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

± The Journey ||| Towards ||| Creative ||| Export ±

Movement is a trajectory calculating possible time allowance to be late. As no one really wishes to leave the premises of blissful comfort of home. Home is something that has been deliberately debated in "Tetris" themes. The notion of attachment is more of a transference forwarded to clippings of grass patches and trees growing in the distance covered in snow. Where from an old bedroom window one could see somewhat distant idea of freedom. We do not change. Not really. We accumulate pain and experience mixed with rare but memorable glitches of joy. That then, with brave faces and determined wrist action we transform into shape and sound, hoping to detach shame of the passing hours. Years. Clothing scattered from one postcode to another. Paintings and framed lovers with leftovers they conjured inside my veins. Their encoded messages became graveyards filled with flyers, tour dates, shared sheets and bleeding texts. In those moments of change that we imagine will transcend us. We meet the side of self we all are running from. We had it all. We have it all. We know how it’s done. We salute face that meets us in the mirror. One more day. One more step. One more pay check. It will all be worth it.

In passing. Always in passing. In distance where the haunting decay of buildings and memories lay. In the texts never send and pages never printed. Finding similarities with 10 years ago. How can one string of faith carry so many coincidences. Should have. Could have.

From afar. But had too. Chose to. Come closer. Loosing those dear to me. Memories shared. Easier to bury love not granted. This is not sadness that touches pages but glory of silver and coral ashes. Twined together crow feathers and rough, manila rope. Cruel reminder of times given. Making mistakes is easy, observing consequences is not that hard to. They flash before you within seconds while you update your system. Shivers down the spine. Face. Nothing is forgotten. With each key strike the line of metal string tightens. Feel parts of me detach. In variables. Have been more. In words of 'Daughter' she is a suffocate|or. How interesting the paradigm of shifting air.

Watching grammar as a collection of words inside the passages of imagined sensations and languages. All that needs to be said is somehow attached to empty white spaced windows and multitude of tab options. Looking at the text in few different angles makes all very clear.

//Authors note: The story of creative process is commonly the same. All great work we enjoy comes from immense suffering, loneliness, dread and addiction. And we relate to it because on different levels we all suffer. We combine our experience of levitating fear and panic, that then gets hidden under projected expression of calmness. And while we all must exude a calm interface, it gets torn and shredded in the oblivion of creative circles that move towards hell of self. 

Worlds colliding. It is a privilege to see a warrior without their armor gifted rarely to chosen few. You are perfect. Inside my mind. Where within passage of your own, you keep shifting. Rewriting pages. Somewhat violently. Fountain pens tears through. Pressure. You start over, and over and over again. Notebook after notebook. Softcore to hardcore. Destroying 4 pages at a time. Blessed in loops. Books keep the covers hard and words painted, time runs out in sand and glass. I shall return to this. Somehow. One day. It will all make perfect sense in reverse.

Banshees and digitized serpents. Melt the sward. Quantum. Lighter. Spin self in. Every pill has a number and a disgusting color match of pink to white. I encapsulate self in its divine vision. While wearing stripes that change to silk dresses for pay. We are all prostitutes spinning in our own virtual boxes assigned by day time | night time ratings. When hotel rooms and tech riders join the game of presentation. I delay email responses. No stage fright. Come across clean. Border patrol and itineraries. You should work on sound and video overlays. Penetrating voice of self doubt. Delay pedal is your best friend darling. Don't forget to press save. Rooted into main channels.

||| B R U T | U S |||
 

• byyruvribyhblqyhbjhblyyegrzebheezan •

Sometimes. It happens, on a molecular level. Loss. Or. Something in between. PAUSE. There is so much nicotine in me. Air between missing parts. Bit weird. Bit dull. Bit tempered. Too many needles pierced skin in past-thence ideology. I miss. Gaps. Chemicals provide sharpness and lightheaded flashbacks. Panic attacks. Letting go. Repetitive thoughts. This is just a road block. Would have taken it back. It vibrates in just the right frequency. Don’t go. When touching face lilies die from water shortage. Can do it again. Picking self up. Force-feeding flesh. All is going to be ok. Watching pitch shift from green to red.

Branches stood still, the air stooped. Hovering over the dead of the city. Sky was purple. Silence was penetrated by piano keys. Hunger grew in a distance. Body was exhausted. Mind keeps pushing pictures of faces unseen. Touching parable of self navigation. Reciting words. Staid and left behind. So many things are left in the ether. Wanderers inside boxes. One dim circular light switch. Nothing is lost. We are in this together. Hating today while rejecting tomorrow. Focusing on one day. Day is as exaggeration trapped into 86400 seconds. That in approximation of 10 gr of tobacco, 1500 ml of caffeine. In human form. While waiting to the last minute for frocks and stockings to be pulled up. This is why we do not participate in today between tomorrow bending on yesterday.

Warriors without skin. That is how I see us. Missing outer layers we mold our-self with source material made out of wax and concrete. Upgraded to a rubber version on which we wear latex for the chosen one. Medicate on command then lay in bed chain-smoking, wondering how the outer layers fits into the other to protect self. My arms stretch across the mattress grasping at smoke and burring face in pillows.

Be strong the outer layer voice projects in echos. We project reels of film through my eyes back unto walls and computer screens. Sound software and blank pages that get filled with paragraphs of someones care hidden under indifference.

It’s only at night and in moment of pure untouched digitalized vibrations of connectivity when the movie reels shine back inside. You inspire me. The reader. A common ground seeker in the realm of wax structure. My outer shell keeps loosing its shape. I grab onto ribs and sunken-in flesh. The way of the artist. The fight of the decade inside the realm of head-space that understands no time. No physical or mathematical expression of existing. If there would be an advice, it would be not to loose one another. It will not repeat itself. The accident of non accidental exhilaration towards body and text.

//Authors note: When curtain falls and viewer stops to greet the reader, I begin to breathe again. Suddenly. Suspended inside a box where I knew. We shall meet again.

//Your note: • | • 

Good Night and god Bless,
Queen of Disorder,
Sonia Dietrich