Recent Drabbles
Not too coherant right now, would very much like to function:
Limelight. It's... well. I wrote it on an aggravated low. And I felt every bit of this. It's... well. You're presented with the choice of running from yourself or runtoning from someone you love, what can you do? You run from yourself, you have to question yourself. That's the idea, you question yourself and so you run and the questions just break in a wake behind you but no one can see but yourself. There is a stage, but the only things that see are yourself, the fractures... and it's so strange, when I have that. I'm watching myself, we're watching ourselves. Sometimes I think that the only thing that's wrong with me is that I'm more self aware: schizophrenia just splits you open so you can see inside yourself so very intensely, and your mind can't take that. But that's all speculation.
And then... You run from someone else, someone who cares, but someone who doesn't understand, and there's the limelight, and suddenly the things you do are put into bright focus, you cast sharp sharp shadows and as you move they follow and you can't escape the shadows but, for a time, you can escape him and so it's suddenly easier? Strange how that works. It hurt like hell. It hurts like hell. Heartbreak: all the bits of bitter glass shatter, and they lodge in places where you thought you could never hurt: and even when you're sepia and you can't see red, you know it's still there, waiting for you to be able to see again. Maybe there won't be running blood, but you know? Scars last forever. And they show up damn well in a limelight, with the focus: they're bright, and they're white. And there's the irony: martyrdom. And it turns into a twisted expectant egotism and there you have it:
Here's where Limelight breaks away from me and what I felt. The limelight wasn't bright enough for me. He was deaf, and I could only speak. And so I didn't run; with the abyss on either side? I sat there, I took it, and now I'm sepia since I couldn't take it but I not only wouldn't but couldn't run. Here, the limelight is bright enough to make him do it. And so he stops taking it, he reflects it, and on the way out of the heist he runs into a stop sign.
Parallax. Well, suffice to say, Christmas was pretty hellish for me. I did this before Limelight. I... AGH, I'll just say it. Gumbutt's family was serving Baileys after dinner, , and I had a shot, and I discovered I have a very low tolerance for alcohol. Yeti & Whilily can... erm, vouch for how odd I am while tipsy. At any rate, evidently I had contact with a member of the male species during this. *coughs* Not that or anything, but... well. Stuff. I don't remember much of it, but after examining IM records & questioning (a smirking) Gumbutt closely, I pieced stuff together. Anyway. I wrote this afterward condensing most of my relations with the male species into one *glomp* of a drabble.
To explain the drabble itself. Basically, going between systematically exposing oneself, one's emotions, one's soul, with intent and structure, and questioning whether this systematic... revealing is honest. I mean, there's been five males of proper interest in my life, really, and it's been like that with most all of them, until that has been broken off at one point or another. It's never been natural. It's all been... I ought to tell them, It's my duty to tell them, they ought to know. And that... has never seemed quite natural. And so it eventually just feels like a game. Telling, telling something that is so close to you, but in... such a structued way, it looses all meaning, all emotive value. And then, it is only function. It isn't... right. But that's what happens after the first - and that's why your first real one is always so different, so much more natural. And she's realizing this. And she's doing it anyway. Conscious. I don't know how I did it, so I don't think I ought to be held responsible for knowing how she does it.
...and that's all the sanity I can really handle for right now. I think I'll go back to tales of rubber duckies and rosemary and pork.
Limelight. It's... well. I wrote it on an aggravated low. And I felt every bit of this. It's... well. You're presented with the choice of running from yourself or runtoning from someone you love, what can you do? You run from yourself, you have to question yourself. That's the idea, you question yourself and so you run and the questions just break in a wake behind you but no one can see but yourself. There is a stage, but the only things that see are yourself, the fractures... and it's so strange, when I have that. I'm watching myself, we're watching ourselves. Sometimes I think that the only thing that's wrong with me is that I'm more self aware: schizophrenia just splits you open so you can see inside yourself so very intensely, and your mind can't take that. But that's all speculation.
And then... You run from someone else, someone who cares, but someone who doesn't understand, and there's the limelight, and suddenly the things you do are put into bright focus, you cast sharp sharp shadows and as you move they follow and you can't escape the shadows but, for a time, you can escape him and so it's suddenly easier? Strange how that works. It hurt like hell. It hurts like hell. Heartbreak: all the bits of bitter glass shatter, and they lodge in places where you thought you could never hurt: and even when you're sepia and you can't see red, you know it's still there, waiting for you to be able to see again. Maybe there won't be running blood, but you know? Scars last forever. And they show up damn well in a limelight, with the focus: they're bright, and they're white. And there's the irony: martyrdom. And it turns into a twisted expectant egotism and there you have it:
Here's where Limelight breaks away from me and what I felt. The limelight wasn't bright enough for me. He was deaf, and I could only speak. And so I didn't run; with the abyss on either side? I sat there, I took it, and now I'm sepia since I couldn't take it but I not only wouldn't but couldn't run. Here, the limelight is bright enough to make him do it. And so he stops taking it, he reflects it, and on the way out of the heist he runs into a stop sign.
Parallax. Well, suffice to say, Christmas was pretty hellish for me. I did this before Limelight. I... AGH, I'll just say it. Gumbutt's family was serving Baileys after dinner, , and I had a shot, and I discovered I have a very low tolerance for alcohol. Yeti & Whilily can... erm, vouch for how odd I am while tipsy. At any rate, evidently I had contact with a member of the male species during this. *coughs* Not that or anything, but... well. Stuff. I don't remember much of it, but after examining IM records & questioning (a smirking) Gumbutt closely, I pieced stuff together. Anyway. I wrote this afterward condensing most of my relations with the male species into one *glomp* of a drabble.
To explain the drabble itself. Basically, going between systematically exposing oneself, one's emotions, one's soul, with intent and structure, and questioning whether this systematic... revealing is honest. I mean, there's been five males of proper interest in my life, really, and it's been like that with most all of them, until that has been broken off at one point or another. It's never been natural. It's all been... I ought to tell them, It's my duty to tell them, they ought to know. And that... has never seemed quite natural. And so it eventually just feels like a game. Telling, telling something that is so close to you, but in... such a structued way, it looses all meaning, all emotive value. And then, it is only function. It isn't... right. But that's what happens after the first - and that's why your first real one is always so different, so much more natural. And she's realizing this. And she's doing it anyway. Conscious. I don't know how I did it, so I don't think I ought to be held responsible for knowing how she does it.
...and that's all the sanity I can really handle for right now. I think I'll go back to tales of rubber duckies and rosemary and pork.