Leading the sustainable life?

• Living in nature
• Becoming independent
• Growing and harvesting my own food
• Building a life with children and a partner
• Living with people equal-minded 
• Creating a small community with close-knit neighbours
• Having my mother nearby 
• Value life, love, family, honesty and nature above everything else

Only years ago I had a whole other point of view of the world. I was young, I still am, I keep learning and developing as a person. My love has taught me a lot and she's helped me realise the values in life.

I hope my dream is possible. I doubt it. But the city, suburbia, the hectic modern life, the stress, the feeling of being just another puzzle in something bigger rather than controlling my own life, I want to get away from it all. I don't know how. I feel suffocated in this world and I know I am not the only one.

A Calling

"Between birth and death lies desire, 

Desire for life, for love, for everything good. 

And this is the source of all suffering."

A dim light from a candle flickers in the dark. Black ink drops onto the parchment lying on his wooden desk. His thumb carefully caresses the pencil in his hand, repeating the same circling movement over and over. Forgetting when he last ate, slept or bathed, he managed to count three sunsets since he first began writing. If it wasn't for the presence of Nyx, veiling the rays of light from the sun, he wouldn't have needed to disrupt his work to get candles and Lucifer matches. His scruffy beard is moist from sweat, his lips are chapped but sealed shut, his red skin carries a single salty waterpearl that falls and lands in the corner of the parchment. The empty parchment. His mind is in the state of complete bliss. He believes he must have emptied, not only his thoughts, but a part of his soul onto the previous four-hundred and fifty-seven pages. It was as if the pages had purified him, a spiritual tabula rasa. He rises from the creaking old stool and stands in front of the desk. He releases the strong grip of the pencil, dropping the tool he had clung onto for days, a tool that he had held onto for dear life, on the floor. His eyes fixate on the impressive stack of parchment that contains ink, sweat, and droplets of wax. His hand finds its way to the back of his neck, soothing himself as a brief moment of fear enters him. The fear of emptiness. Had he given too much of himself or had he given life to something remarkable?

Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos and dirt.

"Spiral, Spin, Ride the whirlwind; Knowing when the drumming stops, There'll be no second dance."

"Diving into the Wreck" by Adrienne Rich

Because I Can!

*Me making a sheep sound in the background*
Brother's girlfriend: "Why does she do that?"
My grandma: "She just does" *shrugs*

Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde

“Under the strain of this continually impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, languidly weak both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of my other self.”

The boy shuts the book. His fingers caresses the leather-binding; trailing his index up the spine as he ponders. He thinks about her; the woman from his dreams, the trespasser in his mind. She has been there for as long as he can remember. Though she frightens him, makes him feel powerless and riddled with guilt for the things she makes him do, he cares for her; the boy knows the woman has been protecting him like a lioness, from them. He gets up from his chair, walks across the old creaking floorboards
and places the book on top of the dusty dim-lit fireplace. From the corner of his eye he sees the woman's murky silhouette gathering daffodils from their garden. Daffodils blossoming in winter is considered unusual, but what's even more peculiar is that all of the flowers in their garden seem to be hexed, they never wither; instead they lure outsiders with their beauty and remarkable scent. The boy rubs his eyes and turns to look directly at the woman. But what he sees is himself, standing from a distance, close by the fireplace inside of the villa. He watches himself leave the spot upon where he stood. And he begins to notice his surroundings; the warm heat from the burning chunks of wood is replaced by a chilly breeze, along with familiar floral scent. He feels his hand gripping something cool and damp. Looking down he sees a dusin of daffodils resting in a palm that doesn't resemble his own. The hand is certainly larger than his. Fingers bony, slender and broken in each joint. Realization hits him, and he drops the flowers before blacking out.

Dance!

Now I've showed you what I'm made of..

Get SET!

Elevator buttons - Turning a leaf

Slot machines - Odds

Fog - I can do this!

