ferminadaz

[ferminadaz]

No one’s love might patch the abyss

I might never find a person to shelter me in their arms, not the way wet flowering field in a heatwave would. No one to dry my tears but the crisp breeze of blue spring morning. Not a soul to tell my secrets to but to the deep onyx night, not an eye to wink at me but the flickering Sirius of the winter sky. I will forever wait for Orion, right by the mailbox ad you will never write, but Orion will show up, time and time again.

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this fucker

ted danson as sam malone in season one of cheers

primetime emmy award nominee for outstanding lead actor in a comedy series

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This 'impossible' crane shot from Mikhail Kalatozov's SOY CUBA (1964) ...

IS the greatest and quite remarkable one shot scene of them all.

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To every fanfiction writer everywhere for all of time: what you’re doing is touching someone’s heart, somewhere, at some point. That’s the most important thing, even if you feel like you’re just whispering into void and your voice is just swallowed by nothingness, never reaching any destination. You’re not invisible, you’re only making invisible waves: they’re called sound and it will resonate with someone, somewhere, for sure.

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The Speed of Jazz

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Total Eclipse of The Sun (Wilhelm Kranz, 1897)

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Trevor Grimshaw Poles and Pools (1972)

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My little spider collection

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Sometimes I find myself floating in space. As if the area I occupy was a desolate bubble, the world outside is beyond the thinnest film I can’t seem to reach through. I need a needle but have a blunt axe instead. The film stretches and thins, but never bursts.

It’s weirdly comforting, this sense of feeling out of place, I’ve grown to know it well by now. And what happens sometimes is that the film shrinks, covers me like a body suit, hugging me gently and I manage to contact the outside. But damn is it hard, it’s like wearing eye-wear wihout prescription, you try your best to find the glasses that fit you best, but you’re always slightly off.

That’s the feeling I suppose. Feeling a bit off, always and every time. Milisecond ahead, the bell chimes a moment too early before the sun hits noon.

I feel unfit to enter society.

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It’s hard to find a connection. It happens so rarely I catch myself forgetting it’s even a possibility.

Connection is such a funny thing, isn’t it? It usually appears out of a sudden, like a rain at night. Quiet, still gives way to drizzle, and then it rains, pours.

I’ve been seeking connection since forever. Lots of errors, mistakes, on the other part, on mine, loads of bad timing, inability to express what remained veiled deep within. And afterall, after all rejections, fall outs, growing apart, heartbreaks and fuck-ups, afterall - it’s still what I want the most.

To be viewed, like an exponate at the museum. Studied, analyzed, observed under microscope, prodded and searched, listened to, heard, comprehended fully.

And goodness, have I been unlucky. I’m not exactly an optimist, world doesn’t seem inviting to me. It’s sheer, vast, unwelcoming, terrifying and haunting in it’s size, seemingly expanding with velocity equal to my learning. The more you know, the more magnificently scary things seem.

I believe I’m not suit for connection. Even if I’m dying without it. It’s as if there’s something deep inside I can’t seem to reach, unplug, take out and wine and dine.

I want to serve you myself like I’m the most luxurious meal your mouth has ever known. I want you to take your silveware and dissect me, take out the bones to enjoy the fragile white fish filet.

But I digress.

This meal is growing cold.

Why won’t I connect? Why do I always find you, you rare and exceptional one, why don’t you want this meal? How do I tempt you? The arrangement is imperfect at best, I know, but we’ve both eaten worse, haven’t we? There aren’t many spices you can add, this meal is perfected and done, cooked already. Why don’t you even want a taste? Or is it possible that the very sight is enough?

At least taste me. Let me surprise you. Have me packed for take out. Are you listening or are the small champaigne bubbles stealing your attention?

I wish I was in your stomach, digested by your inside, not rotting away in wilderness.

Cut me up, chew me, digest me, allow me to enter your bloodstream, travel to your heart, let me beat with you, see what you see, breathe your air, resonate in your ears, circulate around your brain.

Please.

[ferminadaz]

A Decent Life

I live a pretty decent life.

Roof over my head, parents that love me, food in my belly, warm bed to sleep in, some good friends and plenty of acquaintances. I’m doing well in school and I’m startig out as a freelance translator, a field that seems to be looking up for me. I write a lot and make art, stuff like oil painting or collages. I love to read and watch films. I regularly go to the cinema, exhibitions, fashion shows, performances, concerts, festivals, you name it. Socially, I’d say I’m quite apt: people usually like me, for reasons unknown to me, and gravitate towards me. There isn’t a place where I wouldn’t run into a familiar face.  My life is rich, full and fun. There are issues, like family issues and money issues, those are ongoing and evepresent, but no one can have it all. It doesn’t make me happy, but it also doesn’t make me desperate.  In spite of everything I listed above, I’ve been suicidal for years. Never told anyone.  Probably never will. At first, I didn’t even realize it. I thought I was being dramatic. But it kept coming back, again and again, for various reasons. Funnily enough, at the beginning it was nothing but a thought. A passing thought in a deadly silent night; the only time when I could really be alone. Or myself. But over the years, the idea of actually following through with it, of actually taking my life, has become clearer, more tangible. It ceased to be an abstract concept floating around my mind. It started to look like my future. It’s what I see when I imagine my future anyway.  I hate to be that one miserable fucker, i truly do, but this is how I honestly feel. Future is a cuss, it’s pejorative, it’s hopeless, it’s nothing. Ironically enough, it’s everything one has. What passed isn’t, what is isn’t either, it’s only what is going to be. It terrifies the fuck out of me. I don’t think I should’ve been born, I have this innate fear of the neverending variety of possibilities - I can appreciate the beauty. But prettiness and scariness aren’t mutually exclusive. I don’t think I’ll take my life anytime soon. I’m still waiting for something, God knows what for. I suppose I’m waiting for something to give me a good reason not to?  I’m scared I’ll wait for the rest of my life, however long is that going to be.

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Window ,  Nørre Søgade  - Morten Schelde , 2015.

Danish , b. 1972 -

Coloured pencil on paper, 29.7 x 21 cm.

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Blurry Autoportraits

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me holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit

mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters

me cocking the gun, tears streaming down my face: I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU

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A spider's web delicately entwined around an impala's horns and face, resembling a dream catcher.

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The Company of Wolves 1984 | dir. Neil Jordan