#sang.diary

The feeding grounds have been soiled.

The foolish creatures that reek of desperation and substances that cloud their minds.

What good are they to anyone? What good are they to themselves?

I have not yet met my kind that have died from starvation, but the way insanity and wrath it brings consumes them in unorthodox ways...

A pinup dress the weather is still too cold for, being played with by the wind - a treat for the gazes, but the thrill is all mine. Devil's whiskers and a precisely picked, yet simple ingredients for the best chicken dish I've tried - a pleasure all to myself. The dessert of sneaky touches between us, risky crevices, innocent-seeming brushes, but the sweetness is in the intention.

It's a reminder -

Again, the permanence strikes.

Not your ugly words, not your shallow excuses or empty promises.

My heart has been ripped out of my chest once again. And again. And again. When will the end of it come?

Lucky mortals, so tightly embracing the fear of the End that it keeps you going, until your heart stops. Then you are free.

Life, and death, cyclical.

Counting the hours, days, years, decades... All pointless. There is no going forward, there is no going back.

The revolutionaly idea of time being linear has proven itself insufficient. It is not natural to You or me. The only difference is that You go through your cycles a bit less than I do - either overcoming and entering a new one, or being embraced by the Sweet Cold.

There is no embrace for me. Just the same patterns, same feelings, same faces. Until they're gone. And then they get a new chance at living. And then they bring me back to my cycle again. A reminder that it will never change.

I am damned to live the same cycle forever. No amount of new costumes, hobbies, languages or places change that. Where ever I am, I am. With my mortal burden in the realm of Immortality.

My poor human lover, just like the rest, just like the next. Differently colored eyes, yet the glare is the same. Differently colored skin, yet they all bleed the same. Different events, but the same kind of anger, hurt, disappointment.

They outgrow themselves and by the time they crash, they're already with the Sweet Cold. And then they start again, unknowing of the life they've had before.

To indulge in the life that could've been.

All I am able to do is witness as they move, yet I am standing still - at the end or the beginning, or somewhere in between. It's not like it matters anyway, as there is no change, only fabricated to kill Time.

Yet, they with such limited time clasp onto it as hard as possible, but they know that passing is inevitable. They turn to alcohol. Either to kill themselves or make themselves feel more alive. Either way, the attention they put in a single drink, or not, says so much about the drink and the person itself. I have had the luck to meet a sweetheart with a sweet spot for this particular kind of passion. They have dedicated their Time to expression through taste and smell, with captivating charisma. Such knowledge and contrariness seeps out of the glass, evaporating slowly, tempting to take reign. The sheer ability to understand a creature and their needs with a few words exchanged and enchant them with a creation as simple or complex as it could be.

Magic.

Alchemy.

Eternity feels like a second. But it is never eternal - meant to fade as the veil I wear separates us. Beauty fades, and that's what it makes it so beautiful. Depraved is the mind unaware of it's enrichment. The soul crushing feeling of something slipping through your fingers and disappearing in the void brings awareness of the beauty that was.

My greed, my selfishness, it must cease to exist. It has no business decomposing the allure that nourishies my hopeless excuse for a life.

Is the price I pay for indulging in the mortals' pleasures the fact that I will see the end of everything I've known, forever yearning, but never satisfied, burdened with hunger neverending?

I assume that a part of it all for you is to believe, to hope. Because you never know when it's going to end, right? You are going to try and keep it from unfolding it's last moments. That is, when you have the Luxury of the End.

I've intentioned to write this entry about my own beliefs, my own experience with the knowledge of human beliefs and how it affects their lives, but the second 》hope《 came as a thought, my mind switched to a peculiar mortal obsession of mine - Lord forbid I call it love. I genuinely wish for it not to be. He told me "But you have all the Time in the world!". Yes, but he does not. And he chooses to spend it with someone not worthy of him, instead of under my wing. Oh, how I wish he didn't express the pleasure he feels in my presence, for it would hurt less, not being aware of the time he spends suffering now. Yet, he believes in the impossible, ignores the inevitable.

Why are you gripping something so tightly, as if you have Eternity with it? Why chain yourself to a wall that is meant to collapse over you, when you have so little time left? Mortals sure are contradictory, but I guess that so am I. Why do I chain myself to you when you are meant to collapse over me? The only difference is -

The gloom of clouds suggesting a rainstorm surely brings a sense of safety and a veil of conservation for my ever-rotting corpse, the vessel that shouldn't be. Mingling amongst You has never been easier with the suspicion so easily erased. The key is in the loopholes.