Re-Birth

Today was a very difficult day.

There is nothing worse than hearing someone you love tell you that you don’t love them.

There is nothing more painful than giving your all, and getting back dirt.

This will never happen again

I have closed off my heart

And know now that no man can be trusted with it

But tomorrow is a new day

And I will brighten my horizons, alone

I will be become my own best friend

THOUGHT PROVOKINGLY YOURS,

Tory Talayi

Expectations

Alma-Tadema Expectations 1885

Envision a sky so clear your reflections' demand attention

Imagine a man so cold your reflection cease to exist

Take in an entire lifetime of lovers

So where are they now?

Confirm to one that love is a necessity and watch life

fail over and over again

Travel to a time where Van Gogh's paintbrush could be confiscated

and notice the lack of starry nights today

Watch as the angels wings are clipped

and doubt no more that they have disappointed the faith once held

THOUGHT PROVOKINGLY YOURS,
TORY TALAYI

Judith and Holofernes by Von Stuck (approx. 1900)

I have in my most endearing moments felt compelled to exaggerate the truth. To add width and length to the reality in which I could not bear nor accept. And in that exaggerated state ceased to realize the truth. Blindly living out my days in a world of fantasy. It is not that I could or could not accept the truth, but in essence creating a sound result that I could twist and change at my desire. It is the power over the events in my life that I want to control. Who hasn’t? And to that effect, to what extreme? If all the signs of disgrace and neglect are placed before us, why do I not embrace the journey? I do not want to. If for one moment, for one second I choose to look at the facts in an unbiased manner then I will come to understand you loved me not. What would that do? Would my world come crashing down? Would every last breath of me be sucked out through the holes in my heart? It is not the words of a man that should be accounted on, rather their actions. All the charming words, and pronunciations of love cannot hold a candle if you could not lift one finger to light the flame. I spit on your words. I choke on your embrace and, I spit on the head that will replace mine upon your pillow. She will never be me. And when she lays down somberly beside you at night, my breath will be the one that you hear. For in all her glorious days, and the beginning of your new journey, she will not satisfy you as I have. And in the end, when it’s over, I will not be here. Forget me if you can. Because when you knock bloody knuckles at my stone door, although I stand with a heavy heart on the other side, I will not open that door. And tonight, when you empty yourself inside of her, beware of all those who laid there prior, for their spirits and broken hearts await it’s revenge. I loved you not. Or rather sometimes I loved you. Like sweet kisses before mine, you will tenderly place them in others. And like those creepy crawlers that infest your bedroom, my love marks will forever be burned on your skin. Forget me if you can, for my heart has been locked away in a cage until you break its reigns. I cannot be held accountable for your many indiscretions. I refuse to be saddened and sorrowed for all your unfulfilled promises. In an instant my life can change for the better or worse. Without you in it, surely I will reach my own goals at a much more rapid pace. I accept your actions. I refuse your words. Do not speak to me tenderly, for your days have outnumbered my tolerance. In every sense of the word, you treated me as a whore. Calling for me in your most urgent moments. And what of mine? If I cried a river would you jump in to save me? You said you would. When my legs gave way beneath me and I fell crashing to the ground, were you there to catch me? You said you did. I have yet to understand why I loved you. Attachment cannot be mistaken for true love. It is the most common misconception of our day. Cry for me not. I am well beyond the point of happiness, now that I have opened my eyes to your score, and I am no longer trapped by your meaningless words. Your false promises and your seemingly warm embrace. Thrush all the world’s oceans into one crystal and I will throw it back in the mine. Turn the sea into wine, and I will pray Jesus confiscates your prophecy. Make milk into honey, I will send every last Bee to thrive on your face. As you can see, I take offense to your madness. Your madness has become my madness and I will soon make peace with my emptiness. For all the fame, fortune and love in the world cannot replace your presence in my life. I will never forget the journey, for this was all a learning experience for me. And on this note, I should probably thank you. But, I weigh a heavy burden of anger, and until it dies, I will wish you nothing but tolerance. Tolerance for the torture you will feel once you have realized you lost me. You lost me good this time. And if our paths shall ever cross, do look the other way, for I will see right through you.

