Wednesday, 31 August 2011

Will and Testament

Last day of freedom. But why just now.

The more I say, the less I do. When the clock begins ticking, it's me that does the reverse. Does that make me the anti-clock? Probably.

Eleven months later the plan goes into full motion. Hopefully this time it leads to fruitful results. A little bit unprepared really but the plan is already set in motion. Honestly, I just remembered it five minutes ago. Fuck.

So they say I should honour my own principles lest I be buried within the shadows of my doubts. I always have doubts, everyone has their own doubts. No matter the issue, there will always be doubts, and doubts give me reassurances. Reassurances that I need to overcome obstacles. Obstacles I need to overcome to gain maturity. Maturity that I never had, ever so evasive, ever the trickster, ever the pain in the fucking ass.

We swallow the pride. Our pride. Yes, I am poor. We are poor. Poor in spirits, poor in wealth, poor even in hardships. Yet I stand here bearing the potential that I can never see or touch or smell. Except the lingering scent of shit in this room, from last night's poo party, I reckon.

The end of vices, whichever ones, begins today and ends tonight and goes on mirroring the next day and the next day after the next day and the next day after that day and so on.

Put my pen to paper. Finally that audacity, that well-needed urge. I should have done this a long time ago.

Speaking of scents, worry about hygiene constantly. Why constantly? Just because. Tidiness should be a priority. A changed man's itinerary almost always begins there.

Talk about fucking moving one's ass. Find a job and stop fapping. It's not good for the blue balls.

It's time to eat the fucking world. Shout, don't whisper. Run, don't walk. Punch, don't slap.

The real man, the one true man, it growls when its internal organs harden. It hardens when it's threatened. It's threatened to remain tame. The one true man controls both.

Getting laid, of course, is a given. Not the hardest adversary really but potentially the trickiest. There are many a factor involved, most of which are known to even the imbecile.

Fix the fucking sleep. Not just sleep there, sleep then. Find a motion, if you will. Take advantage of the fact that the sun disappears and reappears over and over even when you're non-existent.

Go outside. Smell the fresh scent of others' faecal breaths. Get run over in the streets while on a bike. Pick a fight with a chav, act a loon. Read books in parks, but in reality eyeing little girls with bad intent.

Imagine a life of dystopia. Remind yourself of the dreams of well-informed men. Make it your nightmare. Piss yourself into thinking the time, as the anti-clock would, has finally, and inevitably, come. Revolve your thoughts into a basin and put a piledriver in the middle. Somehow smile at that image while coercing the heavens to do the same.

I would order people to bend to my will. Even to no avail. Exert your authority. Burn the cesspool of filth if needed.

Climb atop the mountains of Central House, knowing fully well the lift is down and out.

Create a paradox dedicated for myself. Linger at the idea and create a barrier between reality and imagination. Do what you fucking can to rule the world. It's ours for the taking. Our enemies are none the wiser.

Start dancing anywhere you see fit. Be the master of the plains. Commit arson, commit treason, commit even your own god-fucking-damn daughter.

Complete global saturation of the pig population, literally and metaphorically. That includes the pigs itself.

Take evidence of it all. Full accounts, interviews, videos, photographs, photographic memories, even taxidermy. Cut your heart out for souvenirs.

From atop my own balcony, I wait. I wait for that one particular moment. Full of intent and disgust, flood the mind with tragic melodies. Be glad no one's there to witness it all. The grandest spectacle of all.

And lastly, make friends with your selves. For they are the only true company.

One sentence for my mother

Happy birthday.. despite our differences.. I'm always here for you no matter how badly I treat you.

