Midnight

Bound in human chains

I have long known, in some form or other, that I was
not as the other human children. I would watch them play..
I would see them compete in their idiotic sports
activities - I never had the stomach for such things
myself. I, eternally the watcher... ::shakes her head:: I
felt separtated from them, and I was. They, too, knew it,
and parents as well, though revelations such as these would
come many years later. Through the years I seemed to fight
this quiet nature, being forever locked out of the circle
of human warmth, human belonging... human unity. Always
alone... I saw through this very detachment how pathetic it
truly was, this act of being and seeing and believing as
all the others are. I began to fight my way from the
shadows. I desired to be known, to be seen, to be desired,
loved... to be beautiful. I made the other children
uncomfortable, even before that moment I realized that I
could no longer remain the haunted waif, the faded rag I
was to be. I was at war with myself. I had tried so hard
to paint myself as they did, though I was too young to use
actual paint, naturally. As the forces of what I desired
and what I was raged within me, I alchemized into this
being you see before you. I know that my words seem to
hold immense clarity for the time period of which I speak,
and the age of the memories, but I assure you, the earliest
are but echos, feelings I've had for as long as I can
recall living in this body.
Truly, though... such a past as mine really has little
to do with the point I wish to make. It may help your
understanding, and it may not. I find that, for the
moment, a curious detachment toward my current life forbids
me from caring either way. The point that I am attempting
to bring across is that my soul is weary. It is brusied.
For years, I have felt a faint contempt and distaste for
all things involving the body's care. I am a sensual
fiend... (such a beautiful expression.. Anne Rice is
certainly talented). I am sensual, but could anyone
explain why I dislike food and all things involving it's
use? Such disdain did not touch me in the earlier years.
These days, the texture, the feel of having such things in
my mouth is loathesome. Everything tastes to salty or too
sweet, or is too heavy, thick and hot, and sits in my
stomach and mouth like a steaming pile of dog excrement.
It's disgusting. If it is none of these, then it is either
sharp, painfully crunchy, too cold, or cannot satisfy the
flames in my midsection. This is only when I find hunger
as a companion, and this becomes increasingly rare. I love
the fragrance of fire, of candles, of florals and fruits
and spices... but the scent of food nausiates me, or else
becomes annoying and foul. I love the feel of satin and
velvet, cotton too.. I love to feel it slide on, or cleave
to my skin. I love the feel of heat, and the purely
electrical feeling of moving one's hand through a living
flame. I could lie for hours in the swing on the deck,
feeling the gentlest breeze toy with my blonde waves,
feeling the subtle yet delicious shift of gravity as the
motion continues. The bath, too, is a great pleasure. The
hot water caresses my skin as if it were a lover who has
missed me for so very long. The steam's soft kiss is so
very soothing. Breathing, however... it is barbaric and
noisy. It spreads disease, it's often foul, uncomfortably
hot and heavy with saliva. It is a confining burden. If
we had not need to breathe... Then there is the matter of
the damn body constantly in some sort of pain. I can't
even sleep without pain. I lie down, and if the bed is not
soft enough (which rarely it is anymore), pain finds its
way along my spine and into my head. Flesh is sluggish and
clumsy, and needs constant attention. It's always
something... take in, let out, hurt. Of pleasure there is
little time to taste. I find it wherever, but I was not
created for a diurnal existance, therefore, when I have
school, I wake in pain and rest again in pain, and it does
not end. Sometimes my mind slips off into another state
entirely and I cannot rouse myself. This brings only
trouble and further pain. The only sucrease for such
routine discomfort is the arms of a lover. ::sighs::
Sleep is a waste... one should enjoy the night for her
beauty, not turn a blind eye to her as if she were an
unwelcome stranger, and the same for the day, though the
lights hurt my eyes so very badly... My spirit is weary.
It does not like being trapped in this cage of flesh and
blood and bone. I told father that I despise my hair. (We
all know this is entirely his fault in many ways), and he
told me I had 80 or so more years to despise it. Old age
is more disgusting and distasteful than youth in flesh.
The sagging, rotting, failing body still clinging to the
fresh and eternal spirit! I will kill myself before I get
that old. I could not endure it. This body in youth is
ugly and artless.. the hair has been ravaged because my
father is heartless and cares little for me in the larger
run.. I am a pawn for his plans - whatever they be. I
despise this flesh! This body disgusts and angers me...
what I am I to do in order to live with myself?