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Quote by Aksa karim

“What should i ache for? The childhood that slipped away? The silence that became my companion? The love that got fed up of me? The consistent throb in the left side of my chest? The need to reform ? The longing to change myself? or the pieces of myself I'll never get back? Maybe pain isn't a phase- it's just who I am”

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“Up in the bunker [a secret refuge that Manuel has selected and prepared for a potentially necessary escape from society], I will also have time for fishing and hunting. There will even be notes for Rosner. During my first exploratory outing, I had noticed an acacia; it grew in the type of clearing that emerges when a tree collapses. The bush, like a gallows, was hung with skeletons. Although the skeletons were small, I recoiled at first glance. This sometimes happens when we unexpectedly stumble on nature’s cruelty. Rosner views this as resentment. He compares nature to a festive kitchen where everyone both consumes and is consumed. Nothing perishes; the equation works out. ‘Everything fertilizes everything else,’ as the farmers say. If I am to believe Rosner, we live partly on the beings that we produce in our innards in order to digest them. That is how one might picture the demiurge: up there as a world spirit, with Olympian serenity, delighting in the raging of animals and the warring of men; down here as a pot-bellied man, who benefits from every consuming and being consumed. This of course releases me from pain as little as it does the grenadier whose leg is shot off for the greater glory of the king. As an anarch, I also have to steer clear of martyrdom. And for the historian, the issue of pain is fundamental.”

PainMartyrdomAnarch
Book:Eumeswil
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“Posed In Vein by Stewart Stafford O Stephanie! In your cruciform puppetry, Bloody veins stretched out wiry To relive in a bondage diary. Subject mapped as inked skin she wears, Decorating, desecrating olden snares. Each needle kiss, a line defined, A pinprick story rushes her mind. By candlelight, in her coven deep, Secrets webbed flies must keep, Spelled out straight in her hexing book, Consort Lenore gives a cryptic look. They tug the strings, the marionette, Caught in her captor's welcome net. In artificial light, a social moth's mien, A wrought, posed, fetishistic scene. The knots are tight, the ropes defined; Bodily and in private mind. This mutual art, a supplicant's plea, Cut into her Kinbaku diary. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

PainBondageEroticGothicOccultBdsmDark PoetryBody HorrorBody ArtKinbaku
Author:Stewart Stafford
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