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How I Recognized my Soulmate

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I married my soulmate, Kilian, on Valentine’s Day. Our Ceremony Speech, about how we recognized each other, was a true story. I recounted it to Kilian and he wrote it out for our lovely priestess Lauren to read:

smallcove3Four years ago, Erica had a dream. Standing on a snowy rise, she was captivated by the sight of a stranger. He wore a long dark coat, just like hers. As their eyes met, they both recognized the familiar sight of destiny. They knew, from a single stare; they are One.

For all of her life, she had been writing stories about this stranger, this one man amongst men, who possesses the very soul that has been, and always will be, intertwined with her own.  And for as surely as she knew this, she saw that he recognized the same. He too, had written countless stories about her, and dreamed about many delights.

No word was spoken, no question was asked. For truth had been felt, their hearts had been joined. They knew, that from that moment forward, they belonged together and would be, for the rest of their lives.

He took her hand, and put his arm around her. Together, they walked up the frosty hill. The couple approached a square shaped pool, with its surface frozen over. Surrounding it were wooden cabins, each with a large, cozy firepot placed on the porch. There were people playing acoustic guitars, there was singing, and there was eating by the fires.

The two lovers presented themselves to everyone, greeting all with heartfelt warmth, and leaving no doubt that the two of them belonged together.

After she awakened, Erica was convinced that she would, indeed, meet this man. Her heart knew the man in her dream was real, and that he was looking for her too.

When Erica first saw Kilian’s eyes, she recognized the gaze of the man of her dream. She recognized her soulmate. Just like in the dream, both she and he only needed one look to know they had imagined each other before, and that they were always meant to be.

As they got to know each other better over time and text, Erica discovered that Kilian possesses traits she had always associated with the man in her dream. Traits she had written down before to make sure to never forget.

In many ways, the universe shows us deep truths. It tells us many stories, from the making of time, to the dawn of men. And so, as it had happened before, Erica and Kilian met, and recognized destiny in each other’s gaze.

 

Let Evolution Weed them Out

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“Let evolution weed them out” you say.

Evolution certainly does.

It weeds out the dreamers, the lovers, the bleeding hearts. You can’t spill the pain from your eyes and survive. But nobody told him to keep it inside. They loved the art, the poetry, the beauty, the glamor. That’s worth loving, isn’t it? I look on his facebook page. “I’ve loved you since highschool.” “I loved you like family.” So much love, yet no hope. Everyone loves a suffering artist. You grow to expect that outpour of art. The pain never stops. The art may light a fire in your soul. But it is not made of fire. This pain is an ocean. The depths are endless. Endless. The art is because we can’t fit it all inside. It may come in different forms. A lingering dampness in the air, a rainstorm, a tsunami, a typhoon. Blood, sweat and tears. You drink it in for dear life and you leave us there before you drown. After all, you need to survive. Build something that “lasts” because, of course, that’s what matters to you. You can count on us to be there, any day, any night, with another poem, another song, another expressive, sad-eyed selfie. That is what you love. What we feed. We nourish what you kill inside yourself. You don’t care where it comes from, but only that it is there. The minute we stop bleeding before you, we are lost in the abyss, condemned to compete against the undead survivors. Yet it is so much more fulfilling to express it in the form of beauty. Then at least you love us, truly, if only for an instant. Anyone will cry for a muse.

We don’t need money, mansions or fame. All we want is to be loved for who we really are… but nobody can even see who we really are. We pour it into art, music and poetry, and that is all you see. Yet, we cannot blame you. We did this to ourselves.

Art, music and poetry. It’s all I will ever be. It’s all he ever was and now, it is all that remains. If he were not embodying his pain… what would anyone remember? If he were not gorgeous, blond, body builder, surrounded in music and vibrant paintings, covered in beautiful tattoos of his own making.. would any of these women even care that he is dead? Nobody will ever know. He died young and everyone will remember the beauty. That is art. It’s all we sufferers are good for. Reminding the undead of the soul they have beaten to death in order to survive. Scraping up any corner of humanity to hold a mirror to the world and show them what they truly are. Beauty, pain and longing. Nothing and everything. Life and death.