A's & B's in Exams - Leaving the classroom

Pros/Cons - Landslide

Feelings = Facts

Lost

Lettere beruset svinger han sig frem og tilbage; et reb i den ene hånd og en flaske blandet snask i den anden. Han er en fremmed i det levende billede som omringer hans midlertidige fristed. Billedet viser det kolde efterår, hvor rød-gule blade markerer sig på træer og asfalt. Grålige skyer sørger for at holde solens stråler gemt, mens sortklædte mennesker hastigt passerer forbi ham. Han føler vinden og dens lette regn ramme hans ansigt da han tager endnu en slurk. Tankerne og følelsen af at være mere skrøbelig end et barn forladt i et indkøbscenter, forværres minut efter minut. Igen skifter han sang på sin afspiller, og husker pludselig dén scene der gang på gang har efterladt ham spørgende. Og mens han lukker øjnene tænker han;

10
feel it
9
feel it
8
feel it
7 
feel it
6 
feel it
5
feel it
4
feel it
3
feel it
2 
feel it
1
Stop.

Det virker. Han tænker på sin selvstændighed og en lykkelig fremtid. Han ser for sig et billede af den mand han gerne vil blive. Men billedet har desværre en glitch, som gør at hvert 3. sekund bliver lykken erstattet med et billede af håbløshed. Han ved ikke om det pinefulde 3. sekund, der slår en knytnæve i håbet, er noget han kan kæmpe imod. Alligevel vælger han at tage sine boksehandsker på og se hans modstander i øjnene.

Ascend

Earthquakes terrorizes the ground
Medicine cannot heal him
Substances fail to numb him
Distractions are mere breathers, but it always lies beneath

Oscillating between strength and despair
From his grave he begins to climb
Though his viscera may be decaying
He sets to atone his heedless crime

Pontus' Pearl

Thoughtless aristocrats masquerading as thieves
An unforgetful love camouflaging as hatred
The pending cloaked as their past
Inevitable betrayel hidden behind a trust
Unspoken words masked as honesty

Secrets in disguise

It's just a countdown

Can't see a future. It's as if every second, good or bad, is just leading up to me giving up.

A Glass of Wine

The smell of clay, a starry sky and his favourite bottle of Bordeaux.

He taps gently on the dusty glass, creating a slow and repetitive melody; a motion soothing the jitterings travelling in his bloodstream. Looking upwards causes him to chuckle momentarily, his head shaking in disbelief, though with a smile he finishes the remaining of the red wine. A comfortable woven blanket is spread out on the cool ground, and as the rain begins to fall, he puts aside his glass and lays down, curling up while clutching to his denim jacket.
Soon after; the wet dirt is covering most of him, leaving only part of his jacket visible aswell as his few belongings, but in the morning the ground appears to have repaired itself and he's finally gone.

Beautiful Filth

It's the first day of summer, may is nearly over and children run around on the abandoned concrete road, passing a leather ball to one and another, they seem to be blissfully unaware of the molden stench beneath the light green lawns. Daffodils can be seen spread all over the neighbourhood, peaking from all but one of the gardens, like a disease.

He walks past the yellow painted house, circling a sharp corner and stumbles on the uneven pavement.

His left foot falls into the hole of a missing cobblestone and he stops abruptly to regain his footing, though quickly he continues walking towards the old wooden entrance.

And as he arrives he observes how the white fence is protecting the house; hiding behind a beautiful bright garden, displaying flowers in colours more rich than anything he had ever hoped to imagine, and even scents oh so pleasant, almost spellbinds him to fade into another world, though fortunately he remembers his purpose and with a fast movement he opens the creaking gate.

A deep exhale calms his chest, his gaze becomes drawn to the crackled red painted front door, blurring all other surroundings. A moment passes, he blinks and sees his feet are now standing on the top step before the main entrance. The man is puzzled for a second but reaches down in his backpocket, and finds a small paperwrapped box, he takes a step back down, and places the fragile box on the top step, resting it against the door. Dimples show as his mouth spreads into a hopeful smile, while a rosy colour embraces his neatly shaven cheeks, and as he turns around, his pulse races as if his heart was attempting to escape his body.

