heantractor

[heantractor]

left

Tw: death and suicide

And in the last splats of blood From my new second mouth i started to remember Maybe due to adrenaline mixed with what was consumed It was brought back to me Every single thing left undone Every single good moment i had lived Every warm touch i felt And every cold kiss last shared I remember the first time i did so much and i even saw the first time of stuff i hadn't I saw a future now in clear colors Brought alive from pencil sketches A life that had came a second later And another And another And i laughed pushing the little air i had left For in the end i had made another mistake Another one as they were right For the last feeling i remember feeling Was feeling regret

[heantractor]

ghost image

Tw: loosing bodily functions, ghosts, occult and stuff

I followed the instructions she left me at the designated hour. I saw the figure standing there, or lack of thereof. It was void, lack of presence. It didnt attack me, it didn't move, it stared. In a non mutual comprehension. It knew what I had done. And I didn't. She said it would bring us closer, I believe her, I have blind faith in our relationship and our words. I turned on the light and it was partially gone. A stain remained wherever I looked. A shadow remnant burned into my left eye. No bigger than the dot left by a single pressing of a pencil. A dead pixel in my vision. I told her I had done it, she told me the same. We talked about how we felt, about us, about the situation, about the ritual. A cold way of communication, something used by a million more besides us. Appart so appart from each other. But a good replacement to direct warmth, to real contact. And we wished each other goodnight. The next morning the dot had grown. And the day after and the day after. I told her about it. About how I couldnt see depth anymore, I was going blind. I got reassurance and digital warmth. But the stain was real and tangent. Virtual in pressence, but with real repercusions. I can't see, I can't see, I'm going blind. I couldnt bare it anymore, I closed my eyes for hours. I learnt the layout of my house without vision, helped by my memories of the times ive done the same without light, guided by walls and memories. Hours turned to days, I couldnt talk to her anymore, the blind assistance only helped a bit, but the warmth was gone. A little change, from words on a screen to spoken text to speech communication allowed by the computer's assistance. But it wasnt the same, I needed it, I needed her. I opened my eyes. Static. Static, white noise. A connection. I saw a new familiar place. What the webcam never allowed me to see. I saw the chatlog window be opened. And how she typed on my left eye. While the sweet warning that she was typing appeared on my right one. I understood. I started typing too, and she deleted what was in process and replied without real communication being needed. I couldnt hear her but I didnt need it. After a bit she grabbed a piece of paper and started scribbling on it I did the same. When we were done talking, we burned the papers. It was a new form of communication. Private and unique for us. Just for us. Closer than ever before. We didnt need intermediary channels anymore. We were connected, we were one. A true connection. The relationship we deserved.

[heantractor]

sprouts

Everyday i tend this little garden of mine A small little spot in the back of my home Its nothing impressive, a few house plants, some easy to grow produce, if im lucky i find seeds for some rare flowers Everyday i tend to them to the best of my capabilities I used to not be as good More than a few of them wilted under the effects of the local water, there are rumors of heavy metals in the supply, i should have listened But what was done was done i started using bottled water It worked for a while, but the expenses piled up, i ended up taking the plunge, installed a water purifying system in my waterworks But even after that my plants didn't really grow They stuck to the first phases of growth for months until with no fruit beared they wilted once again I started asking everyone for advice And i got so much information So much conflicting data I applied it all Better soil, better substrate, bigger pots, smaller ones, better tools, better fertilizer, softer care, more patience, more attention I did all i could And still the fresh batch i planted a few months ago The one that finally showed promise, signs that i finally made it, i finally got it I awoke today to see a wilted pile of sickly brownish green Like every time There's no fruit to my labour, no positive reinforcement for my effort Every time I end up waking up to the same scene, a pile of shit on fucking pots that dare me to try again To be stupid enough to think its gonna be different Mocking me to try again as those pots have no further use than to make me create false hope yet again Yet again Yet again I want to cry, i can't do this anymore A garden is to be planted, to grow stuff in it There's no further intent to it, there's nothing else to it i can do besides failing to use it time and time again, thinking everytime this will be the one Just to be shot reality yet again that im not meant for this That everything i ever touch it wilts That i destroy life itself with my mere intent I can't do this anymore I can't do this anymore i say as i grab the shovel I can't do this anymore i say as i get the bag with new soil I can't do this anymore as i find new seeds Of house plants, produce and some rare flowers, cus I've been lucky this time And that is because i really can't do this anymore But in a small little spot in the back of my home i have this little garden of mine And i guess I'll tend to it for the time being