Monday, 29 August 2011

So she said, 'Have I got a little story for you'

The two-litre bottle of Sprite warned me about this beforehand -- I wouldn't listen, of course. Who'd listen to a Sprite anyway? They're a pathetic and cowardly bunch, looking to take advantage of me whenever they see fit. And now that they see my final moments of sanity come crashing to the pavement like a freefalling vault, they act like hyenas preying on an unsuspecting victim. I am unsuspecting no more. All the trickeries in the world wouldn't fool me into thinking that the worst has yet to come. The worst thing in my life has already passed me by, and it has been with me for years now, mercifully killing me like a mosquito would to a stout bovine.  The bottle stares at me with its transparent, green look, and I fear it has lead me to think that it may be right. What's worse than finding out that your life has more drastic consequences to undone actions than actual rewards itself? That is a question that fails to spark any powder in my mind, a ruthless decay of the long-forgotten. From a distance, I knew the Kamala wine bottle is worried about the Sprite's unprecedented prophecies. It would sooner have it consumed than be involved in its lunacy. Wines are known to be the wisest of all types of liquid. Their wisdom grows with their age, and like an unusual story of creation, their longevities are known to be in reverse -- similar to the curious case of Benjamin Button. This particular bottle I have with me, although already three-fourths empty, whispers to me in a way a grandmother would to her grandchild. She protects me from all sorts of harm despite her fragilities and weak senses -- and due to that alone I love this bottle unconditionally and will risk even my own life to equally safeguard her from anything that may come to oppose her. The Sprite has nothing against the Kamala. They are of totally different leagues. One is juvenile, harmful and acidic while the other is kind, smooth, soulful and well-respected. While the former continues to stare at me endlessly, I try to ignore it and settle down to my own bed comfortably, minding my own business as I should have been doing in the first place. Then I remember the other twin bottle of Sprite laying in the sofa untouched and lonely, weeping from its head and making a total mess out of the seats. It infuriates me to think I have given these ungrateful shits a place to call home, and yet I do not regret doing so in the name of love. Well actually, it just started with a minor infatuation that grew out of proportion. It turns out that all they really see from me is a broken man of despair, which, for the most part, I agree with them. Although I may seem broken and unhappy and desperate, I am proud to say that I am not depressed. In fact, I've never been depressed at all in my whole life. Sadness is sometimes borne out of boredom, which is, in fact, my own case, but it is not something that grabs me by my nutshell. Friends still tend to my frail condition. Last week I was acquainted with a Betty Page-esque sequin jacket that I have grown attached to recently. We've been seeing a lot frequently, going out to small walks at the park or cycling anywhere in the randomly similar-looking streets of London. It was always there to see the small goodness of the tragedy. Even then she would accept me for what I am despite its posh origins. I am a dirtbag unworthy of such a tremendously popular treasure. I suppose not even the hipsters from the Shoreditch area are able to comply with such an amazing specimen as this acquaintance of mine, and our relationship have only just began. Despite all of that, I am saddened for having noticed seeing this wonderful thing rapidly aging in my own company. For what it's worth there is no worth, I am clearly unworthy. I am now left with a lame Sprite telling me my demise, standing beside me and knowing fully well that it has a role to play in my own deathwish theatorama.

Saturday, 27 August 2011

The sun that bleeds

Parachuted out as a trooper bearing heavy arms, landed to the ground safely and with luck. I could see bodies freefalling to their deaths shot down in a distance by lurkers bearing heavier arms. My thirst to kill now fills my body with determination. I sprint forward with other men, explosions banging my ears left and right, as the platoon leader signals us towards the bunker across the distance. I could see light pass me by, sometimes flickering, many times harmless. Only that it scares me to think it a mortar offensive. Death is but an inch closer than before, honking at me to say how foolish I am to partake on such careless and blind faith. It shimmers above the sky as if part of that light, and I look at it with these vanishing eyes, wondering to myself how awfully mistaken it was to associate mortality to the colour of black whereas here, floating above me, looking at me straight in the eye, is an indication of truth as to the misrepresentation of that same knowledge. It hugs me unbearably, soft and mild, and I could not close my eyes a second more. For the beauty of it all will be wasted on obscure retelling of thoughts swimming within my own mind. Not even a blink. The bigger it becomes, the harder for me deny it. Here lies no more salvation. Take me. Spread your guiding voice over my tainted spirit and shower me with yours. Then it speaks -- as it becomes one with me, with its riddled, mechanical voice, it speaks.


