Change is good, right?
I got a livejournal for the sheer audacity of it. You all know how much I love an audience, can't live without one. Livejournal definitely gets a lot more traffic than Deadjournal. Just because it is impossible to transpose about 2 years worth of blood and tears onto this new journal I decided to keep them both. To start of this one I put the entry I wrote a few days ago in my other journal here. The address is http://www.deadjournal.com/users/skitch88
/maintanence
It took a lot of courage. I didn't have to sign, I didn't get another stamp on my passport, I didn't get it notorised or officiated, like everything else. It was another goodbye. I didn't even dress up for this one, I just came as is to the dock and threw it into the steely morning waters. At what harbour I cannot tell you. I sat there the entire time as they sank to the bottom, resting among old dolls and foreign coins. Perhaps I was unwise in doing it, maybe crazy; at least I'm starting to feel that way now. I took myself off the medicines. I'd rather live in saddness than live in pacification. Biting the hand that feeds? I still can't tell.
My sincerest apologies for all irrational behaviour that is sure to spring up in the coming weeks; it's REALLY not my fault.
Melbourne isn't there. They aren't listening. For all I know some preternatural tidal wave has taken the lot out to sea. Nina's in rehab, she won't even email me. I haven't spoken to her in three weeks, she thinks I betrayed her the minute I stepped onto the train home from Kensington. Like I could've helped it. I didn't want to go, I never want to go. Something other than me always packs my suitcases, puts me in coach, settles me into the train aisle for hours on end. Call me lucky, but I can't decide which is worse: living and losing, or never knowing at all.
/maintanence
It took a lot of courage. I didn't have to sign, I didn't get another stamp on my passport, I didn't get it notorised or officiated, like everything else. It was another goodbye. I didn't even dress up for this one, I just came as is to the dock and threw it into the steely morning waters. At what harbour I cannot tell you. I sat there the entire time as they sank to the bottom, resting among old dolls and foreign coins. Perhaps I was unwise in doing it, maybe crazy; at least I'm starting to feel that way now. I took myself off the medicines. I'd rather live in saddness than live in pacification. Biting the hand that feeds? I still can't tell.
My sincerest apologies for all irrational behaviour that is sure to spring up in the coming weeks; it's REALLY not my fault.
Melbourne isn't there. They aren't listening. For all I know some preternatural tidal wave has taken the lot out to sea. Nina's in rehab, she won't even email me. I haven't spoken to her in three weeks, she thinks I betrayed her the minute I stepped onto the train home from Kensington. Like I could've helped it. I didn't want to go, I never want to go. Something other than me always packs my suitcases, puts me in coach, settles me into the train aisle for hours on end. Call me lucky, but I can't decide which is worse: living and losing, or never knowing at all.