You fight to survive and we fight to live. Thus, you will survive, and we… we will live. Enjoy the mirror while you can. Evolution will handle us.

~ For Dave Berlingeri. RIP ~

My Ideal Partner

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I’m not attracted to what society generally finds attractive in terms of personality. Looks plays a part in that too but I will get to that.

Example 1: I need a guy who is friends with his rage. I want to taste his anger and I want him to taste mine. That does not mean picking petty fights. I do want respect and patience, but I can’t stand it when people do not feel their own emotions. That said there’s also a balance – I have a zero-tolerance policy for violence. In my experience, someone comfortable with his rage is less likely to be violent. People who bottle it up might get violent at unexpected times.

Example 2: I am drawn to men with sad eyes. I love that release of emotion. I don’t like things that are fake and contained, and I don’t like people who are dead inside, unable to feel their own pain.

Example 3: I’m not attracted to politeness, though it has its place, like at dinners with stuffy family members (not my family though, we like to laugh and argue). Out of all the people I’ve been most crazy about, any one of them would tell me when my logic makes no sense, what I’m wearing doesn’t look that great, my plot was too predictable in my book, or my song was too long. I need honesty, and I don’t want my toes sucked. I am all for praise, but I won’t buy it unless I see that it’s honest and earned.

Example 4: I don’t want him to be too polished, or to expect that out of me. I love obsessive eating habits and workouts, but I can’t stand superficial status symbols. I am ‘so carnal it’s spiritual’ and I need someone who can appreciate that. Although I can clean up nice, it’s very hard for me to pretend to be classy and prudish on a regular basis.

Example 5: I don’t like men who are overly sociable or involved with a social life. I need someone who sees through a lot of superficial bullshit, like social expectations, television, propaganda politics and drama between other humans. I want him to be more into himself than other people.

Example 6: I don’t want to be overloaded with attention. I need space to do my hobbies. If I can’t sit comfortably in a room with a guy ignoring each other on our separate laptops, I will not fall for him.

Now, what I do want.

My descriptions might sound like I am into rude emo assholes, but that is absolutely not the case. In fact, the guys i have fallen hard for, most people would call adorable and innocent. I fall for the sweet ones, the ones with tons of compassion, huge hearts and lots of feelings. Yet this is why I emphasize honest expression: it’s impossible to know compassion without knowing one’s own darker side too.

I need someone who loves animals, feels connected to his true nature, who loves his fantasies, who ravages his thoughts whole. I need someone alive, who appreciates life. It can come in the form of sex, being in nature, art, questioning the meaning of things, trying to understand physics, hunting their own meat, building their own home or a myriad of other things. I don’t care what his passion is as long as it breathes life into him.

So, my fascination with Native American culture might make sense then. I love the connectivity to the Earth, the openness to nature. I love the concept that they use every part of the animals they hunt and appreciate what they are consuming. I love that sensitivity. I love crying flutes and wild tribal drums and warrior dances that express darkness. There are ideas about releasing rage. I love the connectivity with our true nature and everything that makes us human and animal.

Everything is symbolic. Nothing is just looks.

That said I am very attuned to beauty and what it evokes in my mind. A strong jaw feels manly to me. Big lips are sensuous and inviting, like he could caress me or devour me. I love big hands, how they feel. I love how a certain body type fits against mine. I love how motion expresses who people are, in general, and I am attuned to how a man moves. I love long hair, an extension of one’s wildness. I love any expression of honest sadness, fear, shame, rage or hope. I love expressive eyes. I love life.

I was resurrected from the undead about a decade ago. I was a vampire once myself, feeding on the blood and innocence of the living. I hungered for life even then, but I could only find it outside of myself. I could drink it in, but I could not give it back. I know too well that it is not a state you can rescue someone from. Someone has to make that choice, on their own, and resurrect themselves by the very light of their own dreams. Of course, others can inspire and help along the way – but life has to come from within.

