Running
I have been feeling unaccountably fucking hostile the past few days. Not so you'd notice to talk to me, but it is there. And this isn't an irritable kind of hostile, it's not brittle or bitchy at all. It's just a bone-deep pissoff that won't quit. I want to find an ass and kick it just as hard as I can. I want to run something down and tear into it.
Right now I'm looking out my window at the moon. It's missing a big slice off the top; its irregular shape makes it look like the reflecting pupil of a wolf's eye. Just past full.
So all this is either more lycanthropy, or it's just my hormones rebooting.
Sometimes bipolar disorder spontaneously remits after menopause. Did you know that? I'm not holding out hope, I'm just saying. Of course, it usually makes menopause itself a living hell. I mean, Jesus, it practically drove my mother insane. Actually, no, I think it did make her crazy. And it made me crazy, too. I damn near killed her.
At any rate, I'm going to the doctor tomorrow to talk about thyroid levels and hopefully ask him about my current course of brain meds. I seem to be having problems inventing. Drawing and such isn't difficult. That comes from a very primitive place. But writing? Having no luck. Just no luck at all.
Like I said, I want to kick someone's ass.
When I go to sleep at night, I run. I close my eyes and imagine running. The forest is vast, old-growth forest, the kind that isn't choked with underbrush and unnavigable. Here and there, a stand of thicker growth lines a stream or waterhole or springs up where a tree has fallen. I am running under the trees. It is twilight. The sun has just set, but I can see very well.
The ground under my feet is covered with a crumbling layer of old leaves, and their smell rises around me. I can feel it passing under me, four paws in a quick one-two trot, a smooth gait I could maintain effortlessly for hours. I am not thinking. I am only listening to the pounding of my steps carried up through my bones, to the wind high in the trees.
I can feel it when my gait shifts and the easy trot becomes a powerful lunge, a gallop.
The forest rushes past. I go flat-out. There is nothing in my way, nothing to stop me. It is a feeling like freedom. An endless running. I am there for the sheer joy of it. I leap over rocks and logs, I splash through streamlets, run along rivers.
I drift off to sleep like that, running and running. Moreso recently. A great restlessness has hold of me.
My daimōnes are getting uppity again. Disturbingly, the old crop is quieter than they used to be. There's a new voice or two joining the chorus now. Just bit players, but one is a werewolf. Ironically, I don't have any primary werewolf daimōnes. A vampire and several warlocks, and more than a few villains, but no werewolves. He was just a non-player character; I hadn't expected him to stay, but he did. I don't know for how long, but he sure has been making a pain in the ass out of himself. And now, he kind of wants his story told, and more than that, he just wants to be out doing things, and I just don't know what I am supposed to do with him. Or with me.
I have too many stories, too little time, and no words at all.
Sometimes I feel like I spend all my time running, running. Running from my problems, my frustration and fear, yes, but there are good things in my future and on some level I want to run from those, too. I'm running from the art I need to create, the choices I need to make, the stories I need to tell. Running from myself, I guess, though that answer is so nauseatingly pat it makes me want to gag.
I'm running from change.
Ironic.
I've noticed that when I get a new voice in the chorus, when someone becomes dominant for a while, that's a pretty good indication that they have something major to teach me. In this case, I'm not so sure I want to learn it. The dude scares me. The prospect of running to, not running from, of making that change scares the crap out of me.
Right now I'm looking out my window at the moon. It's missing a big slice off the top; its irregular shape makes it look like the reflecting pupil of a wolf's eye. Just past full.
So all this is either more lycanthropy, or it's just my hormones rebooting.
Sometimes bipolar disorder spontaneously remits after menopause. Did you know that? I'm not holding out hope, I'm just saying. Of course, it usually makes menopause itself a living hell. I mean, Jesus, it practically drove my mother insane. Actually, no, I think it did make her crazy. And it made me crazy, too. I damn near killed her.
At any rate, I'm going to the doctor tomorrow to talk about thyroid levels and hopefully ask him about my current course of brain meds. I seem to be having problems inventing. Drawing and such isn't difficult. That comes from a very primitive place. But writing? Having no luck. Just no luck at all.
Like I said, I want to kick someone's ass.
When I go to sleep at night, I run. I close my eyes and imagine running. The forest is vast, old-growth forest, the kind that isn't choked with underbrush and unnavigable. Here and there, a stand of thicker growth lines a stream or waterhole or springs up where a tree has fallen. I am running under the trees. It is twilight. The sun has just set, but I can see very well.
The ground under my feet is covered with a crumbling layer of old leaves, and their smell rises around me. I can feel it passing under me, four paws in a quick one-two trot, a smooth gait I could maintain effortlessly for hours. I am not thinking. I am only listening to the pounding of my steps carried up through my bones, to the wind high in the trees.
I can feel it when my gait shifts and the easy trot becomes a powerful lunge, a gallop.
The forest rushes past. I go flat-out. There is nothing in my way, nothing to stop me. It is a feeling like freedom. An endless running. I am there for the sheer joy of it. I leap over rocks and logs, I splash through streamlets, run along rivers.
I drift off to sleep like that, running and running. Moreso recently. A great restlessness has hold of me.
My daimōnes are getting uppity again. Disturbingly, the old crop is quieter than they used to be. There's a new voice or two joining the chorus now. Just bit players, but one is a werewolf. Ironically, I don't have any primary werewolf daimōnes. A vampire and several warlocks, and more than a few villains, but no werewolves. He was just a non-player character; I hadn't expected him to stay, but he did. I don't know for how long, but he sure has been making a pain in the ass out of himself. And now, he kind of wants his story told, and more than that, he just wants to be out doing things, and I just don't know what I am supposed to do with him. Or with me.
I have too many stories, too little time, and no words at all.
Sometimes I feel like I spend all my time running, running. Running from my problems, my frustration and fear, yes, but there are good things in my future and on some level I want to run from those, too. I'm running from the art I need to create, the choices I need to make, the stories I need to tell. Running from myself, I guess, though that answer is so nauseatingly pat it makes me want to gag.
I'm running from change.
Ironic.
I've noticed that when I get a new voice in the chorus, when someone becomes dominant for a while, that's a pretty good indication that they have something major to teach me. In this case, I'm not so sure I want to learn it. The dude scares me. The prospect of running to, not running from, of making that change scares the crap out of me.