Little Secrets.rtf /// forgiven life is yet forgotten

... As inside the golden locket, where all walls glitter with delight and yet howl with empty ache of the past...

.sits a doll øff two parts. 

A part of life forgiven    ||   A part of life forgotten

The doll, inside the glitter halls or ice and gild is barefoot on a fiery throne. Inside her eyes so many mirrors. She sits and ponders, trying to pull the gaps and cracks together. With winged horses in her hair. And air beneath her feet. Inside the sand she stores her memories, like secrets in her childhood under glass domes.

In soil. Her past.

Wishing for frequencies that are distant and imagined.

Inside her locket.  Inside the glitter walls.

Where air is filled with magic blossoms.

And nothing even dies.

A part of life forgiven 

She swipes away the soil and glances inside the little marvels. Little domes she called secrets. Messages hiding past reckonings.

Flowers and texts, joys and stones. Parts of hair and nails. Blood tissues and healed patches, on particles of skin. Hopeful, little sacrifices of the past.

In hope.

That some day, she can find them, heal them, feel them and see things frozen in time yet changed to a blessing. 

The soil was carved with knifes and fingers. Fresh and warm, rich and fertile. Glass domes heal the heat. Preserved life.

|| Life forgiven. Yet. Forgotten ||

A part of life forgotten

With trees of ash and blue colour came the storm.

Forceful in its doing. It turned a part of her into a locked. It cracked walls and halls in the making of such an elaborate shell. As a result creating something stronger, yet a little foreign. Something empty eyed. With a strong grip. Something that managed to let other parts be dormant, hidden in many chambers. In many wall. In glitter and fire. In wind and water. In soil and dirt. 

With magic as such. Small peaces kept moving in the air. Forcefully and slowly. Sometimes gently. Sometimes they roared and howled. Painfully tearing peaces of domes , shattering particles of memories that hold the locked together. Markings of life

|| forgotten. yet. Forgiven ||

Good night and god Bless,

Yours,

Sonia Dietrich

< ./35_celsius_in_the_mist.sh >

they say paranoid. as to not willing to. compromise. accept.

they say paranoid as to not giving consent. to the monstrous being the world. considering all options had given birth to. 

h u m a n

you see, neither perfect mostly flowed. i am that in many arguments and possible calculations. from 2D to 3D to 4D. I insert myself into you as you. penetrated my cels and ideas. in all hours. woken as to never sleep. they make it all funny and nice. you know the thing. the girl thing. the boy thing. the modern thing. the THING. 

but one is not. a thing. or a modern thing. just is. something. in-between. a non-thing. 

they presume it's about ego, which became overly popular word, when privilege took over ancient practices. could see the light bearings in the darkest woods. inside mind and chest you see. you. see.

i  k n o w 

within the opium of mind pathogens and slow breathing, obstructed by unknown illness. i am 35 degrees. with burning feet and face. body constantly ignited. this is not a sexual reference to a hotness of the body. the passion of the touch or the craving of a loved one. this is about sickness. that lives inside of me and i do not know how it's called. 

they gave diagnosis and waved hands. 

i died in my bed and on the floor barely awake and never asleep. seeing patterns in the ceiling, seeing your face. i whispered "I THINK I AM DYING". 

but what if i am? the cliche is to say we all are, just a matter of time. my friend, a good man. complex man was scared to tell me he is dying. he tried and i refused to listen. i was too scared to loose him. to acknowledge the fact. he would laugh and then, sometimes, suddenly go quite. he. would whisper "I am not well Sonia....", "i don’t think i can make it.", "i don’t think i can do this anymore".... 

and i, refused to listen. just listen. Just hold his hand in our virtual world of trust and love. friendship beyond words and fear. fear of each-other as to, he will die. And he did. 

he died slowly in-front off me, a few times. then the died silently, one time. kinda fast but, still, yet. Fast. but. Slow. 

i have to remind myself to keep breathing. you see, i forget lately. i wake up sometimes choking and gasping for air. i fear breathing and falling asleep not sure if i can make it out of it. the feeling. they say it's depression. i say "i think i am dying".... or i say nothing at all. 

in stiff body surrounded by clean and purely fucking zen i am slowly dying. 

i am scared to talk to doctors. not willing to see if they will trust, understand, or.... stop this med or take that med. i cannot feel anything. as in, feeling are non existent. the spectrum of feelings was erased by barely breathing and looking at your face in the ceiling and being afraid to even think. how much... i miss you. you where there when i lost my friend, you gave me a chance to grief and yell and not move for days in bed and ... you waited. for me. for when i am ready. my love.

h o w  i  m i s s  y o u 

you see, if i have to grieve again... i am not sure i can make it. too close. too much. too pure. too real. and there is no one to tell. no one to listen. as no one really understands.... dot. stop. listen. personally lacking that skill myself perhaps i am not the one to talk. and i enjoy the silence. i do. honestly. deeply. but still, when i wish to share. no one understands. it is the saddest thing. 

anxiety strikes chest like rod of fiery ice. i am yours. forever my love. 

i  t h i n k ,  i  a m  d y i n g .

