LavĂnia
plalace
- Feb 19, 2024
- 168
May only the truth be in my words.
May the father of lies burn and never speak.
- What did you do with your body?
I marked it. Like cattle, I turned it into property, gave it a name, carved my purpose into it.
- What did you do with your body?
I cut my flesh. I burned my skin. I scratched and tore the veil that protects me.
- What did you do with your body?
I cut myself with razors, sharp metal scraps, stilettos, knives, quick movements, slow movements. I burned my skin with lighters, matches, cigarettes, boiling kitchen utensils, I turned the act of watching my skin turn black and peel into a hobby. I scratched my hand, my nails tearing at my touch until I felt the red interior.
- What did you do with your body?
I did what I wanted. I felt so good. I transformed the agony and despair of proving to myself that my pain existed into a circus. It's so good to paint. A natural tattoo. I made drawings, I made expressions, I made symbols of gods and passages of time. I saw blood on my hands, I saw blood all over the floor of my bathroom and I felt like I was falling somewhere. I transformed it into pleasure.
- What is pleasure for you?
That's difficult. I don't know. I feel that when I have a surge of euphoria, I want to die. Why do I need the aftermath? Pleasure is the feeling of joy that, in contrast to its absence, excites completion.
- Do you make an effort?
I pretend to make an effort. I perform repetitive tasks, I stay in a pattern and even in that I fail due to inattention. I don't learn new things. I don't invest in anything productive anymore. I use the people in my life to avoid work, I am always a victim who has an excuse for not having tried harder.
- Would your dream be to have a physically disabled person?
I so badly wanted to lose my legs. I dreamed of being run over. I dreamed of situations where I would have a physical and emotional excuse to give up on something.
- That's disgusting. For you, losing your legs would be a symbol of giving up and victimhood?
It would be something I could use. I thought about losing my arms. I thought about going crazy and constantly having visions and voices in my ears. I thought about having a brain tumor. I thought about having organ failure. I thought about inventing a reason. I thought about my cat dying, my mother dying, my sister dying, my friends dying. Anything absurd, outside the pattern of the days that keep rushing by, that could justify my giving up.
- Why do you give up?
Because it's easier. Because effort is hard work, and it never ends. The etymology of "effort" expresses "showing strength" and "putting strength out." Something that comes out of my body, being constantly drained.
- Why do you give up?
Because it's easier. There's a certain comfort in it, and I see how much my life has been destroyed by it, and I feel a growing agony, but it's still less compared to the pleasure I get from this comfort provided by giving up.
- You're a bad person.
I'm a horrible person. I've done so many bad things, I've thought so many bad things.
- You're a disgusting person.
I'm so afraid to open this rotten flesh that hides my secrets, my eyes, my nose, my mouth. So many infernal curses that would make everyone around me cry with disgust, anguish, and sadness. I'm afraid my family will understand how shallow and useless I truly am.
- You should die, for the good of the people.
Yes, I should.
- You should die for your own good.
The young me was so innocent. A child who didn't think, played, and watched with such fervor. So fearful. I didn't fix my hair because I saw no reason to. I didn't lie because I saw no reason to. So out of place, so fragile and weak. Every day I stain her with disgrace.
- I hate you. I would spend hours punching the ground until my bones broke, my flesh was exposed. I would punch the ground using my nerves and tendons, on the pulp of flesh that would become my reach. If there was a drawing of your face on the ground, I would use my muscles and blood to cover it all.
May the father of lies burn and never speak.
- What did you do with your body?
I marked it. Like cattle, I turned it into property, gave it a name, carved my purpose into it.
- What did you do with your body?
I cut my flesh. I burned my skin. I scratched and tore the veil that protects me.
- What did you do with your body?
I cut myself with razors, sharp metal scraps, stilettos, knives, quick movements, slow movements. I burned my skin with lighters, matches, cigarettes, boiling kitchen utensils, I turned the act of watching my skin turn black and peel into a hobby. I scratched my hand, my nails tearing at my touch until I felt the red interior.
- What did you do with your body?
I did what I wanted. I felt so good. I transformed the agony and despair of proving to myself that my pain existed into a circus. It's so good to paint. A natural tattoo. I made drawings, I made expressions, I made symbols of gods and passages of time. I saw blood on my hands, I saw blood all over the floor of my bathroom and I felt like I was falling somewhere. I transformed it into pleasure.
- What is pleasure for you?
That's difficult. I don't know. I feel that when I have a surge of euphoria, I want to die. Why do I need the aftermath? Pleasure is the feeling of joy that, in contrast to its absence, excites completion.
- Do you make an effort?
I pretend to make an effort. I perform repetitive tasks, I stay in a pattern and even in that I fail due to inattention. I don't learn new things. I don't invest in anything productive anymore. I use the people in my life to avoid work, I am always a victim who has an excuse for not having tried harder.
- Would your dream be to have a physically disabled person?
I so badly wanted to lose my legs. I dreamed of being run over. I dreamed of situations where I would have a physical and emotional excuse to give up on something.
- That's disgusting. For you, losing your legs would be a symbol of giving up and victimhood?
It would be something I could use. I thought about losing my arms. I thought about going crazy and constantly having visions and voices in my ears. I thought about having a brain tumor. I thought about having organ failure. I thought about inventing a reason. I thought about my cat dying, my mother dying, my sister dying, my friends dying. Anything absurd, outside the pattern of the days that keep rushing by, that could justify my giving up.
- Why do you give up?
Because it's easier. Because effort is hard work, and it never ends. The etymology of "effort" expresses "showing strength" and "putting strength out." Something that comes out of my body, being constantly drained.
- Why do you give up?
Because it's easier. There's a certain comfort in it, and I see how much my life has been destroyed by it, and I feel a growing agony, but it's still less compared to the pleasure I get from this comfort provided by giving up.
- You're a bad person.
I'm a horrible person. I've done so many bad things, I've thought so many bad things.
- You're a disgusting person.
I'm so afraid to open this rotten flesh that hides my secrets, my eyes, my nose, my mouth. So many infernal curses that would make everyone around me cry with disgust, anguish, and sadness. I'm afraid my family will understand how shallow and useless I truly am.
- You should die, for the good of the people.
Yes, I should.
- You should die for your own good.
The young me was so innocent. A child who didn't think, played, and watched with such fervor. So fearful. I didn't fix my hair because I saw no reason to. I didn't lie because I saw no reason to. So out of place, so fragile and weak. Every day I stain her with disgrace.
- I hate you. I would spend hours punching the ground until my bones broke, my flesh was exposed. I would punch the ground using my nerves and tendons, on the pulp of flesh that would become my reach. If there was a drawing of your face on the ground, I would use my muscles and blood to cover it all.
