Vile

(That's how I feel right now. Like a broken toy that is thrown away. Like a dog abandoned at a motorway service station).

I sometimes don't know if that's my real memory, or an illusion created by my subconscious to protect what's left of my sanity. What little remains. Do you feel that too ?

Me, myself, and I. Writing on this blog, thinking of you.

Eventually, isn't it better to forget everything? Forgetting is a blessing. Maybe I shouldn't refresh your memory. Just letting you live your life. Not showing you what I ended up doing.

Ordinary thoughts of a madman, I guess. For sure, things are getting complicated, aren't they?

Continents on a world map

I started to get marks on my body accompanied by a nasty itching. At first, they looked like nettle stings. Red, raised patches. The nasty stuff was moving across my skin. It was all over my sides, the patterns looked like continents on a world map, and a few hours later, it was migrating to the inside of my thighs.

I was tearing at my flesh until it bled.

What if they had to put leeches on my skin? Lampreys. A whole colony, to suck the disease out of my body.

What are you doing? I still haven't received anything.

Memories

I hope you're reading this.

You have to remember.

I know how much we want to forget. I also know that what they did to us made us forget. It took me twenty-seven years, but it came back.

It came back all at once, with the sensations, the sounds, the smells, the pain, the hunger, as if I were there again. Everything they did. Everything they did to both of you. I broke the dissociation.

Do you remember the moths? There was a Great Peacock Moth. I didn't know its name at the time, but it was one. It was stuck with us. We gave it a nickname, but I don't remember it.

You would pull the dog's chain to get it to come and warm you.

One day, we found a whole colony of processionary caterpillars. I blew on it, and my head swelled.

I know it's not enough. I have to show you it's real, so you'll remember.

Join me on Ulysse's journey for I show you it. You know : an astronaut.

Under the skin

A carrion smell, as if a dog had been left to die down there. As if that dog were slowly decomposing. Yeah, a dog. That's funny, isn't it ?

No, rats haven't invaded my foam mattress. I did find spiders, as big as my fist, crushed under the weight of my sleep, but it doesn't smell like anything, a spider.

Often, I drink my coffee while thinking about suicide the way you think about taking a shower. Then another, still thinking about it. Then a dozen more, until nightfall. And my day passes, and the smell lingers. Like an old memory, rotting in my brains.

My neighbor is sunbathing, that whore humming like the Snow Queen right across from my window, that bitch who deserves... a dog ​​to be unleashed on her throat. When she's not humming, she's on the phone with another bitch who should be dead too. I hear them. I hear everything they're saying to each other; the walls are as thin as the pages of the Old Testament. None of what they're babbling makes any sense.

"I honestly think you ought to sit down calmly, take a stress pill, and think things over."

Ulysse mixed astronaut

@NowYouLoveBugsToo

Trying to channel Homère ?