Ich bin Ophelia.

The one the river didn't take. The woman dangling from the rope. The woman with slit arteries. The woman with the overdose SNOW ON HER LIPS. The woman with the head in the gas oven. Yesterday I stopped killing myself. I am alone with my breast my thighs my womb. I crush the instruments of my captivity the chair the table the bed. I demolish the battlefield that was my home. I tear the doors open to le tin the wind and the scream of the world. I smash the window. With my bleeding hands I rip up the photographs of the men whom I loved whom I was used by on the bed on the table on the chair on the floor. I set fire to my prison. I throw my clothes into the fire. I dig the clock that was my heard frmo out of my breast. I go out onto the streetes, dressed in blood.
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Funny that I started with a monologue that I am working on in my acting class. It's from 'Die Hamletmaschine' von Heiner Müller, if anyone is interested. Read Ol'Will's Hamlet and then read Müller's. Anyway. All I have in my mind these days are just simply bagpipes and to be Ophelia. My acting teacher said I have grasped the humiliation Ophelia has gone through. I mean, honey, of-fucking-course. But he said what I need is the feeling of successfully trying to kill myself, for more than once, and the feeling of deciding to stop killing myself. Anyone who can give me ideas about how I can get the feeling of killing myself, feel free to do so. I have thought about it for numerous of times but I never actually had the guts to do it. I admit I am a pussy. I have NOT seen it all, to that whoever wrote on my blog. Except that s/he is pretty accurate honestly. I will figure out who you are in the end. Creepy but scarily accurate. Mom if it's you... eh, phone me. If not- I don't know.

Talking about not seeing all, I guess I am still waiting for the day that I will be doing well in theatre. That is I guess. Maybe kids. Maybe not. I sort of lost faith in it (although it is very, very highly possibly likely that I'll immediately fall as deep as Lucifer (for the six hundred and something'th time) if one of my ex-gfs, ex-secret lovers, or even close friends come up to me and tell me that s/he has been loving me for long). I don't know.

About the thing that someone has been written in my blog. As N. told me when I was less than 50% sober, I checked some kinda stat. tracker. Result possible= Hong Kong or North America. Anyways. No, I don't know who you are. I know it is not vittu as she would just tell me either on phone or face-to-face. And I don't know anyone else except the two who has been raising the monkey that would know me so well. Or well, maybe I should look at it in a funnier way. It is sort of spicing up my life anyway. Maybe keeping it like a duet would be fun, until the day I am sure of the identity of s/he who is 'intruding' my blog and be so familiar with me. I don't even know if 'you' will come back to me and go on telling me about myself. I guess I am just a lost little boy needing someone to grab my hand in the dark.

Went to see some kind of black box theatre show thing. It was funny and it triggered some thoughts of mine. But it's just not my kind of thing. The creativity and the acting skill and the devoted minds turns me on. But the more I see, the sure-er('s that even a word?) I am about what I don't want to do. I am always happy to see funny shows- whether it be black-comedy or cheap comedy or simple funny stuff. I do truly value their values (fuck, wtf?), but I know I am not capable of making funny things, and inside the theatre or on the stage, I am not a hippy. Not at all. You might find me hugging trees or thinking about world peace and one love (despite my general dark and weird clothing, and my hatred towards happy music) in life, but you will never ever find me writing anything for the theatre which is not as traumatizing as seeing me masturbating to the photograph of flying crows which are being multilated by strange pink-feathered humans wiht wings.

Nah. Forget about what I said just now. I am bullshitting.

Whoever wrote the last post, eh... I'm in a way scared that you know me so well but I'm also kind of delighted that... say, there is someone so devoted to me. I do appreciate the monologue and yes, it does help. I just am not able to rememebr long speeches without metaphors or stuff like that- anyway. You shine on too. I better start thinking of the people I know since I was young. Then again... young.

Physically young or mentally young or...

You're right.

Guess we just have to fight harder and harder against the reality as we grow older and older. Let's play cowboys and Indians.