She says me wild underneath the velvet fungus shed
Gazing at the stars together and alone
Taking photographic memories of the future from the past
Recreating steps from the ladders of hope
Farther and away we glide and glide some more
Adequate vibrancy to our togetherness
This girl disavows my torturous desires for acceptance
Gnashing our sharp tongues at each other's throat
Dancing to the moment of our gentle love
Over the guise of hatred that we spawned
I put mine into hers as she did into mine
We intertwine

Willingness to Bless

Grasping the air from the incandescent torches of the cult. She was there, long gone, with none of the bullshitry witnessed, looking from a distance and observing, waiting, capturing that perfect harmonic moment of elation. A guardian form of the weak, she symbolises hope and new vigour for life that proved fatal and demised. These were men no more, only fragments of imagination of forms unlike our own, their humanness taken from them involuntarily, serving as sacrificial lambs for the kipple of earth multiplying on its own like the kipple that it is.

Branded sufferers of the unkind and unjust treatment of nature's ever-loving wrath, they swarm the streets in hopes to regain their insufferable ability to think, for it is no longer theirs to perform, stolen from them by the desires of some unknown entities looking to evolve into something more than it can accomplish for itself, in hopes to stray away from the wicked grasp of predestined circumstances.

While all her followers claim dominion over her name she hibernates under the preconceived prophecies of an eagle, immovable in position, and the boiling point of her rage tips to the maximum, that in one day she hopes the complete annihilation of every single thing. She smiles at the thought and takes comfort at the loving, aerobic sensations of her imagination. The end of something wonderful, could it be, she wonders. Turns her hair into silky, straight and whip-like gold, aimed at the frustrations of the possibility of failure. Her mental prowess glowing steadily in anticipation, her blood-stained heart commiserating, her feathers igniting the flight for the harrowing.

Friday, 26 August 2011

He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

- William Butler Yeats

Tuesday, 23 August 2011

Ninnyhammer, a phonemic haiku

Never so nimble
Nor the nightmares of Nero
Numbnut I am not

Frustrata, a haiku

Mad thoughts manifest
Just like tiny specks of dust
It makes us wonder

A Promise, a haiku

Whatever happens
I will always see this through
For better or worse

Zephyr, a haiku

Rain struggles to fly
Nothing for me to expect
But the wind of change

Dos Destierro

'Pagsisisi, lagi na lang sa huli. Sa mga pagkakataong nakakalimot 'pagkat tayo'y tao lamang.'

Inihagis ni Enrico sa silid ang boteng may lamang alak, at sa panandaliang oras ay naramdaman nila itong lumutang ng ilang segundo bago ito bumagsak sa sahig at nabasag. Sa sobrang takot ng babae sa loob ng silid siya'y napasigaw, at ang reaksyon ni Enrico'y umalis na lamang at iwasang masangkot sa kaguluhang kanya mismong sinimulan. Lumubog ang mata sa iyak ang babae, hindi dahil sa boteng nabasag, ngunit sa kanyang nakitang reaksyon mula kay Enrico. Hindi niya inakalang magagawa niya ito sa tagal ng kanilang pagkakaibigan. Makikita mo sa kanyang mata ang kalungkutan at pagsisisi na sanhi ng kanilang nagbabagang hidwaan. Napaupo na lang siya sa kinatatayuan at hindi inasahang maturok ng nabasag na bote malapit sa kanyang tuhuran. Habang lumuluha'y namamangha siya sa pulang dugong lumalabas, at lalo pa niyang pinisil ito para lalong umagos.

Sumasabog sa galit si Enrico habang naglalakad. Sa kanyang isipa'y naniniwala naman siyang may karapatan siyang gawin ang kanyang nagawa. Habang siya'y bumababa sa mahabang hagdan ng malaking gusali ay nadaanan niya si Fe na nagkataong papuntang paakyat. Bigla siyang napahinto at nagsalubong ang kanilang mga mata. Pilit tumakas ang tingin ni Fe, halatang may nararamdamang matinding ilang sa kanilang dalawa.

'Fe,' bulong ni Enrico, hindi matukoy ang tono ng pananalita. 'Huwag mo naman akong iwasan.' Ngunit pinagpatuloy ni Fe ang paglalakad at lalo pa itong bumibilis, dinaanan lamang siya, at kasingbilis din niyang hinigpitang hawakan ang kanyang kaliwang siko sa kanyang inis. 'Akala mo ba,' nagsimulang tumulo ang luha sa kanyang namumulang mga mata. 'Hindi ko nahahalata ang galit mo sa akin?'

