So close to me that you're nearly dead.

I'll cut you out just to hear you beg.
I love you crying and screaming my name.
The rebel angels fell, garlanded with fire. And as they descended, tumbling through the void, they were cursed as the newly blind are cursed, for just as the darkness is more terrible for those who have known the light, so the absence of grace is felt more acutely by those who once dwelt in its warmth. They screamed in their torment, and their burning brought brightness to the shadows for the first time. The lowest of them cowered in the depths, and there they created their own world in which to dwell. As the last angel fell, he looked to heaven and saw all that was to be denied him for eternity, and the vision was so terrible to him that it burned itself upon his eyes; and so, as the heavens closed above him, it was given to him to witness the face of God disappear among dark clouds, and the beauty and sorrow of the image was imprinted forever in his memory, and upon his sight. He was cursed to walk forever as an outcast, shunned even by his own kind, for what could be more agonizing for them than to see, each time they looked in his eyes, the ghost of God flickering in the blackness of his pupils? 
And so alone was he that he tore himself in two, that he might have company in his desolation, and together these twin parts of the same being wandered the still-forming earth. In time, they were joined by a handful of others who were weary of cowering in that bleak kingdom of their own creation. After all, what is hell but the eternal absence of God? To exist in a hellish state is to be denied forever the promise of hope, of redemption, of love. To those who have been forsaken, hell has no geography. But these angels at last grew weary of roaming throughout the desolate world without an outlet for their rage and their despair. They found a deep, dark place in which to sleep, and there they secreted themselves away and waited. And after many years, mines were dug, and tunnels lit, and the deepest and greatest of these mines was among the Bohemian silver mines at Kutna Hora, and it was called Kank. And it was said that when the mine reached its final depth, the lights of the miners flickered as though troubled by a breeze where no breeze could exist, and a great sighing was heard, as of souls released from their bondage. A stench of burning arose, and tunnels collapsed. A storm of filth and dust was born, sweeping through the mine, choking and blinding all in its path. Those who survived spoke of voices in the abyss, and the beating of wings in the midst of the clouds. The storm ascended toward the main shaft, bursting forth into the night sky, and all who saw it glimpsed a redness at its heart, as though it were all aflame. And the rebel angels took upon themselves the appearance of men, and set about creating an invisible kingdom which they might rule through stealth and the corrupted will of others. They were led by the twin demons, the greatest of their number, the Black Angels. The first, called Ashmael, immersed himself in the fires of battle, and whispered empty promises of glory into the ears of ambitious rulers. The other, called Immael, waged his own war upon the Church, the representatives upon the earth of the One who had banished his brother. He gloried in fire and rape, and his shadow fell upon the sacking of monasteries and the burning of chapels. 

The rebel angels fell, garlanded with fire. 

And as they descended, tumbling through the void, they were cursed as the newly blind are cursed, for just as the darkness is more terrible for those who have known the light, so the absence of grace is felt more acutely by those who once dwelt in its warmth. They screamed in their torment, and their burning brought brightness to the shadows for the first time. The lowest of them cowered in the depths, and there they created their own world in which to dwell. 

As the last angel fell, he looked to heaven and saw all that was to be denied him for eternity, and the vision was so terrible to him that it burned itself upon his eyes; and so, as the heavens closed above him, it was given to him to witness the face of God disappear among dark clouds, and the beauty and sorrow of the image was imprinted forever in his memory, and upon his sight. He was cursed to walk forever as an outcast, shunned even by his own kind, for what could be more agonizing for them than to see, each time they looked in his eyes, the ghost of God flickering in the blackness of his pupils? 

And so alone was he that he tore himself in two, that he might have company in his desolation, and together these twin parts of the same being wandered the still-forming earth. In time, they were joined by a handful of others who were weary of cowering in that bleak kingdom of their own creation. After all, what is hell but the eternal absence of God? To exist in a hellish state is to be denied forever the promise of hope, of redemption, of love. To those who have been forsaken, hell has no geography. 

But these angels at last grew weary of roaming throughout the desolate world without an outlet for their rage and their despair. They found a deep, dark place in which to sleep, and there they secreted themselves away and waited. And after many years, mines were dug, and tunnels lit, and the deepest and greatest of these mines was among the Bohemian silver mines at Kutna Hora, and it was called Kank. 

And it was said that when the mine reached its final depth, the lights of the miners flickered as though troubled by a breeze where no breeze could exist, and a great sighing was heard, as of souls released from their bondage. A stench of burning arose, and tunnels collapsed. A storm of filth and dust was born, sweeping through the mine, choking and blinding all in its path. Those who survived spoke of voices in the abyss, and the beating of wings in the midst of the clouds. The storm ascended toward the main shaft, bursting forth into the night sky, and all who saw it glimpsed a redness at its heart, as though it were all aflame. 

