Self-doubt

It's like blood washed away in the rain. Life.

What makes you go on?

The feelings you have, the feelings others have for you?

Or is it something else?

The rationality chasing you mind, that tells you there are other times, other places, other people ...

I'm empty, drained, I can't hide all anymore because hiding is exhausting.

*I'm* exhausted.

I have always wished to have wings.

Those huge white wings angels tend to have.

To be something special for someone, not the fucked up human I am.

Whinging? No. Maybe. But why not?

I became the dark angel of my soul, called him satanael, made him a part of myself.

A part I cannot deny.

A part of me that made me strong, that made me be able to forget.

Memories are like stinging needles in your flesh.

Rammed into the skin, slowly ripping it apart.

And you watch how it takes some seconds until the beads of blood spring up from the wound, mesmerised.

Blood.

And when it's almost too late you notice that you're still alive.

And you see how your wings are tainted red, how you lose your ability to fly.

You're falling.

A fallen angel.

...

satanael

If life is water and love a river, I've reached the desert ...