Galit na humarap sa kanya si Fe. 'Putang ina mo Enrico! Lahat kami pinapaasa mo! Ilan na ba kami sa koleksyon ng mga babae mo? Akala mo rin ba ako'y isang tanga para hayaang lokohin mo?!'

Mabilis na sumagot si Enrico. 'Nagkakamali ka sa iniisip mo, Fe.'

Matalas na nakatitig ang maginaw na mga mata ni Fe, kapos sa awa, sa mga malulungkot na mga mata ni Enrico.

'Mas lalong nagkamali kang sirain ang pagkakaibigan natin.'

Parang sumabog ang dibdib ni Enrico. Hindi niya maintindihan kung sa galit ba o sa lungkot pero sapat ng malaman ba hindi niya ito kayang pigilan. Binitawan niya ang siko ni Fe at mabilis naman itong tumakas paakyat sa hagdan. Saka niya lang natuklasang nagkasugat pala siya sa kanyang kamay malamang sa boteng kanyang tinapon. Hindi na niya ito binigyan ng pansin at nalugmok na lamang siya sa matinding paghihinagpis sa sarili, kinakain ng kanyang sariling pagkakasala.

Agad na pumasok si Fe sa silid kung saan natagpuan niya sa loob ang mahinang pangangatawan ng kaibigan na si Joan. 

'Jo, gising!' Kinakalog niya ang braso ng kanyang kaibigan ngunit hindi ito sumasagot, nakayuko ang ulo at matamlay, parang hinigupan ng buhay. 'Jo, si Fe ito. Kaya mo bang tumayo?'

Hindi pa rin sumagot si Joan.

Pilit na kinayang angatin ni Fe ang kaibigan at sabay natuklasan ang labis na umaapaw na dugo mula sa kanyang paa. Nagulat siya sa kanyang biglang nakita. May mga bakas ang paa ni Joan ng matinding pinsalang natamo mula sa basag na bote na nakapaligid at parang ginuhitan ng pabilog na mga linyang walang kahulugan ito. Hindi niya lubos maisip kung paano niya ito natamo at natatakot siyang isiping gawa ito ni Enrico na nakakasiguro siyang nanggagaling dito't salarin sa mga pangyayaring naganap. Nang sa wakas napatayo niya rin ito, panandalian niyang sinandal ang katawan ni Fe malapit sa bintana upang ayusin ang sarili. Biglang may aninong nakatayo sa kanyang likuran na agad niyang tiningnan kung sino.

Si Enrico ay nakatayo sa pinto at hawak-hawak ang gilid, mapinsalang nakatitig ang marupok na mata sa dalawang babae sa kanyang harapan.

'Paano mo ito nagawa kay Joan?! Sira na ba ulo mo?!' matinding galit ang humuhubog sa utak ni Fe. Wala siyang ibang iniisip kung hindi ibuhos ang lahat ng sisi kay Enrico.

'Bitawan mo siya, Fe.' pabulong na isinigaw ni Enrico.

'Puta ka talaga, umalis ka na!' Hindi kayang pigilan ni Fe ang sobrang galit. Para sa kanya walang ibang nagkasala kung hindi si Enrico. Dahan-dahan niyang hinila ang katawan ni Joan patungo kay Enrico palabas.

'Subukan mong tawagin mo pa akong puta't magkikitaan tayo.' sabi ni Enrico, hindi nagpapakita ng kilos na siya lamang ay nagbibiro. Hindi maalis-alis ang nakakakilabot na maanghang na dilat ng mga mata ni Enrico kay Fe. Sa mga pagkakataong iyon, nauubos na rin ang lakas ni Fe at agad na agad na itong pinalitan ng takot.

'Huwag ka ngang magbiro ng ganyan, Enrico!' pati boses ni Fe nanginginig na. 'Delikado ang kalagayan ni Joan. Padaanin mo kami.'

Napangiti na lang si Enrico. 'Ang bait mo bigla, bakit kaya?'

