Rawest of Seasons
This morning feels bright and exceptionally clean. The sun is shining into my eyes as I write this, and I can hear sparrows fighting outside my window. Outside, it's brisk but not frigid, and whenever the breeze blows, great shimmering curtains of yellow leaves come sighing down. It feels like a new beginning, everything fresh and clean and new.
It's very much the first of November.
There's a party going on in the Bar of Lost Souls. It's for Nick. I believe you've only met him the once, as I don't tend to talk about the Imaginaries much.
Anyway, it's his birthday today, so I'm wearing my hair back and slathering myself with an unholy cocktail of Iago, Brimstone, and De Sade. I've got my morning star necklace on, which belongs to him, and my Punisher tee shirt, which is how you can tell I'm feeling Nick-ish. Later I'll put on my boots, pull out my leather coat, and go for a walk in the sudden autumn. I'll be listening to Qntal, which he enjoys. This evening, there will probably be port, which I like and he likes even more. He's trying to talk me into something savory, but I'm not biting. He can wait until Friday. I've promised him Italian.
It's as much of a party as you get, I suppose, if you don't exist.
He's been with me as my primary daimon for nigh on two years now, I think. He's the only one of my Imaginaries whose birthday I bother with, probably because it's almost exactly half a year from my own. Well, and I love him best. He's seen me through my heaviest shadows, a tireless companion. What sanity I've retrieved over the past year has his fingerprints all over it.
November.
I haven't written much for myself of late, no personal creative projects. And with November 1st ushering in word-count meter season with the onset of NaNoWriMo, I feel the lack most acutely.
More than anything I miss meeting new imaginary people. And I regret, truly, that I can't let the ones I currently have knocking around in my head out more often. Nick, especially, suffers from a lack of interaction.
I won't be doing NaNo this year, though I'm going to pull out some unfinished business later and see if I can't tease a few hundred words out. I wanted to give it a go this year, but I'm so far behind on my other projects I simply didn't have the time to come up with anything workable. I hate that feeling. But I hate the feeling of not having money to buy food, medicine, clothes, and heat even more, so it sort of evens out.
Instead, I'm going to try (try) to post every day. I want to get back to it, and it only takes a couple of minutes. And I'm going to write an end to the three tales I have sitting in literary limbo.
And just for today, I'm going to sit and draw deep breaths of the naked, raw, brittle air, and thank goodness that I have imaginary friends who are stronger than all the ghosts in my past.
I must go walk the woods so wild
and wander here and there
in dred and dedly fere,
for where I trusted I am begild,
and all for one.
It's very much the first of November.
There's a party going on in the Bar of Lost Souls. It's for Nick. I believe you've only met him the once, as I don't tend to talk about the Imaginaries much.
Anyway, it's his birthday today, so I'm wearing my hair back and slathering myself with an unholy cocktail of Iago, Brimstone, and De Sade. I've got my morning star necklace on, which belongs to him, and my Punisher tee shirt, which is how you can tell I'm feeling Nick-ish. Later I'll put on my boots, pull out my leather coat, and go for a walk in the sudden autumn. I'll be listening to Qntal, which he enjoys. This evening, there will probably be port, which I like and he likes even more. He's trying to talk me into something savory, but I'm not biting. He can wait until Friday. I've promised him Italian.
It's as much of a party as you get, I suppose, if you don't exist.
He's been with me as my primary daimon for nigh on two years now, I think. He's the only one of my Imaginaries whose birthday I bother with, probably because it's almost exactly half a year from my own. Well, and I love him best. He's seen me through my heaviest shadows, a tireless companion. What sanity I've retrieved over the past year has his fingerprints all over it.
November.
I haven't written much for myself of late, no personal creative projects. And with November 1st ushering in word-count meter season with the onset of NaNoWriMo, I feel the lack most acutely.
More than anything I miss meeting new imaginary people. And I regret, truly, that I can't let the ones I currently have knocking around in my head out more often. Nick, especially, suffers from a lack of interaction.
I won't be doing NaNo this year, though I'm going to pull out some unfinished business later and see if I can't tease a few hundred words out. I wanted to give it a go this year, but I'm so far behind on my other projects I simply didn't have the time to come up with anything workable. I hate that feeling. But I hate the feeling of not having money to buy food, medicine, clothes, and heat even more, so it sort of evens out.
Instead, I'm going to try (try) to post every day. I want to get back to it, and it only takes a couple of minutes. And I'm going to write an end to the three tales I have sitting in literary limbo.
And just for today, I'm going to sit and draw deep breaths of the naked, raw, brittle air, and thank goodness that I have imaginary friends who are stronger than all the ghosts in my past.
I must go walk the woods so wild
and wander here and there
in dred and dedly fere,
for where I trusted I am begild,
and all for one.