And the rebel angels took upon themselves the appearance of men, and set about creating an invisible kingdom which they might rule through stealth and the corrupted will of others. They were led by the twin demons, the greatest of their number, the Black Angels. The first, called Ashmael, immersed himself in the fires of battle, and whispered empty promises of glory into the ears of ambitious rulers. The other, called Immael, waged his own war upon the Church, the representatives upon the earth of the One who had banished his brother. He gloried in fire and rape, and his shadow fell upon the sacking of monasteries and the burning of chapels. 

(Source: xmylifexmyworldx)

Suicide Silence

I’ve always had this thought at the back of my mind about those who commit suicide.

Those people are not weak.

Maybe those people are angels, angels who have fallen and have no idea how to handle life on earth.

They let the world get to them and take control. They’re overwhelmed by these horrible human emotions because they get all the bad and none of the good.

And the only escape they can find is death. They take their own lives in order to get home again.

Because those people are just angels. Sweet, caring beings who only wish to find their way back where they belong.

In the valley of the dolls she sleeps
Tamed under the opinions of sheep
Feeding a hole inside of her
By living with personnalities
That never belonged to her
And tonight as she closed her eyes
Dreaming of a dark paradise
Lost into her deepest fantasies
She built up a world of magic
Because her real life was tragic

She once was an innocent little girl
Precious as the purest pearl
Turned into a monster in a swirl
As her mind had gone out for a stroll
And fallen down the rabbit hole
Her dirty paws and furry coat
Now running down the forest slope
The forest of talking trees
They used to sing about the birds and the bees
Now running out of remaining hope
They’re dying under her reign of fears
Drowning in the flood of her tears
But don’t listen to a word they say
Their screams all sound the same
Though the truth may vary
This ship will carry
Her body safe to the shore
Leaving her cold on the bedroom floor

Life. What’s the matter anyway ?! Waking up every morning, with the same sour steel taste in my mouth, in a pIace I can barely understand and totally can’t stand. They say we live in a free world where everything’s possible, but I can’t help myself from laughing out loud at such bullshit and manipulated verity. Of course, we have the liberty to do mostly whatever we want out of our lives. But this only goes if we accept to face the judgements of our dear fellow citizen, who almost all pee their pants in a sight of difference, and also basically accept to be marginalised from this so-called civilized society. The straight road allowed from our social norms is so narrow that it’s our personnalities, ideas, and pulsions we have to configurate to fit their endless requests, and most of us accept to lose our essence without even questioning it. Congratulations ! You’ve now been assimilated, reduced into the products of their hypocritical and fake moralistic dogma, brainwashed with superficial images and material thoughts. We all have the same close-minded concepts of normality, and we all pursue the same old fashioned goals.. Finish high school, go to college, find a job, make money, buy a house, and have babies. And if someone dares to step away from this conductive path, they will drag him down in humiliation. Society is going to kill the problem, and burry his dead body with all of his most cherished hopes. So, life. What’s the matter anyway ?! I’m already dead inside.

This is a little part of what makes me sick of existing. I’m somehow ashamed of being a part of this shit, but I never find a way I could get out of it. I’m not even sure I’d really want to get out, actually. They locked us down in a beautiful prison of comfort and vanity, and I’m hypocrite enough to stay in my cage, still pretending to myself that I’m free.

The ultimate trash and wasted youth decade.

It used to be that.

I was a little girl who never could sleep because my thoughts were way too deep. My mind had gone out for a stroll, and fallen down the rabbit hole.

As soon as the night came around, all my closet doors were shut. I was afraid of the monsters who lived in my room. But as I grew up, I stopped shutting my doors, and if they were to come, I would gladly let them consume me. I wouldn’t mind at all. And there is one of them, he was the best friend I ever had.

Now he’s back, the monster. I feel him. Under my skin, in my head. He’s everywhere. The urge, I can’t stop it. I will be alright, but just not tonight.

And if I cannot move heaven, I swear I will raise hell.

So what I tell myself right now is that the gush of red pumping out of Matthieu’s bullet hole is less like blood than it’s some sociopolitical tool. The thing about being cloned from all those shampoo commercials is shotgunning anybody I know would be the moral equivalent of killing a car, a vacuum cleaner, a barbie doll. Erasing a computer disk. Burning a book. Probably that goes for anybody in the world. We’re all such products.

And no matter how much you think you love somebody, you will step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close.

Hello, my Montreal. ♡

Portraits of an insight of my mind. A definite conception where cities are murky places, some hatching grounds for monsters, and feeding darkness with their every alleys.

But for those who are lost, there will always be cities that feel like home.

Heroin chic.
Pale pasty skin.
Dark circles.
Scraggy hair.
Emeciated figure.

When looking bad looks so good.

Best movies of 2012.