Huminto si Fe sa harap ni Enrico at nakatayo sa ilalim ng kanyang anino, nararamdaman niya ang alak sa kanyang paa na nabuhos mula sa bote at alam niyang alak ito dahil na rin sa malakas nitong amoy.

Hindi nawala ang unang ngiti ni Enrico. 'Gusto mong dumaan?'

Biglang nabigyan muli ng lakas na loob si Fe at napasigaw, 'Putang ina, alis nga sabi eh!'

Agad sinuntok ni Enrico ng matindi si Fe sa mukha. Hindi na nakailag si Fe sa sorpresang natanggap at agad itong nahimatay sa sahig na puno ng basag-basag na salamin.

Saka na rin nagbago at nawala ang ngiti ni Enrico sa mukha. Siya ay napasimangot at nakababa ang kilay, ang bakas muli sa mukha ang namamaga't namumulang mga mata.

Habang gumagalaw si Enrico upang siguraduhing walang ibang tao sa paligid, kalahating dumilat ang mga mata ni Joan at nasilayan si Enrico sa paligid na nagmamasid. Sa hindi maipaliwanag na dahilan nagkaroon pa siya ng sapat na lakas upang ngumiti, at sa parehong pagkakatao'y kasingbilis din siyang nawalan ng malay.

'Puta ba kamo?' bulong ni Enrico, ngayo'y nakatuon ang buong pansin sa dalawang katawan ng mga babae sa harapan, at isinara niya ang pinto sa kanyang likuran. At agad ngayo'y nakabalot ang tatlo sa dilim.

Friday, 19 August 2011


Her disguised eyes spoke to me infidelities, simply a warning of what was to lay ahead. I crawled through the narrow path leading to the oasis carrying only my sanity. Hers was long gone, anchored deep below the red tide, whispering profanities as if the faults were mine. It was both ours to share, including the long weeks leading up to the tragedy. The direction her lips face, her body language, her lost desire for pleasure, even the outward positioning of her hands. I punched the air more than once to vent the frustration. It was of no use. The damage has been done, tonight something has to burn and someone's head has got to roll.

'Fuck you!' she yells at me, her eyes squint, full of rage, with desire to spit in my face. I could have slapped her there and then but I didn't. The little cunt thinks she can just manhandle me like that. I lost my footing for a short while, only realising that my hand is up in the air very much prepared to end her misery and mine once and for all. What was I thinking?

My sanity is dwindling, occupied with thoughts of seething emotions. She made me do things I would never have realised. I put down my hand and weakened my threatening pose, gathered enough wits to fall steadily on to the ground unabashed. Her eyes show no fear, yet she stays there, mocking my bipolar tendencies constantly. I closed my eyes in fear of seeing something that I can use to inflict harm, as I recently found out that my tendencies of blacking out tend to more harmful than it can possibly maintain. 

'You are a fucking coward!'

Enough. If only I could close my senses, drift into a trance, pull myself out of that prison flesh and levitate into obscurity.

'--ot for you I would have been so--'

What would someone else do? Is it wrong to be human? Or is it just me whose flagrant ways are considered out of touch?

'--en you remember! Fuck all your family and fri--'

Or is it something else entirely different? I think I see the leeway, another way, the other way around, an escape route. Redemption.

'--urn you motherfucker! Save your pity for the ma--'

Pity? What for? Am I to be pitied like a domestic animal whose only motives are to eat, sleep and shit? Pity the weak not I!

'--ally leaving you for good!'

She threw me all the hostile vibrations before she turned to leave. Her absence made my ears better, but my heart worse. For a heartless bitch that she is, I sure still loved her, and that I'll miss her flat chests and her hairy rectum, which, for the record, I have very much molested like a prized trophy missing her purpose in life.

She left me a heart, broken, fragile and sensitive. No matter how much anguish befalls a man of passion, his priorities always amount to his desires. He would live on searching, looking to fill up that non-existent emptiness, verboten by the laws imposed upon by himself. Her infidelities now amount to his strength, adding to the long list of things to do before that timely passing will reach its place in one special moment.

