Immortal Thinking
She's lonely, you know. She's entirely lonely and regrets the path that she has chosen in this life; mainly because the path was out of a sense of rebellion and now she's not where she wants to be. Nevermind that the grass is always greener on the other side: if she were in the other pair of boots she would be looking at whomever were standing in the shoes she has now with envy. People are so rarely satisfied in this culture.
She gets lonely because there are no connections, and she's aware she's the last of her kind in a lot of ways. She can't carry on those ways because the means just isn't there, so she watches the death of a lot of things she holds dear to her. When she thinks about it, she feels very old as if she were not born in the 70's but the turn of the last century instead. She thinks about the 50's and all those people who saw their way die with the 60's. She knows how it feels in her own way. It's painful.
She's lonely because those standing on the other side forget to call, and when they do call they speak foreign languages when she's not paying attention. They translate their codes into "her language", forgetting that she could learn to speak on their level if they would just let her.
When she drops her humanity and reaches out with the tendrils of her poisonous breath, people recoil and stop talking at all. If they do choose to continue speaking to her during these times, they refuse to acknowledge the extra space that she has become and force her down to her level.
She cannot be one or the other this way. It's a method of isolation, and she feels it keenly when this happens. So then the loneliness threatens to consume her soul.
If she has a soul.
When her wings flare up and the eyes open, she usually wishes for someone she could talk to... forgetting in those times that there simply is not anyone who possibly could nor do they care. During those times she also feels insecure and a little frightened. "What am I becoming?" She already knows the answer, but sometimes it helps to have someone hold your hand.
There are times when she feels the tide rise in this matter that she wants more than someone to talk to. She wants to find those that are still looking for her - if there are anyone left. She wants to know what they say about her; what is it that is expected of her? It's self-serving in it's own way, but there's a certain thought that perhaps the idle talk would give her instructions on what to do next. It's a little easier when one knows what is expected of you.
There's also the desire to have people come to her and say, "Yes, we know you. Yes we hoped you'd be here. You're real. You're REAL." as befitting her station. Station means a lot to her in those hours.
Such things are not bound to happen, one reminds oneself. So she tries to fill her time with empty tasks. Except that she's to high in her vibrations to do it. This is when her claws come out and the blood drips to the floor: imaginary blood of course. It's only from memory and a touch of longing.
The rise of the blood brings forth a lot of primal urges handlers would have cease to be. But they're important on some levels. They changed the universe once. They could change the universe again.
But really, all she wants is someone to play with.
So tonight she is lonely, again. And posting about it yet again to this tired old journal. And thinking she'll go to bed soon; perhaps to dream of days she misses to the bottom of her being. And think of Home - and the lack of freedom she will face there.
She gets lonely because there are no connections, and she's aware she's the last of her kind in a lot of ways. She can't carry on those ways because the means just isn't there, so she watches the death of a lot of things she holds dear to her. When she thinks about it, she feels very old as if she were not born in the 70's but the turn of the last century instead. She thinks about the 50's and all those people who saw their way die with the 60's. She knows how it feels in her own way. It's painful.
She's lonely because those standing on the other side forget to call, and when they do call they speak foreign languages when she's not paying attention. They translate their codes into "her language", forgetting that she could learn to speak on their level if they would just let her.
When she drops her humanity and reaches out with the tendrils of her poisonous breath, people recoil and stop talking at all. If they do choose to continue speaking to her during these times, they refuse to acknowledge the extra space that she has become and force her down to her level.
She cannot be one or the other this way. It's a method of isolation, and she feels it keenly when this happens. So then the loneliness threatens to consume her soul.
If she has a soul.
When her wings flare up and the eyes open, she usually wishes for someone she could talk to... forgetting in those times that there simply is not anyone who possibly could nor do they care. During those times she also feels insecure and a little frightened. "What am I becoming?" She already knows the answer, but sometimes it helps to have someone hold your hand.
There are times when she feels the tide rise in this matter that she wants more than someone to talk to. She wants to find those that are still looking for her - if there are anyone left. She wants to know what they say about her; what is it that is expected of her? It's self-serving in it's own way, but there's a certain thought that perhaps the idle talk would give her instructions on what to do next. It's a little easier when one knows what is expected of you.
There's also the desire to have people come to her and say, "Yes, we know you. Yes we hoped you'd be here. You're real. You're REAL." as befitting her station. Station means a lot to her in those hours.
Such things are not bound to happen, one reminds oneself. So she tries to fill her time with empty tasks. Except that she's to high in her vibrations to do it. This is when her claws come out and the blood drips to the floor: imaginary blood of course. It's only from memory and a touch of longing.
The rise of the blood brings forth a lot of primal urges handlers would have cease to be. But they're important on some levels. They changed the universe once. They could change the universe again.
But really, all she wants is someone to play with.
So tonight she is lonely, again. And posting about it yet again to this tired old journal. And thinking she'll go to bed soon; perhaps to dream of days she misses to the bottom of her being. And think of Home - and the lack of freedom she will face there.