Thought Provokingly Yours,
Tory Talayi

MORSHEDLOO "Untitled" (2008)

(An excerpt from my novel)

You don’t fuck with the Persians. I should have learned that earlier. I suppose in the back of my mind, I always knew. But it was not until this pivotal moment that I realized the downward spiral of destruction of what is now my so-called life. My hands are shaking. I am stronger than this. Stop shaking! Maybe if I closed my eyes for a moment, and gather the strength to disguise myself as a much stronger man, I could do this. There he is, my best friend of twenty years, standing before me looking as pitiful as a dog. He had this coming. My 9mm pistol aimed between his eyes. Dante. Such a suave man in his time. I doubt if the hundreds of girls he’d manipulated and fucked over the years could imagine him standing as he is now, cowering with his hands above his head, begging for his life with fresh piss dampening his left pant leg. Corduroy? Who wears corduroys anymore? Fuck. Concentrate. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but the trigger felt like butter, and seemed to melt between my fingers. I missed his forehead entirely. When I opened my eyes, I could see the hole that went straight to this right eye socket. I dropped the gun immediately, as the slippery butter consumed the entire gun. Surprisingly it took a good five seconds for his balance to give way, and collapse onto the hardwood floor. It was not even five minutes ago that he stood in his apartment’s kitchen cooking up something or another. And now, what critical remains of his deformed bloody head lay splattered onto the floor. The silencer did a superb job muffling the sound of the fire. I was not concerned about neighbors hearing any gunshot. However, I was concerned about what I had just done. My initial instinct after I analyzed and accepted what I had done, was to walk over to Dante’s dead body, and kneel beside it. Carefully with my left gloved hand, I stroked his hand. “You did this to yourself you dumb fuck.” I whispered shifting the blame subconsciously to ease the tensions of my super ego. I knew what I had done. I knew he was not entirely at fault. I knew the repercussions of my actions and the guilt that would most likely eat at me for the rest of my life (however short-lived that may be). I stared up at the blood stained fridge and frowned. I need to get the fuck out of here.

Color Your Thoughts

Here’s today’s excerpt from an amazing romantic artist, named Goya.

It had happened so frequently, that when the pattern repeated itself, Jane was immune. Her misfortunes were life, the air she breathed, all that she knew. A man can sit inside a woman’s soul, and devour her at will. Not every woman allowed a man to hold that power, but Jane did. She welcomed them into her, pampered, fed and diapered them as they sat throwing darts at her heart for sport. Like wild beasts they would feed off her compassion, kindness and selflessness. The Romantic artist Francesco de Goya depicted it perfectly in his Sabbath painting, El Aquelarre. Seven visible witches surrounded a He-Goat with horns as long as its body, offering their skeleton-like offspring under the moonlit, setting sun sky, over the sand. The women look almost hypnotized in their trance, and gaze upon the beast with wonder and enthrallment. The He-Goat represents Satan. This is confirmed by its black impressionistic brushstrokes, and red-tinted eyes. The crows circling overhead do corroborate matters. Jane stared at the oil on canvas in prolific reflection. She would visit her favorite museum in Madrid every Tuesday. The Museo Lazaro Galdiano held many works by Goya, and Jane felt each time she’d visit, and look upon the canvas’s she’d discover a new object or space.


“What do you see?”An elderly male voice crept up behind her.


She turned and took a quick glance at the director of the Museo in profile. With fear of looking too eager, she did not disrupt her current pose. She stood straight, statue-like, with her arms to her side at rest. She cleared her throat as softly as she could.


“I see a man.”


There was a pause that seemed almost infinite.


“You see what Goya sees?” The director asked.


Jane cocked her head slightly toward the old man. She had a response, but thought twice before she spoke. Gram taught her that if she were caught off-guard into conversation with an admirable person she should discreetly twirl her tongue in her mouth before she spoke. She did as instructed. “With the up most respect Director, the first time I looked upon this painting, I saw what Goya saw. The second time, still, I saw what Goya saw. The third…fourth….fifth etc. Same result…”


“Ahora?”  Now?


After a short silence Jane said “I am so offended by your inquiry that I am seeking my own interpretation, Director.” She did not take her eyes off the painting.


The director cowered, very aware of her peripheral vision, and turned his heel. “Only doing my job Senorita,” he grinned on his way back to his post.


Thought provokingly yours,
Tory Talayi