(no subject)
She talks to herself, you know, and I realized that so do I. She talks out loud, perhaps hoping someone will hear; and I? I keep my monologues internal for the most part. But I must express myself outward this once because if I do not I feel as if I will die from either great pain or by my own hand.
I am a consummate writer, so while hers is about what she feels and is doing mine are like stories. I am a nobody my thoughts are as fiction, she is as a great lady, worthy a thousand times more than I or any of you, and thus she speaks fact.
I was in tears last night. I did something--and in my mind she would be proud. I found out where the expression of your knees knocking together in fear comes from because I was afraid after the fact--my knees tried to buckle and turned inwards. Easily I could see how they could knock together. It will serve me well when I need to write fear.
She felt otherwise.
I have morals, in my mind there live villains and heroes, so codes of virtue stand within me to write.
She said to me before that she took me in because I was her flesh and blood. She said to me that it was why she cared for me and loved me.
She said something to me in the weird time after midnight and before sleep, between All Hallows Eve and All Hallows Day.
My morals scream out at what she said. They say no one deserves what happened, that no one deserves what she said to me. That what she said should never be said to anyone, let alone your own flesh and blood.
While she castrated me with her words I had a monologue. I wrote us out like characters in a book. What would I do if I was a real person, how she would react if she likewise was real.
Real. Realer in my mind that how she and I truly are. Maybe I'm not real, but she's not reasonable. I should do group psychology with her, be counseled at the same time and be led through our arguments, be allowed to speak my mind. But it wouldn't work. She wouldn't leave it behind in the room. When we left she'd be angry at me, yell at me and scream and take it out on me.
I am wearing my glasses and the view is a bit cloudy out of them. They are dirty and I have no intention of cleaning them any time soon. They are stained on one side, my tears are on another, and I imagine taking them off and showing them to her, speaking carefully chosen words that will reach her and make her understand. But I cannot finish the scene because I do not know how it will turn out. I cannot imagine a 'happy ending' as I am wont to do. I would most likely end up crying or stammering in the middle of my finely crafted speech. She may slap them out of my hand, and would definitely yell once more at me. In my mind I do not know what would happen, what could happen, thus she is struck dumb as my fantasies.
And yet I do not clean my glasses, clinging to that dream of a scene worthy of books.
The woman is wonderful, she is great, and right and everything good. She is everything to me. But she cannot listen.
There is a moral question out there: What would you do if you had a leader, a president a senator, who was leading the way towards all that was good in your world view. He was a leader and making headway against all opposition. If this leader seemed as the great Doctor King. Speaking and acting and being according to Truth and Justice and Liberty. But in private beat his wife. In private was abusive and cruel. What do you do?
But more, I wonder: How can a being like that exist? How can you be good on one hand and cruel on the other?
I have experienced a woman like this, and I still cannot write a character as so.
I hate her, I think, or I should. I must hate her and no longer love her for the sake of my sanity, I feel. But I love her. When she took me in she taught me a word to call her by, and I have, along with the english equivalent, nearly my entire life. But when I learned another word in her language, and it's meaning, that word was more true to my feelings for her. So when I call to her "Obaachan," as I have for so much of my life, I have to remember to call her that because a word only years old to my mind is just as close to my tongue. In my heart she is "Kaachan," even now when she said this to me.
Someone spat in my face today. And my grandmother said I deserved it.
I am a consummate writer, so while hers is about what she feels and is doing mine are like stories. I am a nobody my thoughts are as fiction, she is as a great lady, worthy a thousand times more than I or any of you, and thus she speaks fact.
I was in tears last night. I did something--and in my mind she would be proud. I found out where the expression of your knees knocking together in fear comes from because I was afraid after the fact--my knees tried to buckle and turned inwards. Easily I could see how they could knock together. It will serve me well when I need to write fear.
She felt otherwise.
I have morals, in my mind there live villains and heroes, so codes of virtue stand within me to write.
She said to me before that she took me in because I was her flesh and blood. She said to me that it was why she cared for me and loved me.
She said something to me in the weird time after midnight and before sleep, between All Hallows Eve and All Hallows Day.
My morals scream out at what she said. They say no one deserves what happened, that no one deserves what she said to me. That what she said should never be said to anyone, let alone your own flesh and blood.
While she castrated me with her words I had a monologue. I wrote us out like characters in a book. What would I do if I was a real person, how she would react if she likewise was real.
Real. Realer in my mind that how she and I truly are. Maybe I'm not real, but she's not reasonable. I should do group psychology with her, be counseled at the same time and be led through our arguments, be allowed to speak my mind. But it wouldn't work. She wouldn't leave it behind in the room. When we left she'd be angry at me, yell at me and scream and take it out on me.
I am wearing my glasses and the view is a bit cloudy out of them. They are dirty and I have no intention of cleaning them any time soon. They are stained on one side, my tears are on another, and I imagine taking them off and showing them to her, speaking carefully chosen words that will reach her and make her understand. But I cannot finish the scene because I do not know how it will turn out. I cannot imagine a 'happy ending' as I am wont to do. I would most likely end up crying or stammering in the middle of my finely crafted speech. She may slap them out of my hand, and would definitely yell once more at me. In my mind I do not know what would happen, what could happen, thus she is struck dumb as my fantasies.
And yet I do not clean my glasses, clinging to that dream of a scene worthy of books.
The woman is wonderful, she is great, and right and everything good. She is everything to me. But she cannot listen.
There is a moral question out there: What would you do if you had a leader, a president a senator, who was leading the way towards all that was good in your world view. He was a leader and making headway against all opposition. If this leader seemed as the great Doctor King. Speaking and acting and being according to Truth and Justice and Liberty. But in private beat his wife. In private was abusive and cruel. What do you do?
But more, I wonder: How can a being like that exist? How can you be good on one hand and cruel on the other?
I have experienced a woman like this, and I still cannot write a character as so.
I hate her, I think, or I should. I must hate her and no longer love her for the sake of my sanity, I feel. But I love her. When she took me in she taught me a word to call her by, and I have, along with the english equivalent, nearly my entire life. But when I learned another word in her language, and it's meaning, that word was more true to my feelings for her. So when I call to her "Obaachan," as I have for so much of my life, I have to remember to call her that because a word only years old to my mind is just as close to my tongue. In my heart she is "Kaachan," even now when she said this to me.
Someone spat in my face today. And my grandmother said I deserved it.