An itch creeps down his left arm, just as he closes the gate behind him. Maybe this time.

· · · — — — · · ·

The tide had crept upon him,
All too soon, he felt.
Delicate sand had buried his puny ankles,
Bound him to the sea.
Frantically he turned his gaze; searching.
His eyes glistened with a desperate plea, for the sight of hers
And a distant silhouette,
Barely visible to the naked eye,
Disguising the woman's features,
Showed only a blurry layer of her fair polished skin,
Though she certainly approached his pathetic state,
To his regret, he knew now how, their eyes were never to be met.
Devastated with sorrow, he quietly offered his farewell

"Yes or no?"

10, 9, 8, 7...

"Yes or no?"

6, 5...

"Yes or no!?"

4, 3, 2...

"Decide!"

1...

Quasi Una Fantasia

Smooth and beautiful, resting safely in his palm, he clutches onto the small object,

knowing with it gone, a piece of him too will seize to exist.

Shimmering lights sirene their aching presence, leading one foot after the other towards the inevitable,

leaving only the trace of a promise behind.

Tabula Rasa

Lobotomy, heroin, sleeping pills...

Give me anything

Nepenthe

A graceful death, is the only thing she is able to offer these days; an exertion for completion.
She fools him with her devious ways, seduces and binds him to a world of clarity. She recognises his weakness and it makes no difference whither he will attempt to flee, for she will - with certainty - follow.
A choice has to be made; 


Will she let him have her, or more importantly, is he strong enough to fight for her?
Would it end up becoming the sacrifice confirming his greatest fear? 


He has not forgotten what happened the last time she slithered underneath his skin, it left him shattered and even more frail than before.


Could he, without losing himself in the process? 


He relies his fate upon the one woman, whose sincere tenderness sustains him;   


Locks remarkably coal, though carrying life's strands of age
Eyes that radiate so sublime, they sear a daunting, torrid path into the soul's core, making all else fade to grey
And a character even more significant than his own existence.


His answer is clear. There is no alternative. 


"Behave.."

The Land of Dreaming

The ominous fog returns - slowly smothering the small spaces between the dying pine trees

Digging suffocating breaths into the bewildered depths

Each and every single creature, frightened into hiding. 

Sounds of twigs and branches creaking, deafens the eerie woods

Bloody foottrails seep into unsteady ground
And behind the area's eldest tree; a woman - bare of any fabric - is holding a smooth leather cloth in her left palm, firmly tugging on a rusty old dagger.
She rests upon the welcoming moss, her sore and wounded limbs caressing the damp green below. 

Vermilion rose petals scatter over her naked torso 

And a bullseye within automatically guides the shaft in her grip, to its first and only target.

The White Room

The unforgettable echo of his sharp piercing cry, silences into nothing but a short intake of air
Flesh and bones desperately fail to mend his ailing frame
A plead for mercy goes unheard in the desolated cage
But for a moment, the beautiful recapture of placid meadows enters his mind
And only then he lets go.

A quiet and gentle wave turns his haunting grimace into complete serenity, leaving behind; the silhouette of someone he used be.

Conviction

 The prosecutor looked upon the young withered man - whose head hung low in humility and shame- with an expression seemingly aware that his actions were to be rightfully judged.

A lack of any compassion and a sense of underlaying mocking were in the clear tone in which the demon joyfully spoke:
"You shall be tortured, spending an indefinite amount of time feeling the acid on your skin slowly burning through to your organs - searingly and without even a hint of mercy - as your fragile frame tears you apart and by the dark prince of the underworld, you will completely disappear into the nothingness of which you came." 


The man gazed back at Lucifer, admitting his defeat but not quite prepared to permanately leave the life he somehow had already left.