Adrenalin at the Pulpit

Indecisiveness as a derogative 

Flown with the flag of a coup,

Like a childish game of pole taking and capture the flag economics, calculate on time, space and effort spent. Excel spreadsheet.

I am quantifiable.

Sharp edges and soft speech, malignantly adorable calculations,

“You have a way with words” one said. So elating.

As a mist or a fogger

Covering spaces and gaps, cracks that appear while peering through the analysis,

I unnecessarily roll into brackets.

How generous the storm of not happening,

Protecting from equivalent of thought.

Where nothing is omnipresent, but the curtain keeps moving and all the magicians are lined up.

I love the animosity of friendliness, the silent touch. Of unexplained reminiscence into unattainable wants. At a pulpit. In sharp focus.

Admiring the tapestry.

One glides between adrenal functions. Fighting with a poisonous salute. So hopeful in the mournful mist. The fogger brings protection, joy and guilt.

The reader, the observer and main character,

All lined up for the feast.

There are emotions. Needs and wants. Triangulating. Vastly playing with the landscape.

As one desired to play, approach, appeal, with godly tendencies. As to persist in demand and omission, “no follow-ups”. Yet to observe, obtain, abolish?

A teaching in the childish ways, corrupting hardware. Elasticity of modern myths.

A prayer as a silent siege. With adrenaline at the pulpit. With wants and needs and. Guilt.

Adrenalin at the Pulpit performed by the Author

Sonia Dietrich

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