Octave
"Whatever you want to believe about A or the blood isn't as important as what you actually do with it. That's the message I've gotten from everyone. If you want to believe that A never gave you the blood and you don't have it, that's fine too. Whether it's blood that makes you "shiny" and write like a dream (you are and you do) or if its just being Abby that makes you that way, it doesn't matter."
I dreamed about portals. Rabbit holes, membranes, an old house that, with the turn of a key, became a shadow of that same old house. We had to wear costumes, specific colors, to effect the transition. Mine were yellow & blue, ruffles & frills, an odd impact something like Carnevale di Venezia.
I am as concrete a person as one can be in a city that incubates dysfunction & dreaminess. I spend my days answering questions about vampires to tourists who want to know is it real. This, I imagine, is my karma. Mostly, I tell them that it's complicated.
It is complicated.
The truth is, everyone is shiny. I can't say I've ever met a human being that didn't, on some level, fascinate me. And the writing? That came well before fact or fiction or a dialup internet connection in a dark room. I am always telling stories. Our lives are stories & when we wake up each day & go about the breathing of it, that's a kind of writing, too.
At the end of the day, blood is nothing more or less than the animating force of life. And in that sense, yes: it's what you do with it.
I'm more keenly aware of my whole self than I have been perhaps ever. I work. I write. I do my best to extend myself to people who need support, who need help. I do my best to be the kind of person others can draw strength and comfort from. It's not that I'm uninterested in darkness--it's just that the darkness behind the deepest door inside myself turned out to be a lot more interesting, a lot more essential than whatever may or may not lurk in the shadows.
We are entire universes, each of us. I'm lucky to have spread that star-space out enough that sometimes--just sometimes--other souls bleed through.
I dreamed about portals. Rabbit holes, membranes, an old house that, with the turn of a key, became a shadow of that same old house. We had to wear costumes, specific colors, to effect the transition. Mine were yellow & blue, ruffles & frills, an odd impact something like Carnevale di Venezia.
I am as concrete a person as one can be in a city that incubates dysfunction & dreaminess. I spend my days answering questions about vampires to tourists who want to know is it real. This, I imagine, is my karma. Mostly, I tell them that it's complicated.
It is complicated.
The truth is, everyone is shiny. I can't say I've ever met a human being that didn't, on some level, fascinate me. And the writing? That came well before fact or fiction or a dialup internet connection in a dark room. I am always telling stories. Our lives are stories & when we wake up each day & go about the breathing of it, that's a kind of writing, too.
At the end of the day, blood is nothing more or less than the animating force of life. And in that sense, yes: it's what you do with it.
I'm more keenly aware of my whole self than I have been perhaps ever. I work. I write. I do my best to extend myself to people who need support, who need help. I do my best to be the kind of person others can draw strength and comfort from. It's not that I'm uninterested in darkness--it's just that the darkness behind the deepest door inside myself turned out to be a lot more interesting, a lot more essential than whatever may or may not lurk in the shadows.
We are entire universes, each of us. I'm lucky to have spread that star-space out enough that sometimes--just sometimes--other souls bleed through.