Wednesday - happy thoughts.
Tried to write faery tale on monday. I'd got to a bit where I really needed to read back over what had been done before.
Oh dear. 'What was done before' was a vast amount about Madcat. (Or do I call him Reagan? Or Paul? In some ways that neatly encapsulates the problem really. I did love him. Was I an idiot or was he a bastard? I've had this argument before.)
Neurons looked at the words on the page and then neurons ran like fuck, in much the way I used to run from anything to do with G&L. Because those wounds aren't scars, that are healed but you still feel the pull. No, they're more like bloody cancers.
You see when there's something good going on and you're artistic, you write poems, write stories, draw pictures - as much as you can - weaving it into everything you do. If the good thing ends, well, that's bad but nothing more. However if events turn nasty and all those threads you wove into everything turn rotten... Well. Then you look back and see everything tainted - all your stories and pictures and games are all cancer ridden or at the least in the shadow of something you wish you could erase.
Memory's a bitch isn't it? I can't remember a friend's birthday or a perfect evening spent with someone I love. But I can remember that little messed up obsession and exactly what it cost down to the last scar - mine and everyone elses. I'd pay a near uncountable number of scars to undo half of what I did.
Let it go witch, just fucking let it go.
Heh. Easy enough to say. Tricky to carry out when the damn thing's got thorn-tendrils in your brain.
=======
And today, standing in the rain on the station, I wonder if Wolf loves me any more.
I don't have any evidence for this thought; we are tired and he shifts from one foot to the other under the weather, slipping out of my grasp. And yet I wonder suddenly if he is slipping or if he is leaving. He does not kiss me goodbye, but then I knew that morning he would not. I hurry onto the train, making no move for intimacy. We are hidden from each other by the carriage and I slump, bone weary; wondering if he is glad to see me go... And if he will tell me.
I am being unfair I think, but I don't mean to be. Perfect dualism: I do not think a wolf unfaithful or flippant or so easily dissuaded, and yet I lavishly entertain the thought he is through with being my keeper. It is not a thought I relish or enjoy. It is a certainty-in-waiting. I must accept it as an inevitability to be dealt with - like the weather.
I wonder if it will hurt and if so how much. My mind skips track like a faulty record and suddenly I'm imagining my narrow-bladed scalpel in my right hand. What would the late rush-hour passengers do? Would they stare as I pulled it across my arm? Would they look away in disgust as the blood dripped first light and then heavy to the floor? Would one of them protest or try to stay my hand? I don't know; I've never had the guts to pull that kind of stunt. (That's not to say I haven't cut my wrists on trains or train stations I hasten to add. Just that I've done so with care and legerdemain.) Even in madness I dislike the idea of being carted away by authority figures.
Finally I think of writing this in here, trying to string likely phrases together. And so I pass my journey to work. The needful curiosity to pick up a fresh blade dulls to a thought-murmur. The surety that Wolf no longer wants me stays.
There could be many reasons why he acted how he did the past few days, giving out the little signals I interpret so darkly. I neither begrudge them nor belittle them, it is just that given time to think with my bleak outlook the brain turns to solipsism and asks - "What did I do? I'm doomed!"
I should be careful. Every fiber laced with self-hate and uncertainty says that I must turn away and give a Wolf 'space' so that he may return to me when he wishes. But what are the odds this will be interpreted as a lack of interest? A lack of wanting him? Jesus witch, try not to let everything fall apart over shadows and stupidity because you'd really belt yourself for that one come the morning.
Oh dear. 'What was done before' was a vast amount about Madcat. (Or do I call him Reagan? Or Paul? In some ways that neatly encapsulates the problem really. I did love him. Was I an idiot or was he a bastard? I've had this argument before.)
Neurons looked at the words on the page and then neurons ran like fuck, in much the way I used to run from anything to do with G&L. Because those wounds aren't scars, that are healed but you still feel the pull. No, they're more like bloody cancers.
You see when there's something good going on and you're artistic, you write poems, write stories, draw pictures - as much as you can - weaving it into everything you do. If the good thing ends, well, that's bad but nothing more. However if events turn nasty and all those threads you wove into everything turn rotten... Well. Then you look back and see everything tainted - all your stories and pictures and games are all cancer ridden or at the least in the shadow of something you wish you could erase.
Memory's a bitch isn't it? I can't remember a friend's birthday or a perfect evening spent with someone I love. But I can remember that little messed up obsession and exactly what it cost down to the last scar - mine and everyone elses. I'd pay a near uncountable number of scars to undo half of what I did.
Let it go witch, just fucking let it go.
Heh. Easy enough to say. Tricky to carry out when the damn thing's got thorn-tendrils in your brain.
=======
And today, standing in the rain on the station, I wonder if Wolf loves me any more.
I don't have any evidence for this thought; we are tired and he shifts from one foot to the other under the weather, slipping out of my grasp. And yet I wonder suddenly if he is slipping or if he is leaving. He does not kiss me goodbye, but then I knew that morning he would not. I hurry onto the train, making no move for intimacy. We are hidden from each other by the carriage and I slump, bone weary; wondering if he is glad to see me go... And if he will tell me.
I am being unfair I think, but I don't mean to be. Perfect dualism: I do not think a wolf unfaithful or flippant or so easily dissuaded, and yet I lavishly entertain the thought he is through with being my keeper. It is not a thought I relish or enjoy. It is a certainty-in-waiting. I must accept it as an inevitability to be dealt with - like the weather.
I wonder if it will hurt and if so how much. My mind skips track like a faulty record and suddenly I'm imagining my narrow-bladed scalpel in my right hand. What would the late rush-hour passengers do? Would they stare as I pulled it across my arm? Would they look away in disgust as the blood dripped first light and then heavy to the floor? Would one of them protest or try to stay my hand? I don't know; I've never had the guts to pull that kind of stunt. (That's not to say I haven't cut my wrists on trains or train stations I hasten to add. Just that I've done so with care and legerdemain.) Even in madness I dislike the idea of being carted away by authority figures.
Finally I think of writing this in here, trying to string likely phrases together. And so I pass my journey to work. The needful curiosity to pick up a fresh blade dulls to a thought-murmur. The surety that Wolf no longer wants me stays.
There could be many reasons why he acted how he did the past few days, giving out the little signals I interpret so darkly. I neither begrudge them nor belittle them, it is just that given time to think with my bleak outlook the brain turns to solipsism and asks - "What did I do? I'm doomed!"
I should be careful. Every fiber laced with self-hate and uncertainty says that I must turn away and give a Wolf 'space' so that he may return to me when he wishes. But what are the odds this will be interpreted as a lack of interest? A lack of wanting him? Jesus witch, try not to let everything fall apart over shadows and stupidity because you'd really belt yourself for that one come the morning.