A Date With Death.

 A DATE WITH DEATH ; The Original Draft

What begins as rebellion becomes routine — a slow romance with decay, a momentary escape from the weight of being.

By: Drusilla U.

    The delicate, weightless gasp of our souls’ exhale — fleeting, beautiful, already fading.
The rising smoke hugs your chapped lips, ripped and torn at the seams, dried blood clinging to the cracks — a stark, anxious reminder that you’re wounded.
Yet you no longer feel the wounds. They simply exist: concrete, undeniable, but distant from lived reality. So far removed from consciousness.

Perhaps we’ve all quietly agreed to condone the constant harm we put our bodies through — the small violences disguised as pleasure.
Once pure. Untouched. A perfect vessel.
We taint it slowly, quickening the pace of death because it feels good. It feels real. Something that feels this good couldn’t possibly cause that much harm, could it?

You only live once.
It’s just a rite of passage — a ritual of youth, they say.
Are you really a college student if you aren’t drinking? Smoking? Partying?

You sit alone, cradling a book, clinging to your homework like a lifeline — because it is. The only way not to let yourself or your family down.
But on nights when others laugh, post, and glow under neon lights, you feel that ache.
The quiet jealousy.
You insist you don’t want it, but you do — the illusion of freedom.

What you don’t see are the hollow eyes behind those smiles.
The way those “friends” cling to one another like leeches — enabling, numbing, erasing.
Not always, of course, but often enough.
Sometimes a drinking buddy is but a drinking buddy.

Smoking.

My throat tightens at the thought of my younger self watching me fiddle with this small, dual-colored stick that reeks of tobacco.
It fits perfectly between my fingers.
I play with it like a toy.
I tell myself I control it. It doesn’t control me.

But then I see her — that younger me — covering her dolls’ eyes at the sight of who I’ve become.

She doesn’t know yet what it took to get here.
The smoke isn’t the true horror; it’s only the symptom, the visible scar.
Look closer: the hollow eyes, the faded expression, the tangled hair, the smile that tries too hard.
My soul screams while my mind consumes my body like an incurable disease.

Smoking begins as rebellion, becomes ritual, then routine.
What starts as curiosity transforms into dependency — a lover that holds you, chokes you, promises comfort, and delivers decay.
At first, it’s just a kiss. Then a fling. Then something more intimate, intoxicating, binding.
You wake up one day and realize: you’ve entered a pact with death.
A slow, hedonistic, deceptively peaceful suicide.

You make this cycle of self-destruction feel familiar — so routine that it becomes a place you call home, even though it’s not a refuge.
That dizzy, fleeting high. The burn in your throat. The ache in your chest.
It’s not even exciting anymore — it’s familiar.
Forever chasing that first high — the one that lied, said you were invincible.
Now, it’s the only thing that feels real.
You’re caught in smoking’s grasp, a trap you can’t escape.

When I smoke, I feel the world dissolve — its edges blur, its weight forgotten. 

I’m sinking, yet floating. High on this cloud. 

There’s a hum behind my eyes; my brain loosens, as if a knot has quietly come undone. 

The streetlights flicker. The air thickens. Nothing matters anymore. 

Hum…

 Just this breath. Just this moment. 

Me and the night — unreal, but almost perfect. 

I’m on a date with Death.

You can never go back to Earth once you’ve had a taste of Mars.

He’ll ease your strain.

You’ll be waiting in vain.

I got nothing for you to gain.

I once promised myself I’d never smoke.
I remember my first kiss with a cigarette — my first taste of rebellion, my first betrayal of self.

It was night.
Mom was driving, and her friend’s purse sat on the seat beside me.
The city lights were sharp, cold, metallic.
I was fifteen — invincible, restless, ready to devour the world.

My hand slipped into the purse. Marlboro Gold.
Three would be enough.
She wouldn’t notice.

I didn’t know then that the smallest acts of rebellion can become the biggest chains.
Because smoking isn’t just an addiction to nicotine.
It’s an addiction to illusion — the illusion of control, of calm, of maturity.

It’s wanting to forget that you exist, if only for a moment.

To blur the borders between body and air.

Sometimes, we don’t smoke to feel alive.

We smoke to forget that we are.

And sometimes, we smoke to feel anything at all.

Weeping Sculpture :: Pretty When You Cry

The Weeping Sculpture

♡

09/12/25

Vignette By: Drusilla U.

I live in such a strange world.

Glass eyes in my sockets -- starry nights reflecting on black beads.
Tears are a private map, a secret one folds and tucks away; a sign of breaking.
But I scatter mine for everyone to see.
I commend myself for strength like a soldier who stood through a dark, hopeless war.

Tears are swallowed by pillows at night, breathed out like a thick cloud that chokes.
“I write like a soulful kindergartener.” The words came from her bitten lips, a simple confessional. She said it proudly, overlooking the tears that sprouted and stalled her voice.