Sunday, 14 August 2011

Plastic Fantastic

Follicle strands remain unkempt but why bother. Certain cries of calling fall tragically on deaf ears awaiting jurisdiction feeding lies off of cardboard boxes and tin cans of lager. An inferior delegate reminds them all of the burden and falls back into the slump, carrying the unbearable weight of its stigmata. Frail as snow as a timid, old woman in her nineties finds herself in a garden of make-believe unhampered by its formulaic occurrences, a sort of accepted norm that is dominant all throughout that make-believe space governed by make-believe smiles, sharing the feeling of nostalgia with the leaves and the feathers. She clings to the wall like an arachnid and drinks something from a flask like an amphibian drooling for its greens or hay. Smirking from a distance, sly flower frees herself from the shackles of dismay exhibiting all manners of rebellious spirit. Impressive at her age, no matter how fickle. She spawns the good and the beauty to give, like it was her own to spawn, a mother image to the well-being of the sickness and the child whose legs were then spread to give glory to its standing. Undeterred by personal opinion she suffers and suffers some more, struggling against a lost cause. The time comes when her other senses will finally find her. Her love will then be multiplied tenfold.

Friday, 5 August 2011

Moonlight shines upon the guilty and innocent alike

The sky tore its veil wide open, gasping, at the severe penalty of the accursed weather condition. 'I must not weep,' it cries. 'This pity party is never my most appealing trait.' Therefore he gave way for the ground to mature and thus making progress at the marvel of the greens. He stood on top overseeing the bounties its children may yet offer at the behest of the moon whose mischievous master ever burns brightly at the break of day. It gave way for life to flourish thus organisms began to roam the earth. Different species abound immediately at the development caused by the sky, and his pride bloomed even moreso, drawing more air into its cloudy bodies and helped sustained the new world around it. Like a nurturing mother whose task was to manifest love, it sparks its potential, hearken to their pious needs, and punishment for their indiscretions. Long lived harmony and prosperity. Burning for a reason to thrill, the sky willed itself to aim more higher in its desire to govern. Life was simply simple and challenge was what it demanded, mandated, fulfilled. 

It then bore the very first man and gave it a tenth of its wisdom for a slim fighting chance to stand against it. This underestimation proved to be fatal, as the man immediately understood the concept of survival. Pitted against defying odds, he would reign supreme amongst all creations, beasts and greens alike, and used this advantage against the sky. It was this that man learned how to craft his own soul. The same soul mirrored from the image of wisdom given to one's character. He would feed off it to master its strength, rivalling only the sky in return. Enough to tear it in half at the biggest battle of mankind, dividing everything into halves.

Out of the madness juxtaposition was born.  Black and white. Day and night.

Man and woman.

Obsession of Dreaming

The first kid carrying napalm on his hand asks a curious question, 'How many surrealists does it take to screw a lightbulb?' He answers it himself saying, 'Fish.' The crowd bursts into laughter. There is no crowd. There is no kid carrying napalm. But there really is that question. 

Monday, 1 August 2011

Blessings and Quagmires

Marta stood on top of the pillar, sinful and wretched, with her soul so dark one can easily distinguish her humanness dissipating. Long gone were the days of young Marta walking along the park swaying her hands in alternate, with vibrancy of her lips giving life to all around, and the humming that passes through it and charms the passers by resembling a pied piper. She could command them at will if she wanted to. But her innocence, coupled with her beauty and grace, it stands alight and flourishes, pushes away the temptation and begs them forgiveness as if she were at fault. Her strength lies in empathy, not the love that drives most of the righteous crusaders, and this empathy is not exclusive for good, as one could be drawn too to evil for compassion. Once those who took interest in her soul found this corruption leeway, they quickly drove adrift and performed preemptive actions. Not long ago, as Marta was passing through the park as she normally does, her shoe caught trapped on a narrow crevice. Unfazed, she crouches to untie her shoe, and at that moment the sky grew dark and empty and the park all brown and humid. The wind suddenly died down, as if frightened of this sudden change knowing what lies ahead. The grass became all sharp and vile, like small spikes appearing out of nowhere and shimmering everywhere she looked. These moment no longer frighten Marta anymore. She has already experienced things far much worse than this, and her strength to fight these illusions only empowers her so, just because these are the only times anyone can see Marta in a state of anger and madness, like she is of a different person throughout.

