irrationalitism

[irrationalitism]

two of them strolled before me, holding hands and speaking softly. he walked on the left side, closer to me. probably in his twenties, tall and lean, with bare shoulders exposed under his black tank top. my gaze drifted over his left arm, taking in the striking contrast of pale scars scattered across smooth, tanned skin. dozens of identical lines stretched from his flawlessly shaped biceps down to his wrist. neat and straight, spaced evenly apart, creating a mesmerizing symmetry on the damaged skin of a beautifully flawed human being

[irrationalitism]

it all felt like experiencing a raw form of emotional voyeurism

I was startled by how he suddenly caught my gaze; I wasn’t used to being looked at with such intensity, feeling so exposed.

the room was small, occupying the top floor just beneath the roof of the old arthouse theatre. it had pale blue walls, an arched ivory ceiling, and a shabby rug on the stage just an arm’s length away from where I sat. his eyes were also blue. they locked with mine for a moment, then another. even in the dim light, I caught the exact shade—cloudy blue, almost grey.

as he moved, talked, screamed, and laughed while playing his role, I sat mesmerized by the spontaneous intimacy of the moment we shared in that crowded space. I also recognized that he was exceptional at capturing attention, and he was well aware of it.

It worked for him every single time. no matter what happened on that small stage, you couldn't help but keep your gaze fixed on his lean form, wrapped in a grey suit. you caught yourself searching for his eyes again and again until the final bow

and beyond

[irrationalitism]

I dreamed of a war-torn world again.

as vivid and chaotic as my dreams can be, this one was almost impossible to comprehend. still, I felt no fear or even the slightest surprise as I watched drones silently flying overhead in the murky grey skies—dozens of them, discreet and soundless.

monstrous black vehicles moved down the road, passing the carcasses of buildings. one of them had once been a large shopping centre across the street from the house where I lived with my parents. now, it resembled a gigantic skeleton, bare iron and concrete—ripped and lifeless. the house was also different from what it used to be in my childhood memories, though it stood untouched by the war.

I saw people playing with children on the street as if this surreal landscape was neither new nor surprising to them. It was as if this had become the new normal.

suddenly, the skies turned black, and it started to pour. as the warm summer rain covered the half-destroyed city, I woke up.

[irrationalitism]

I recall the first time you mentally undressed for me: one sentence, seven words, carrying more weight than a lifetime of casual conversations could convey.

I stood still at arm's length, trying to take control of my racing heartbeat as if I hadn't just got up from your sofa but had sprinted into this room. I couldn't feel my own breath—only the frantic beating in my chest resonating into my throat.

as I watched your emotional defences fade away, I stepped closer. now, just inches away from you, I marvelled at how perfectly imbalanced you were—shards and splinters, sharp edges wrapped in smooth human skin—so raw and real.

if I closed my eyes now, I could recreate your face in the tiniest detail in my mind—from the arched shadow cast by your lashes onto your cheekbones to the fine scar trailing along your jawline. I did this before I fell asleep last night, and I could do it every time I woke up in the morning.

my fingers twitched, yearning to stroke the bare skin above your collarbone. I grasped the hem of my shirt to stop myself from reaching out.

you were the first to break the silence, exhaling softly, “aren't you going to say something?”

I smiled at you, “I wish I were better with words.”

[irrationalitism]

to be frank, I’m not particularly interested in the audience. I understand that very few people can relate to what I write about, and I appreciate those who do

as for everyone else, you may have noticed that one of my many vices is romanticising self-destructive behaviours and drawing heavily on emotionally charged experiences to inspire my writing

I don't endorse “trauma tourism”

so feel free to pass by, and please respect my space by staying out of my DMs

[irrationalitism]

the fleeting intimacy of locking eyes with a stranger and holding their gaze

[irrationalitism]

remember how we first met?

I recall that feeling of calm before an inevitable hurricane, as if dark clouds were looming on the horizon, promising to drench you to the bone, yet you made no attempt to avoid it.

this is how it felt before you came crashing down on me like a sweeping wave—the thunderstorm with grey eyes, reminding me of the cloudy spring skies, seconds before a downpour

this frantic habit of yours: leaving bite marks on my hip bones and smudges of lipstick on my clothes—those would never fully wash away

the last year felt like I've been stuck in the same cycle:

still smoking what might be considered too much and getting too little sleep

still paying my bills with my author fees. I never thought I would last so long writing for people I literally don't give a shit about.

but what truly surprises me is that I am still struggling to fill that void

since it was me who fucked it all up

anyway

how are you doing?