[heantractor]

blocks

There are building blocks next to my bed. And some rough sketches on what their intended use is. The times i manage to get out of my bed I place them in their designated spot. It's so tiring, they're so heavy. I manage to place one or two before I need to pass out on the old beaten up matress yet again. Sometimes I don't manage. Sometimes the weight wins and my arms and hands become sore, unable to even more after that. I follow the sketches to the best of my ability. Whoever left them there didnt seem to know what they were doing really. But you can see confidence. Theres not a single eraser stain, what was drawn was left, no matter what. There are some sketches that show that confidence. Floating blocks, blocks I don't even have ownership of. Shapes that are bigger than the place I reside in. They can be fulfilled somehow, through some steps not denoted, not left to me in any place. I do what I can everyday and build little by little. The structure usually stays the same. Sometimes new stuff gets added, following the instructions very close. With some minor modificacions, more rotation than indicated. A bit too far to the left or to the right. And sometimes the blocks reset. Nothing left for me to continue working on. The same blocks and a blank slate. So I start again, I follow the schemes and hope that tomorrow I will be able to wake up and continue. I have time, an undisclosed ammount. I don't rush, but there's a clock. So i know there's an ammount I should worry about, whichever it is.

One day I placed a block wrong. Then another. And another And another They were so lightweight and it's shape was so beautiful. My mind wandered and felt like something was rushing thru it. A powerful feeling, liberating. There were no walls, no orders, no papers or limitations. I finished within the day, I wasn't tired but I felt accomplished. The bed felt more fluffy and warm than before. It was a nice sleep. A comfortable dream. I woke up blind the next day, rustling on my face. One of the simplest schemes was taped to me overnight. I looked at my creation. It was gone, not demolished or modified. The blocks had vanished. The remaining ones couldnt complete some of the more complex designs I don't know what to do now, I cant fulfill my designations now. So i just do what I can. Without knowing why or what will I do. Sometimes I stop following the orders gave to me in silent writing. And the blocks disappear, replaced by more and more hard to understand instructions. The days I cant get up I wonder what will happen when all the blocks disappear. When I have no more building blocks to build from. Or what would have happen if I did exactly what I was told to do. I can't know that anymore. But I can continue until I have nothing more. And see what happens afterwards.

[heantractor]

102.4

Theres a black radio in the house I ended up in. Everyday I turn the radio to check the 100 channels that can transmit. From 88.0 to 108.0. There's not much to do, cooking never takes more than an hour. I can't force sleep more than what my body allows. Exercise would be a waste of resources and those who remained didn't have the time to prepare anything else to entertain ourselves. And I can't go outside. I stay in each station for around 10 minutes, listening to the white garbled noise coming out of the speakers in hopes of something tangible and understandable suddenly appearing. It didn't for a long time. For so long. One day, when I was almost at the end of my daily tuning rutine, the static disappeared. On 102.4. Four notes played. Four xylophone notes, two continuous low notes, a little break, another higher note, another shorter break and a final lower note that lingers for a bit, before the whole sequence ended. I was so happy. I found it, someone out there, transmitting, proving that they existing, proving that they were there. Keeping me company. I listened for hours, I didn't sleep that day. The whole next day I kept listening while I let the hours pass. I felt a warmth inside me that the thermostat couldn't give me. I have to recognise it would have turned grating pretty quickly. But there was slight variation. Enough to mantain the familiarity, the welcoming embrace I felt and could always return to. But sometimes a note took a little more or a little less than the times before. Or the pitch of a single note was a bit higher or lower. Sometimes a new note was added to the little composition, or one was removed. That variation made it so it never so it never got stale. While it lasted. I don't know how long that broadcast accompanied me, several weeks or even some months. It felt like a lifetime together. But one day I woke up after falling asleep to our notes. And I woke up to that old static. That headache inducing white noise. I didn't change the channel. I remained, the static unwavering. Sometimes I swear I could hear it fluctuate, growing higher and lower Like if it was laughing at me. Sometimes it grew so loud I could swear my ears would be pierced and become unusable. I don't remember how many days I spent cathatonic, without eating or moving. But one day I grabbed the dial again. And the static complained, it groaned as I forced it back to 88.0. Angry that I was forcing change unto it. But I did not care, I kept searching. 10 minutes on each 0.2 frequency, 100 channels. I will admit I returned to that frequency sometimes. 102.4. At first it was after I checked each channel. Hoping our little melody would return, that I would be welcomed home yet again. But only static welcomed me. But little by little I checked less and less. Everyday I search more and remain less on where I used to be. I know someday I won't check at all except when it's turn comes. I won't forget what we had, but I will grow from it. And find something new. A new comfort. A new home.