Dec 16, 2018
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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#66
The middle of the shore is stepping at my door. When were you the sea, so you could come at me? Please tell me. Why'd you go so far, coming so afar? What was I supposed to be, anything else than a living library?
You used me.
I was the entertainment when you couldn't rhyme. You were a verse I could've continued, to make it rhyme. You used me. You thought I will be here forever, eating your whole shit.
I'm over it.
You can become the most deprived human in my sight, and I won't say a word, but write. I'd say: "what a desilusion of breathing is this someone that I'm leaving?". I'd keep missing. I'd still be suffering.
I do it.
The sea is my mother and the shore is my never loved father. The people I love will be loved. The people I fought for will remain poetry for me. The stories, I love the stories. You and me. You and them.
I really miss them.
And FUCK love, because it tore us apart. It made a hole in my heart, in the "a" shaped letter when I want to get better... through writing. Because I live out of it: sex and friendship. Because, in definition, love will set us all apart. It will make us invincible, if known how, or more likely, by what.
Fuck that.
The shore is a part of the sea. That's the known misery of a person like me. We love deep connections, satisfying transitions between love and friendships. And late night walks, beer and sandwiches. I'd pay for a text came into context at the best time than a luxurious blunt that hits my physical 'high'.
So I...
I wish that I will exist with the same amount of polish over my tense soul. It goes out of control. It starts hating, it gets vain, it makes me think of "being cool" rather than having a "creative brain". Fuck me. Becoming something I don't want to be.
I just want you.
#63
Prin găurile plămânilor mei Vreau să vrei Să respiri Prin ei. Căci prin ei, Eu te respir Te inflamez Şi te tuşesc. Dar ca-ntotdeauna, Tu mi-ai fost balsam, Parfum. Deşi sunt alergică La tutun. Şi da. Nu mă vei crede Căci mereu sting țigările În cuvinte. Fumez mereu Şi țin la ei Şi nu-nțeleg Când vreau să mă-ngrop În singurul balsam Care mă-nțelege cândva: Balsamul de rufe. În ele, Aşternuturile, Îmi înec timpul De "tânăr" Aşa obosit Şi atât de iubit Jumătate prea-slăvit De toți de care Nu vrea să audă. Iar oamenii valoroşi Se strâng Ca scoarța De copac Pe lichid Lacrimogen. Şi se usucă Pe obraz Se-neacă În aşternut Mă ating C-un deget ud Că doar marea Îi adună În casa spirituală. Dar marea Mi-e străină Mă atacă Mă îneacă. Cum aş putea să te las Să respiri În plămânii mei Când apa Se infiltrează adânc? Fug de-acasă Doar să te strâng La sân şi demnitate. Şi mi-e dor De "neumanisme": Versul no. 2
Monologue #insertnumberhere
I would delete my fingers for touching your cheek, because I left it burnt.
I would delete every sting that came out of my eyes to see yours, so bright, looking at me, because I knew that I’ll let you blind afterwards.
I would delete my future feelings, because I know I broke your heart and I deserve no more.
I would delete my dreams and my existence, so you would never remember me, as if you never met me, and pray from the Void for your dreams to come true.
I would say I am sorry a thousand times, but for every “sorry” that I’m saying inside of me, every day gives me one thousand punches in my stomach. I know that yours ache, too.
I would gather all the blood that I have in my veins, so you would see roses grow on the snow.
And I would gather all the galaxies, so you would see them happening right before your eyes.
But what I would do, if you care or not, is keeping you alive through my art.
As every beautiful memory fades away. And here’s me, holding onto them to never leave me. Never letting myself drawn to the past, but never letting go. I never let them go. I would delete my existence if I were to let them go.
People around me, arguing over small things that won’t raise your spirit, won’t cheer you up, that won’t grow you into something better. They are young adults, crybabies, sitting in bed all day, complaining about sweet nothings, yelling at their parents now and the next moment you see them killing themselves with substances. From the people they love. They have no motivation and they want to remain like this. They hate the sun and get sick a lot and I can’t stay here and get another illness. I can’t sit here and listen to my memories again to tell someone that care only for himself and nothing human-related, empathy-related. You get wasted and you talk shit? Alright. You wake up after it and you act like I owe you the world? Well, I do not owe you anything. Maybe I just have to pay you back the shitty feelings you give me. And nobody cares how much of an expert you are or how early you wake up, when all you need is someone to be there and listen to you and most important, value you as a friend and not talking nonsense that might make you feel bad. And their excuse? “I didn’t notice”. I won’t go over “I didn’t notice” when it was obvious. “I don’t remember” when it comes to what someone else said in a moment of sincerity, only you and them, is a crime. Maybe you people don’t notice or forget easily stuff. Maybe your “maybe later” or “some other day” will be “never, from now on”. Silence starts to rule our society and communication fails. Still, we are human beings: we have feelings, we have thoughts, we have issues, we are incredibly creative and talented, and some people just try to shut up everything good in us with their ignorance, their silenceness, their behavior. But I still believe that it is possible to see good in people of any kind. I also believe in active communication. But never believe in the same people that burnt the skin of my heart and muscles. And also burnt my trust.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I want to live long enough to finish the popcorn.