Meanwhile, these contemptible things would not go down without a fight. They stood their ground quite well, shadowing themselves with any life that can be spotted at that place, draining them of their soul and leaving only agony and despair, clothed themselves in the dark, and utilised its lack of luminance for stealth and evasive manoeuvres. They would attempt to enter her mind and corrupt its core only to discover it backfire and swallows these restless phantoms to oblivion. Marta's entire being, despite its sweet exterior, is quite formidably well-defended with virtues. Virtues that build up her personality as well as her strength. Like a monk in minimalist gear.

All these modes of attacks are sublime, not completely understanding the manner in which these creatures choose to fight, only that one needs to understand the concept of how to defend the self.

But it would not last for long. At this very moment, Marta's soul has been completely corrupted by the darkness. What's more is that none could have anticipated this surprising turnaround. This once-considered a potential next messiah chose for herself this newfound unification. The path she once despised and embattled in a hard-fought feud, now her chosen family, and her sudden blend forms a great imbalance to the injustices that continues to squish life to its foundation. The world now witnesses a great, new terror standing on a pillar before them, watches as she takes pleasure to the steady increase of loss of life. 

The park now paints in red. Her solemn place slowly kills itself in blindness, losing its identity inasmuch as Marta loses hers. The monochromatic streets that form around it are hardly recognisable, bearing only the scars of which the battles of good and evil are measured, as the angels continue its holy crusade, almost on its edge and at a loss. The mystery of what ignited Marta's fury remains a question, and one that initiated many missions and deaths, met with swift repercussions.

At the side of a pillar is a blood offering, fresh and stout, its smooth hide bearing the mark of innocence. Its eyes still wide open however lifeless, showing no signs of constraint. The smokes that engulf Marta like a shield creeps up to the body and lifts it up, dragging it towards a square. In each edges of the square burns candles, vaguely illuminating the pillar. The smoke enters through orifices and feeds off from its pupils, sucking it dry like a lost reflex.

Marta raised her right hand to lift the body to her command. This zombification of an organism was clearly imminent. One of her first creations borne from her abilities of darkness. This creature's will to find life slowly begins to awaken, and its once-bright pupils now turn to black, gazing at Marta's eyes with confusion. A puppet given a very limited sense of understanding, lacking even the ability of speech and arithmetic. She released it from its breezy bondage and crashes to the ground. This put a smile on Marta's face, acknowledging her satisfaction, and all the while increasing her desire for achieving more.

She turns to her back, walks away, and immediately kills her smile. A small gust of fresh wind slaps her face. To her, the breeze of fresh wind that reminds her of life and vibrancy is overpoweringly rancid. With a wicked smile on her face, she explodes on a rupturous rampage that nearly destroys the entirety of the pillars while completely eliminating the sacrificial cadaver leaving nothing of its trace. This sudden estrangement defines Marta's unpredictable character. As she levitated at the effects of the spell she steadily brings herself to the ground and smiles once more. These little moments left her unsatisfied as the sudden decrease of her streaks of doom threaten her reputation. She pulled out her tongue with her right hand, pinches it hard, hisses loudly with her breath. Marta was planning to cut a part of it out for some apparent reason unbeknownst to anyone. After she successfully managed to do so, her tongue continually bled dripping through her neck down to her naked breasts. That small chunk of meat that she held wiggled with her touch. From the smoke that surrounds her she formed a solid glass phylactery. She kept the meat trapped within and she warped to seaside view where she threw the small glass. It sunk well to the sea floor untouched by creatures out of sheer fear, swimming away from it as much as possible. That small part of sea grew darker and smoke floated above ground, guarding the artifact with its spiky edges that resembled those that attempted to corrupt Marta of old.

Marta would never ever be seen again, even forgotten was her existence. Life has since then prospered and found a way to persevere, continually shadowing the unpredictable character that served Marta well. The world was neither good nor evil, for it was already inherently both.

Marta was a personification of this paradox, and she was neither alive nor dead. 

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