mouse in Dumbo.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a vehicle come up alongside me, or so I thought. I looked to my side, having sworn I saw it move. The strangest thing, was the car alongside me, that I swore had just parked next to me, looked unoperational. It had two flat tires and a bunch of tickets tucked under the windsheild wipers that were soaking wet, looking like they had been there long enough that the car was recognized to be abandoned.
I still wonder to this day, why had I seen the car driving… was I in some alternate dimension for a second…
You caw outside my window, which makes me look up.
The omen is a not just an omen, but a messanger, sent to dispense spiritual law, traveler between worlds, seer and traveler of a divide in time.
Haver of both it and me and no longer, possesser of item. I am simply the crow.
Complicated too, and complicatedly the crow, because I am not a crow, I am a human being, obviously, because crows can’t type letters, but I am listening the caw of the crow as I write to you, whoever is listening, even if ut anyone is at all, and
Where do you go?
What do you see?
What do you desire me to be?
Decay or I don’t know grow? I am not good at positive words… that’s all I have to say about that, I think… I thought of that in the shower, and that is all that came to me so that’s it folks.
What are you looking at honey?
I am standing at the dock, staring out over the water, mesmerized by the way the moon paints the waves with light.
I am cold, not prone to waking up with jackets on, not sure why this is, but I am shaking, but it is alright because it is keeping me aware.
I am listening to a conversation that I am not sure,
Yes, it is real..
I feel hate running red, through my veins, through my entire body, unsure of the exact nature of this, I am aware that it relates to my passenger, Amanda.
She hates this woman, that I can hear now, her voice grating, she’s bragging about something, why would she? Why would she be shouting about drugs outside in the middle of the night? Understood. I get it. This person is a ****.
I am unsure of what the expectation is of my borrowing this body, I think they just didn’t want to be here right now, so screw it. I am going to the convenience store.
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.