She looked at herself in the little black screen -- eyes big, a little swollen.
No one ever felt pain when she cried; to them her tears were beautiful.
Expressive. Soulful. Admired.
She became a portrait people passed and lingered by, careful not to disturb the crying thing.

It was a spectacle: her cries, a burden or amusement, a beauty to watch.
Never human. So human and yet made strange to others.
Not for hugging -- too far to reach.
A fragile glass woman, sculpted by her own haunting grace.

The right amount of not enough.

 Moon, Ruined

You ruined the moon for me.
She is no longer beautiful --
yet still I hide beneath her dimming light.

When I see her, I can smell your shirt,
the one I wore for days until it stank.
They hid it from me,
but the memory lingers,
sweet until it turns to nausea.

I want to vomit you out.
I want to be vacant again.
But in silence I become a man who cries,
no longer stone.
Moon, wicked traitor --
does my longing amuse you?

Some nights I dream of selling my heart for fame,
just so I won’t be forgotten
the way you forgot me.

My body remembers:
a slip, blood at the ankle,
a fingernail ripped clean,
paint burning the wound.
My own nails carving my arms
the night you pushed me away.

Still, I love the moon.
She is the most beautiful thing
this world has left.

Your name is a sin I whisper,
soft and secret.
I am a filthy dog,
and you hold the leash --
tight, without knowing.

No one is enough for me,
no one will be.
Maybe you were
the right amount of not enough.

Moon.

I lost my glasses.

 07/10/25

By: Drusilla U.

Happily handicapped.

I lost my glasses and I found it pretty strange. I didn’t have a tantrum or go into a rage. I accepted it — bad things tend to happen to me. Now I can’t see a thing. Not the roads nor people’s beady black eyes piercing into me like a cooly steely knife punishing me for not meeting their standards. Blue, brown, green, doesn’t matter — at all eyes are black. They gleam with secrets, darkness, and hidden desires only their eyes showcase so explicitly.

Blue wandering eyes reach for my face, I can feel it.

But I don’t have my glasses, I can’t see the way they stare at my incompetence and lack of refinement.

Everything is a blur, as if the whole world had a foggy screen plastered over it all. The only thing I can see are my hands.

Perfectly I see my callouses, my reddened, tired, aging hands. 

I remember distinctly, though the memory is distant: how small and soft they once were. 

I like it you know?

Being blind.

I see no one’s faces, no one’s anything, only downside is I could get hit by a car but I’m free from the binds of judgement, the prison that is comparison. 

The fear that is birthed by other people's eyes.

Unable to see anymore, I live more free as if in my own little bubble, my comforting small happy land. So when I try to look at someone from afar I feel only a sense of relief when their face and body is so blotched and fuzzy I can’t make sense of any of the outlines, only colors.

The world is a colorful murky mess, unpronounceable splotches without definition. Pools of colors. Small buildings suddenly become churches, gardens take the form of lakes, my mind plays tricks on me. 

 It’s all so comforting, really.

Relieving.

Foolish, yes?

But.

These faceless figures walk past me and I no longer see them watch me with persecution. 

I was happy in this ignorant handicap.

Happily blind.

Living in a daze.

The Gluttunous King

The Gluttunous King

Living Flesh Devoid of Humanity.

By: Drusilla U.

Possessed by the spirit of indignant restlessness, I wander the night like a hollow ghastly man.

My worn attire sticks to my clothes, sinking into my skin.

Putrid smell — always mine — it dirties the air, a stench that clings to each room I enter, invading what was once pure and untainted. 

The king, how he loves to leave an impression.

The mind curates the psyche with larvae, growing, drilling into your thoughts, innocently gnawing away at your autonomy.

The king demands to sleep.

He pounds his palms against his thick head, racking it again and again.

The stinging sensation meant something must be working.

Perhaps… perhaps…

Stupefied, he thrashed around in his bed chambers, he wound up staring at the roof. 

For hours.

Who knew such a bleak dark space could have such interesting curves? 

Subtle, Strange, Beautiful.

The longer you stare into nothingness, the more there is.

His legs, plump meaty tree stumps, scurried over to the kitchen, carrying his mindless vessel to the kitchen, he hadn’t a single thought in his eaten away brain. 

Oh to fill this round carcass up, what a marvelous fantasy.

Plunder the kitchen of goods.

Feast!

A greedy gluttonous pig standing … wobbling on two sausage-like legs, taking more and more, there was no limit, there was only more and more to fill. 

No such thing as enough.

His fingers writhed like thick maggots, fleshy little things wriggling with desire and scrutiny. He seized the nearest flesh he found.

Crunch…

Crunch…

Slippery. Slimy. His mind felt it wasn’t right but his body yearned for more.

Unaware of it being raw. 