I want to sit in the chair in some cinema. Watching all the movies I ever noted on my watchlist. I'd open the notebook, look at the titles, the directors, the releasing years and most importantly, the people that came up with the suggestion for each one of them. I'd watch, carefully, not to miss one single message. I'd listen to the soundtracks for hours, until I feel it. I'd sit in that chair, until my eyes ache; until my whole body turns to dust. I'd watch them, tangible, experimental. I'd feel the characters, I'd emphasize with them, I'd sing, run, dance, kiss, make love alongside. I'd be the ultimate version I couldn't be before. I'd take risks I've never been able to. I eouldn't be scared. Afraid. I would be scared. I could be anything, so, I'l act upon my own life.
I'll film every bit of my everyday through my eyesight. I'll turn my friends into works of art. I'll stop thinking emotions, instead feeling them. I'll run, dance and sing my lungs off. I'll fill the world with passion and I will show everyone it's role here, there, in my life, everywhere. I'll make love to people by just meeting them halfways. I'll listen to them and make them feel how they should, how nobody done it before. I'm going to note down every detail, everything they avoid doing for not being judged. They won't be. I'm going to touch their faces, run my hands down their spine in such a delicate manner, they'd have to read, read, read all over and feel me deeply.
I cannot feel things normally. But I will get out, watch my movies with them and create the best piece ever written, ever played, ever sang, ever felt.
I'll finish this popcorn alongside with you, if I may.
May I?
LemonSex-tile
Cum se retrage mintea din plăcerea tactilă... Lasă loc de tâlc de linişte... Când mâna ta nu poate concepe ca un asemenea material să fie altfel decât plăcut la atingere. Vorbeşti de voalul ăla. Dantelă? Ciorap de plasă. Plăcut vizual. Ale naibii. Retina ți-e în erecție. Atingi, cauți mai cu seamă covertura patului, să-ți înmoi mâinile în apă, după ce ai sacrificat o plăcere mentală: în realitate, nu-i deloc. Te sperie. Mereu ai considerat că adori materialul uşor, subțire, fie chiar dacă e şi puțin rigid. Mereu o să depindă, dar atunci ți s-a întors stimulul într-o stare deplorabilă până la percepție. Era ironic. Bucata de carne care era învăluită in gri, o combinație de culoare de piele în rigor mortis şi un negru nu prea țanțoş, parcă stoarse într-un pahar de dezgust vizual. Parfumul era de mileu înmuiat în praf, ca pe vremea când erai copil şi căutai praful la bună-ta cu textilele de sub bibelouri. Ai fi vrut ceva să ți se spargă, ori în cap, să nu mai simți, ori în mână, să nu mai creezi alte senzații. Cum poate un material atât de prețios să nu te ducă cu gândul la primele instincte? Un frame cinematografic pictat minuțios al unei starlete din French New Wave? Nu, hai cu "Pulp Fiction". Parcă ai văzut şi-n "Love", sigur ai văzut şi-n "Love". Rulează în mintea ta filme, locuri familiare cu dantela neagră. Mileu. Orice. Ai nevoie de ajutor, e mult prea mult ca să poți învinge dezgustul cu o față neutră. Ți-ai spart buza pentru că filmele rulau prea rapid, şi prea se derula firul de ață în mâna ta, ivit din rândul de ațe care formau dezgustul. Ai ajuns în intimitatea ta. Jucai cu firul de pe un genunchi pe altul, formai rotogoale din ce în ce mai multe. Mai multă ață. Pielea nu ți-e rigor mortis; se simte superb la buricele degetelor. Ți-ai lăsat amprente în spatele rotulei. Ți-ai marcat c-un deget locul de naştere al vieții şi morții, de vei oferi vreodată acest buchet vreunui suflu: materialul, textila, se simte în largul ei, cu tine în preajmă-i. Parfumul feminin e strict sanguin. Iese prin pori, se întinde, ca untul bun pe pâine crocantă, puțin umedă pe interior, aburindă. Aşa cunoşti apropierea de orice material, recunoşti "autoparfumul", se identifică cu al tău, faci schimb de păreri cu cealaltă piele. Iubeşti femeile: cum se ridică ele pe vârfuri, deşi sunt întinse printre aşternuturi moi, cu fața către tine. Textilele? Poate sextile. Mai mult tactile, să cunoşti sentimentul. Dacă vrei să simți sau să muşti... să te dezguşti. Lămâie. Aroma aceea de acru, o cunoşti bine. Îți place rasă coaja în prăjituri cu un uşor aer de vanilie, sau în anumite ceaiuri, cum câteva picături schimbă culoarea instant. Astfel şi cu tandrețea ta din garderobă. Da, aceea de o întinzi peste degetele cu care te furişezi, peste călcâiele care se aprind, peste tibie, peste centimetrii buni de piele. Peste feminitate. Sărut-o acolo unde se termină. Sărut-o la simbolul ei de viață şi de moarte. Şi poate, acel rigor mortis, acel praf, acea scremere a cartilajelor tale fine pe material lucios, subțire, găurit, se poate să fi fost o atenționare: greşeai pielea. Era lămâie turnată în cafea. Bețişoare de vanilie întoarse printre chiftelele cu sos marinara. Şi da, am comparat ciorapii fini cu lămâia. Sexualitatea ta cu limba. Pielea cu un soi de mic dejun simplist, sățios. Parfumul cu praful şi totodată cu altceva. Altceva cu altceva. Creşte iedera prin irisul tău. Ce faci? Du-te şi cercetează-ți ciorapii într-un mod intim. Vor şi pe altcineva, de data asta.
“Destiny”