Anyone who is dead inside cannot understand me. Nobody can understand me in full because they have not been where I’ve been, but at least the living can understand me now. I don’t want to date most of the human species because most of them do not taste life the way I do. They do not feel the rhythm of the world, the depth of their pain, the fire of their appetite. They resent me for being too sensitive, for bleeding, for having blood at all.

I have serious blocks against making myself vulnerable to rejection, so I need to be with someone who inherently understands this, without too much ado, because he is the same way. If I am not seen, and loved, for who I am, I would rather be alone.

I Don’t Believe in Love Anymore

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I don’t believe in love anymore.

Much like God is a personal experience, I acknowledge that Love is a personal experience.
If you believe in God, then, God is real to you. And I accept that you may be right.
Likewise, if you believe in Love, it is real to you.

Love may exist for others.
And I don’t doubt that your love is true.
I believe you. I believe it is real because you name it, you embrace it, you own it and you believe it.
It is simply the most sacred thing on Earth and it remains sacred in my eyes as well.

But, I do not believe I can be loved.
I can be admired, seduced, chased, adored… but not loved.
The moment I love someone back, they can’t handle my passion.

I am like a wildfire. Everyone watches from their windows as it consumes the faraway mountaintops. Their minds are filled with dreams and fears as they stare in awe at the beautiful chaos before them. But if that fire comes too close to their home, they will go to any length to put it out.

I have suffered a lot in my life. I’ve had my heart broken beyond belief, twice in the past. I lost my voice, my passion, my everything. I lost my autonomy. But through all my losses, I still believed in love. I still believed that one day, I would find love.

I cannot believe it anymore. I can be admired, and men can obsess over me and praise me to the skies, and believe me, they do. But the moment I become vulnerable, and I am no longer an exciting chase, they are turned off, gone. I am no longer beautiful in my honest, bare, bleeding form. My vulnerable emotions, my caring, my tears, my will to give and give, to merge, to BECOME this passion that consumes me, to be there for him when he falls, to admire him, to sing his praises… it arouses terror and hatred.

I know how to play chase-me. I can win that game every time. But I do not know how to share my true, honest, vulnerable heart without scaring men away.

Please, if you believe in love, do not let my musings implement doubt in your minds. You are not me. You can be loved. I cannot.

Consider my faith abandoned.

The Wall of Rage has Cracked

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The wall of rage has cracked. Beyond it lies a shivering child, curled up in a ball, crying because you will never love me. No matter how many walls I build, I can’t erase what lies at the core without losing everything about myself that matters. You have infiltrated me so deeply that removing you would mean removing compassion, honesty, happiness, sorrow, anger and life itself. I can’t go through that again. I worked too hard to resurrect myself from the undead. I can’t let you take my essence away from me. I would rather cry for the rest of my life than harden and go back to being undead, a shell of hunger and rage with no soul.

I refuse to need anyone but me. So I will not say I need you to love me. I am stronger and wiser than that. What I need is to love you. Because it is who I am, and it is real. And I need to be me. I need to let it pass through me. Last time I blocked out my feelings for you, I had one panic attack after another and could not even eat without fearing I would choke. If I hadn’t been undead for so long, perhaps I would not have panicked. But the feeling was too reminiscent of those years when I hardened from trauma. I don’t know how to extract my love for you from the depths of my essence without dismantling and ruining my essence in its entirety. I hate you for this, and that hate is genuine. But as long as I’m angry, sad, emotive and hot blooded, I’m still yours. When I am detached and cold, I am no longer yours – but in this case I cannot detach without icing over the beating heart at my very center.

I can’t explain why I feel this way. You don’t meet any list of qualifications that matters to me. You are less in line with my list of desirable traits in so many ways than other men I have known. Yet you got in deep. And I can’t get you out without paying a price that I am not willing to pay.