Blood flooded the King’s mouth, soaking his tongue, quenching his thirst for vitality. 

His teeth snapped the bones, grinding them up like a war machine. Mechanical routine. 

He sucked the bone marrow dry.

Flesh, bone, life --

All consumed by His Highness.

Crunch...

Inner World.

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes..."

 

⋘ ─── ∗ ⋅☽ ✧ ☾⋅ ∗ ─── ⋙

A Tip: Listen to while reading.

Inner World.  i-vii.

i. Everyone has one.

ii. Chasing Joy: Tag You're It.

iii. Childhood and Self

iv. Aging Backwards

v. Diagnosis

vi. And I?

vii. We Are Our Own Key.

Thoughts Brought To Life By: Drusilla U.

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An Inner World...

i. Everyone Has One

No matter what a person looks like, how they act, or how distant they seem -- they have one too.

The person you argue with? They might be replaying a childhood hurt.

The person you admire? They may secretly doubt themselves every day.

Everyone has a story playing silently behind their eyes.

When we remember this, we soften.

We become more curious, less judgmental, and more human.

It’s the beginning of empathy -- seeing others not just for what they do, but for what they carry.

✦☾ ✩ ☽✦

ii. Chasing Joy: Tag You’re It

Think of your inner world as a playground. Joy isn’t something we wait for -- it’s something we can create.

The way we interpret events, speak to ourselves, and imagine the future... it’s all from inside. And it shapes whether we feel joy or not.

That phrase “tag, you’re it," reminds us that joy can be contagious, something we can pass on. But it’s also a challenge:

If joy is missing, maybe it’s our turn to chase it, to create it, to choose it -- even in small ways.

iii. Childhood & Self

TOCKA: "a profound emotional state—a mix of melancholy, spiritual anguish, longing, and existential sadness."

a. The Roots of Joy

Our childhood forms the foundation of our inner world. In those early years, we naturally gravitate toward what brings us joy -- drawing, storytelling, exploring, building.

These aren’t just hobbies; they’re pure expressions of self before the world told us who to be.

b. Growing Up

As we age, responsibilities, fear of judgment, and the pressure to “grow up” can pull us away from those joys. But the inner world never forgets. Joy waits quietly, ready to be rediscovered.

c. Time Travel

Someone who loved drawing might stop for years. But when they pick up a pencil again, joy returns -- not just nostalgia, but a reunion with their core self. The joy we seek as adults often has roots in the forgotten joys of childhood. Reconnecting with them brings purpose, healing, and authenticity.

iv. Growing Backwards

Always get back up.

"Sometimes, healing doesn’t look like getting older -- it looks like going back and picking up the pieces."

Not everyone grows in a straight line. Trauma can freeze you. Grief can set you back. Some people are thirty and feel thirteen inside.

“Aging backwards” doesn’t mean immaturity -- it means emotional time travel. You can be smart, capable, and successful… and still carry an inner child who never healed.

When you notice those younger parts -- still afraid, still hoping -- you can begin to parent them. You can give yourself what you didn’t get. That, too, is growing up.

v. Diagnosis

In trying to “fix” ourselves, we often forget to understand ourselves.

Many live life as a series of symptoms -- burnout, sadness, numbness -- searching for answers in diagnoses, labels, or routines. But sometimes, that search drifts us further from the root: the child within, the part that once knew joy and truth.

What made me happy before the world told me who to be?

True healing isn’t about locking away the past or silencing that inner voice. It’s about turning toward it -- exploring childhood, heart, and self. The answers aren’t in the label, but in the buried parts we once needed to survive.

vi. And I?

I walk through adult life doing what’s expected -- working, surviving, enduring -- but deep inside lives that little girl: wide-eyed, scared, longing to be seen.

I used to think something was wrong with me -- that I was stuck, immature, broken.

Now, I see her as my compass.

When I started my blog, I wasn’t just writing -- I was remembering. Reconnecting with the younger me who loved words. Choosing to write meant choosing her.

vii. We Are Our Own Key

No one else can unlock the door to who we are.

Not a therapist not a diagnosis, not even love from others. They can guide us, certainly -- but only we can open the door.

For years, I waited for someone to see me deeply enough to save me. But healing began when I stopped waiting.

I realized I’ve always had the key -- in the things I love, in the way I write, in the joy I feel when I choose myself.

The door was never locked to punish me -- it was waiting for me to come home.

We are not broken. We are layered. Beneath fear, silence, and survival lives the child, the artist, the soul.

We are our own key.

We always were.

“And you?” Perhaps the reader might wonder.

 I’m no longer lost. I’m finding myself again -- one word, one joy, one act of love at a time.

Each day I accomplish one act that makes me proud.

Makes my heart skip with joy and pride.

I grow constantly. 

Never stagnant.

Always, authentically I, Drusilla Ugolini.

And you should try it too, don't you think?