Sea of Beads.

For some reason I’ve been lying in a quick sand of beads for as far as I can remember. It’s been there ever since I was born. I choke on beads, eat beads, shit beads, and breathe beads. I have never had a good sleep… never with eyes closed, back stretched and legs in sloth… beads can’t make beds, can’t make pillows either. I took it for long enough now. Yet something has changed, since early last year. Somewhere along my skin where my hands cannot reach, a hole was created and the beads flood inside of my body, making me heavier, weaker, not fitter… not happier… like a pig stuck in a cage, sometimes on antibiotics. And no amount of alcohol can help me believe the lie I’ve been enforcing upon myself… that I am as strong and I am doing a good job grabbing life and people by the balls, as I always did before… and always survived.

I never stayed long enough, not to call those beads – or anywhere – home. The sea of them beads flows mercilessly and forces change. And I’m sick of change, of light bags, rental houses, evil omens and lie-convincing alcohol. Now all I wanna do is stand right in front of you, look you in the eye and spit out an avalanche of beads right at your face. To be specific, I want to bull-eye your eyes and create holes somewhere along your skin, where your hands won’t be able to reach or sew, and I will fill you with beads… make you a pig dead… in a cage… with no alcohol.