You might realize I coo over you like a school girl, but you might not realize why I do it, and that I never did this for other men, even when I was crazy about them. You might not realize how deeply you touch me.. and how thoroughly my love for you has entwined itself in the very fibers of my core. Even I cannot explain why. If you asked me what I love about you, most of the things I list are not even things that I rationally value, even if they are impressive. I can’t explain. I just want you to thrive. I want you to laugh. I want you to feel. I want you to let someone in, even if not me. I want you to live. I want to hurt you. I want to make you suffer. That pain will make you feel alive. It will reveal your heart. And just for that, it is worth it to hit you where it hurts.

I will hold you accountable for your cruel words for both of our sake. I will not let you get away with brushing me off as if I am one of many, unimportant, insignificant and irrelevant. I can’t let you imply I am nothing to you but a bit of entertainment, a random activity to pass the time, and nothing more… not without holding you accountable for all of the tears I shed when you act this way. My tears are my own responsibility, but when I tried to let you go, you reeled me back in with such passion and care, then suddenly discarded all of the tenderness you showed me before. You play with my heart and take my forgiveness for granted. I can’t let you do this. For both our sakes, the thoughtless cruelty needs to stop. I will not be brushed off as a pastime by the very person who always makes time for me. This confuses me and tears me up to the core. You were cold-hearted and senseless, and you will pay.

But I can’t strike at you from the place of coldness and detachment that I fantasize about. I can’t. I wish I could say that if you want me you have to seduce me, and everything will be on my terms from now on. I truly felt that way, just yesterday. I was angry and energetic and fantasizing about revenge for three days, turned on physically and sexually by the thought of making you suffer and walking away forever. But it was so easy to break through the anger just by hearing a few love songs that expressed what I feel underneath. I can’t deny that the minute I heard those songs, I cried and cried and cried, and just wanted to crawl into your arms, and tell you how amazing you are, and that I will do anything for you because I have no other choice – being true to you is being true to myself.

I know you can’t handle all my feelings and passion. I know we will never work. I know that you reject everything I stand for. I know that being together isn’t logical. But you have awakened parts of me that I never knew were there, which is insane for someone as self-aware and emotionally exploratory as me. I don’t know how you did it. I hate you for it. Yet here we are, addicted to each other, unable to pry ourselves apart. What can I do? I feel hopeless and defenseless. What can I do but surrender?

Logic and Passion

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How can you convince someone that it’s logical to choose an intensely difficult path simply because their heart pulls them toward it?

If it isn’t logical to follow my heart to the ends of the Earth, why does it feel so right? Why does it feel so wrong to do otherwise? As a human animal I have the capacity for passion, emotion, and reason. Nothing feels quite right unless all of those components align. If something feels so right, then it must be logical.

I can’t prove that my heart always leads me to the right place. But I know it does. I believe it, and trust it, and so it leads me exactly where I need to be. It’s impossible to convince anyone that this is logical. The only logic behind it is that there is no other point in being alive. What is the point of life if we let love slip from our grasp? What is the point of surviving if you aren’t living? What makes you want to get out of bed in the morning? What gets you through a hard day’s work? What is it all for?

My dreams are logical because they exist. Because my desire is more tangible than the bed I am burning in. My dreams are my reality and reality is what you make it. Life imitates art and art imitates life. My dreams are life.

When my heart sings, it screams. It howls and bleeds and burns. There is no mistaking that song. My body tells me what I feel and my feelings tell me what I am.

Somehow, some way, I follow my heart and beat the odds senseless. Someone who is fit to be my partner would do the same. If his heart burns for me, it would be logical to seize me at any cost. I am far from perfect, but I am irreplaceable.

He Tortures me.. and it Turns Me On

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I’m not talking about cruelty or abuse.

I’m talking about a challenge so difficult it borders on torture. Someone so brilliant.. always twenty steps ahead. Someone who sees right through me, all the way to my core, and accepts me. Someone who never hesitates to one-up me, outwit me or call me out on my darkest, deepest flaws, with a loving smile. Someone whose cryptic challenges bring me to my metaphorical knees. Someone complicated, deep and twisted who loves this game just as much as I do. Beautiful, fulfilling, satisfying torture.

I would inspire him. My relative simplicity would be comforting to him. My admiration would motivate him. His mind would be as powerful as my passion. Inspiration. Together we could do anything.