Good night and god Bless,

Queen Of Disorder,

Sonia Dietrich

~ < < < t i m e s w a p s > > > ~

^ ^ ^

game of repetition known as _A Loop_ or _Digitalised Delay_

Room with in a room, looking through lenses of time spent between staircases glaring into buildings that do not belong to me. Nor you. Beds in which one seeks the like|ness of self. Creative. Non linear yet questionably relevant. Reality. Somewhat tangled non identifiable section of innards where buzz of friction lives. Have wished for time to be gentle. When one sinks in brightly lit room with echo of voices. Pushing keys covered in blood sacrifice of self. sTill. Too present. You. By accident. Or chance. Somehow. In yet another bed. This time with mattress too hard. Reminds me of gaps filled and those that failed to do so. All that this body has occupied by accident.

< Moments Before > 

Washing feet levitating on the balance point in an oddly stretched position. Catch glimpse of self in the mirror. Body twisted. Fingers trapped. Blood and charcoal in swirls like jam dripping on concrete floor. Hugging porcelain. Heavy. Ruining towels as a feedback loop that my voice projected just 15min ago.

She. Stood in the middle of that room, not realising / recording / registering / the cold. Temperature changes coinciding with frame ration. It. Felt. Nothing.

< while. thinking of <...> / nothing >

Grinding teeth. Clenching jaw. Evaluating gag reflexes and propositions. Paradigm. Parallel version of Id. Perhaps somewhere between anima and animus. Lost pendulum swing. Between time-zones, time switches, time saving in unholy collision. We are infected with time. Injected into shift of noise that word projections transformed into voices. Proposed. In backrooms reaching goal. Through shallow concrete corridors with wristbands and Id / Iq / Queue / checkins and lineup sheets printed in "Times New Roman” 16. Barefoot over broken glass. Flower rot. Bottles and corkscrews. Migraine cured with light opioids and forceful handshakes. Itineraries, taxi coupons and sound-check callouts. Bread-rolls in tinted vision of AM hours. Press repeat. Backing self into walls and crawling behind coatracks. GPS trackers with pins dropped where cotton fabric left body parts. Rooms scattered between locations mapped out by store fronts. Thought flashbacks. Doses of integrity merging from one platform to another. They pay - you obey. Baby!

Men in suits. Man in a suit. Man. Suit. Wearables. Whereabouts.

< imagine >
> > > And now, we watch < < <
One another. From distance in images and words. Non expecting to see what time will become. While passing, old factory staircases trying to see life in windows of others. Catching smell of food cooked in walls that been alive longer then us. Stepping onto tiles that supported feet of many as they crawled out of baths clumsily fighting with gravity. In colour swatches of ceramic tile cracks one occupant to another. Cold weather in heated moments of passion, kneeling on same floor in pain. Ending life or waiting for new life to be born. Breaking away. Corners that chip away while preyers where given and expectations not met.

 

Corridors where lightbulbs and fuses blew failing to support our need for constant gratification. Through illuminated concrete blocks. Wooden handrails that where later replaced with metal versions softened by rubber and plastic covers. Replicating one another we became rooms injected into each-others faith. As birth and existence that twists into joy, possession, happening, loss, and eventually last breath. In a heartbeat. Exasperation. It is all in a heartbeat my love. Just one step away. From a blowout. Fire, ultimate ignition of sound and speed. From a window to a door. From a spoon hitting the table and a blanket that covers our cold feet that where washed in a sink, somewhere, middle of Hamburg. In cold water where pipes are tilted to coincide with planetary levitation battling betrayal of gravity.

 

Collecting leftover lilies and burned wood. Covered in warm red liquid, half naked, balancing on one foot while I think of <…>.

My misanthropic agile trophy of sorrows trapped between 17 postcodes and 47 connection attempts. Burning rubber of the handrails swiping cards between 3 lands. 3 time-zones. 8 towards 9 identities. Dreaming of concrete playgrounds and tasting forest smoke. Simmering in shifts.

Good Night and god Bless,

Queen of Disorder,

Sonia Dietrich