[irrationalitism]

self-destructive tendencies cannot be entirely suppressed; I came to terms with this trait of mine long ago. I learned to take it slow, as if speaking of a substance that can be carefully dosed and even savoured.

I allowed it to gradually take over, and I have learned to appreciate how it manifests in everything I do

how I walk

breathe

fuck

how I create

[irrationalitism]

blue rivers flow under my skin, visible through a paper-thin surface, almost transparent. it's a map to trace with the tip of your tongue, to explore lazily until a slow burn starts rising from the bottom up

a tactile frenzy

perhaps nothing truly exists outside this room, beyond the two of us—my face under yours

where do we even go from here? what time of day is it now? what season would reveal itself if I pulled the curtains open?

does the world still spin on the other side of these walls?

a world, where the pupils of my eyes would never again shrink to the dimensions of the entire fucking universe

where I can put more distance between us than what an outstretched hand can bridge

where I can eat and sleep again

and live

like a normal someone

[irrationalitism]

death lurks around the corner, wearing the face of someone who was once called “human”

now, nothing human is left

so death is waiting

waiting for the right moment

whether the streets are bustling during the frenzy of rush hour or eerily quiet with children sleeping in their beds, it makes no difference

death counts to 10, and then it strikes

a shattering sound pierces the air, and then stillness falls once again

but it only takes a moment before a terrified voice cuts through the silence, calling for their dearest ones, only to never hear them answer from under the rubble

[irrationalitism]

pick your poison

you may not even recall when it all began, but gradually, you started embodying the qualities you always found captivating and intimidating in others.

at some point, you become acutely aware that everything has changed about you: your body, your mindset, your perspective. you realised that you had morphed into the person you have always wanted to attract, yet also into the one you knew would demolish you.

you’ve never been the sensible one, always hated the safe middle ground.

you never understood the slow-burning feelings that others experienced. you would wake up one morning, suddenly enamored with someone—someone you barely let yourself think about the day before. yet, this was also someone you could easily spoil, ruin for giving you even a single reason. and in doing so, this is how you would ultimately destroy yourself too.

[irrationalitism]

the worse I feel, the better I need to look; it’s my personal rule of balance, and I adhere to it religiously.

[irrationalitism]

around 9 a.m., I was heading to work, passing through one of my favorite areas downtown. Despite the murky morning, I enjoyed the stroll.

I never grow tired of observing the shabby baroque villas, which stand in striking contrast to the red brick buildings of the old city. I admire how they age gracefully, with fine lines crossing their pale greenish walls, always visible in the early morning sunlight.

As I walked past a beautiful Secessionist building, now a medical center, I noticed a young man approaching the heavy wooden doors at the entrance.

He appeared to be in his early twenties, wearing a recognizable khaki fleece jacket and plain black sweatpants. Next to him was an older man, whom I assumed was his father, holding the boy's right elbow firmly to provide some support as they walked together.

However, "walking" might not accurately describe the young man's movement. He advanced slowly, inch by inch, leaning heavily on his father's hand. It seemed as if his own feet were no longer conforming to him, and he was trying to teach them to obey again. Step by step, he moved forward, resembling a slow-motion scene against the background of people caught up in the frenzy of rush hour.

As I slowed down while passing them, I overheard an older man say something I couldn’t quite catch, but both of them laughed softly. I loved how the smile brightened the boy's face, reaching his eyes. He looked like a carefree twenty-year-old man, rather than a recovering war veteran.

They took a few more slow steps and disappeared behind the clinic's doors. A drizzle began to fall. I tucked my face under my jacket's hood and blended with the rushing crowd.

[irrationalitism]

an overwhelming longing

this is what stirs within me at the sight of his tattooed ribs—sharp and sleek, resembling ripples on the water

I'm addicted to his scent: a burning match, the warmth of city pavements on a summer night, the air before a thunderstorm, ozone and sea salt. It lingers and clings to me as if my skin has been stained by it

my life now consists of delusional memories of his hand grazing my shoulder blades

of purple and bluish marks left by his impatience wherever his mouth found a place to reach

and of profound awareness that he is the end of everything I once thought I was

[irrationalitism]

If I could give you just one gift

it would be the opportunity to see yourself through my eyes

how I perceive you

incredibly talented

raw

authentic

[irrationalitism]

what if we could engage in a deep and slow conversation, just two of us?

what would it feel like to be brutally honest and raw with you?

I assume that, for me, it would be an instant trap

[irrationalitism]

whether you imagined something or actually did it, your brain perceives both situations as if they were real actions