It may be a fantasy…

But I could never settle for less.

Self-Expression is a Mirror

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This is what I mean when I refer to self-expression. I do my best to share my personal truth but people will not always interpret it the way it is meant. This is why I refer to artwork as a mirror. When I create it, it’s my mirror, but when someone else views it, it’s their own mirror to see as they see fit. This is why I don’t believe two people can truly understand each other, but in essence we are all the same, so if we understand what makes us human then we really understand what is essential about each other perfectly.

Sex is Communication

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I love sex and I want it real. I believe sex is a communication between two people, and therefore I don’t go in with any expectations; I let the dynamic develop on its own. I yearn to devour every corner of the person’s mind, heart, and body, and for them to devour mine, to the point where there is nothing left of us but sweat and nails and thrusts, and we don’t even know who is who anymore. The specific manner in which this occurs can vary, depending on the dynamic between us. And I feed off the dreams of others. I derive immense pleasure from sharing someone else’s dreams and fantasies, and becoming part of them; taking them on as my own, and immersing myself in their deepest yearnings and the most human, naked parts of their psyche that play out in the bedroom.

But if I am to speak of my own fantasies, I would want no toys, no roleplay, no BDSM rules or roles. I would want to fight for dominance, but be overpowered by raw strength; nothing but the force of limbs, chest, hips, lust and bare hands. It is only when I fight for dominance and end up completely overpowered that I feel truly dominated, and there is *nothing* more invigorating. I yearn to lose control, to lose myself, to lose all notions of power, to feel completely vulnerable; to achieve catharsis. But in order to do so, I would need to know that the person had my best interest in mind, would die for me, would protect me at all costs. If that is not the case, I could not trust him enough to lose myself entirely. At least a small part of me would remain on guard.

Erosia Cast You Out

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67107_10150356161500322_2889701_nDear Ruby

Tell me something so I can release myself from this LIMBO.
Pervert me or cleanse me.
Erosia has locked the gates and will never let us back in
but you carry on as though one day everyone will be judged at the gates of Erosia
you uphold a standard of behaviour for everyone as though someone else’s manner will be absorbed into you and poison you or detract from your quest to make it back to a place that cast you out.
Erosia cast you out, Ruby.
Erosia cast you out because of what you did and who you were
And who you are.

You have not changed since Erosia cast you out except to pile on the traits that Erosia rejected
You do all the things Erosia cast you out for and you do them twice as hard, with vengeance and defiance
As though one day Erosia will see how well it worked for you and welcome you back in with all your bad behavior, your mistakes and your flaws.
But it doesn’t work that way Ruby.
Erosia will always be there for those who can love. In Erosia every day is Valentine’s Day. You are Ruby Valentine, you were like a prince there. You were more loved than anyone there.

Every day was your day to be loved and to love. But you could not love and you could not accept love so Erosia cast you out. The love of the people of Erosia had to go to someone or something that could give it back, that could appreciate it, that could grow with it and help it grow.
Love is not a commodity to vie for, or an accomplishment to praise yourself for, or a reward to collect and display on a shelf among other rewards, other items you have collected in the past. Love is not territory to conquer and love is not a conquest to keep you motivated. Maybe you think love was Love in Erosia, and out here in Dystopia, love is twisted. Love lost its meaning, or disintegrated. Love is corrupt and therefore you pursue it in the manner of seeking instant gratification, symbols of love, collections suggesting having been loved, conquests demonstrating your ability to win love… but it is not love you are displaying, earning and it is not love you are gaining. It is this thing we see all over Dystopia, this ideal nobody can reach. Those few of us who attain it are welcome in Erosia, but outside the gates of Erosia there are only seekers, conquerers, faithless objectifiers. But the problem is we all give in to it.
Don’t give in to it Ruby.
You don’t have to give in to it.

I am out here in Dystopia because I found myself unable to love in Erosia when you were not there to be loved. I found myself unable to accept love from other people like I did from you. Obviously I thought I could love and be loved but I was wrong.
Erosia cast me out because in my mind I embodied the idea, the concept of love, in your image. You, Ruby Valentine, were the figure, the external force, the bearer of all that I could understand of love. Without you I was unable to feel that within myself or to extract or share it with other people. But I realize now that perhaps I did not love you either. I wanted you to be the best you could be; I put your needs and desires before my own. I called this Love because it felt bigger and greater than I was. But the kind of love people feel in Erosia is even beyond that. It does not entail feeling rejected and disappointed by a loved one’s shortcomings.

Ruby – neither of us belong in Erosia. I used to believe that if we were together we would make it back to Erosia. We would heal and forgive one another and overcome everything. But now I wonder. If I loved you I might cry only for the emotion that stirs within me when we hug like I used to. I might cry because your guitar solo tears at the gut of my piano melody. Like I so often did in Erosia. But now I am crying because you are not here. You are not here because you don’t care about me enough to find ways to see me. You didn’t even see me for more than a few minutes when I came to see you. You walked away. I am crying because you don’t love me anymore. Because you are not the Ruby I remember or fell in love with, and I wonder if you ever were. I wonder if I fell in love with the best parts of myself that were magnified in your music and reflected in your image. I wonder if you – Ruby Valentine – were like a God to me. Music was the God that we both shared, and for so long we shared our music and brought one another’s – and the collective whole – of music to the divine levels that could be shared by our elevated consciousness and an entire elevated audience; the people of Erosia. But now it is not music I am lacking. Music pours forth from me but all of the music is inspired or driven by the lack of you, your love, your smile, your guitar solo. I have to pluck out the solos myself over a recorded track. You are not there with me. The music and lyrics beg for you Ruby.

1514290_10152238302894636_1481022917_nAnd the force that runs through my body as the music spills out of my fingers is only divine because it fills the space that you left. I am filling that space in myself but I am crying because I wish it felt whole. I wish there were not a space fo fill; a riff needing a guitar solo, a picture needing another musician. I pick myself apart wondering why I need you. How I lost you. What I did wrong. Why you are not excited and yearning to see me like you used to. Why you treat me and your other friends like we are undeserving of your affection. You used to display affection towards all of your admirers and lovers. Now there is a standard no one can meet, and by pushing everyone away, you stay alone and you fail to meet that standard yourself.

But I am doing the same thing.

I am pushing everybody else away because they can’t measure up to you. Ruby Valentine. I push you away because you can’t measure up to my memory of you. I am at fault here and I expect you to fix it. I cry because you won’t change, but I am doing the same thing. That is why I cannot see you anymore. I can’t see you. I want to see you and be next to you or even watch you from afar – more than anything. But I seek you out and I see something else, something other than the Ruby I remember, and I feel disappointed. I can keep focusing on how you don’t measure up to the memory or no one else measures up to you, or I can remove myself and try to find out why I feel unsatisfied. I refuse to do what you are doing; to try to get back to Erosia when the only way to get back is to love where you are, and who you are, whatever and wherever that may be. But I am doing that anyway by trying to love you, or wishing you loved me. I am trying to regain something that I lost, or something that extracted me and rejected me. And I can’t anymore. I need to be here. In Dystopia. I can’t help wishing you were with me, but I know it’s an empty and self destructive wish because I feel the most distance between us when you are right next to me.

1606916_10152238428649636_1143623640_n

I want to see you more than I want anything in this world, and I know where to look for you, but it’s ‘fata morgana,’ a hopeless quest, because I never feel that you were fully there.

Please understand Ruby – I once loved you but now you have become a path, a symbol, a lost truth to obtain, a goal, a failure. I don’t want to objectify you anymore and I am going to try to stay away from you until I can fill that space myself and need you less.

My past letters have focused on you and us, but this letter is all about me, so I really don’t need to send it to you. It will not benefit you in any way. I just had to write it. This is where it ends. There may be more letters and feelings but I am redirecting them at myself rather than you, and that is why I address them to Ruby, not you.

-Erica Xenne

 

~Diary 2007