I was wrong, it never lasts. There is no... modern romance.
Self-flagellation. It's just like that. Only less fun.
I'd forgotten the goddamn camera even existed. Gathering up my shit from the dusty corner of Mamet's hut, I found it there, in it's bag. Unopened for months. I was almost afraid it wouldn't start up -- I don't know how those fucking batteries work, but it did. The screen comes to life with a happy ding, Mamet's unmade bed showing up in the view. I fastforward through the last five months of my life. This perfect world that didn't exist. It needs mood music. The two of us in bed. Logan surfing, backlit by the greeting card sunrise. Eostre and the girls. Mike and the girls, yelling something at me silently in double-time. Mamet playing his guitar... All these little things. Then they all stop, abruptly. Screen going black, in some kind of warped symbol of uncertainty. I shut the screen and pack up. It's not a long walk from here.
I do it on my own, for whatever reason. I left a couple t-shirts at Mamet's on purpose, like he'd need an excuse to stop by. Make a big circle around Mike and Tom's huts, just in case. Part of me wants to see him, but the sane, cautious part of me thinks maybe it'd be best to give it a few days.
Then there's the hut... It's not too small. Smaller than the old one, but it's nice. Well-built. Built with love, whatever the fuck that means. Nice area, apart from the heaping pile of awkward I just dumped onto myself a couple days ago. There's nothing wrong with it at all, but the moment I step through the doorway, staring at the empty room... the bed made up on the floor 'til I get some actual furniture made, the air crushes out of my lungs. Knocked in the face with this... panic. Overpowering and jarring, and I step outside with a gasp, sitting down on a fallen log with a heavy sigh.
Max sniffs circles around me, nudging his nose at all the things that haven't made it inside yet. Not much. Some clothes shoved into my backpack. The few things that came with me from home. A hand-sewn teddy bear and a pair of patent-leather, thigh-high stiletto boots. And that fucking camera bag. I sit there for a long time, almost like I'm afraid to go in -- afraid to admit that it's mine, throwing rocks into the small fire-pit out front and playing fetch with the dog. There's no bench to sit on. No windchime hanging over the door. It's quiet, and even a month later, I think maybe this is the loneliest I've been.
Guess it's time for me to... just get used to it.
[OOC: Please, do be saving Neil from the saddest little hutwarming known to man. He'll be happy to see... just about anyone, and even though it might not look it, he'll be in a fairly good mood once he's not alone. Open to all. ST/LT always welcome. Oh, and his hut is south of the World Tree (south of the Hamlet).]
I'd forgotten the goddamn camera even existed. Gathering up my shit from the dusty corner of Mamet's hut, I found it there, in it's bag. Unopened for months. I was almost afraid it wouldn't start up -- I don't know how those fucking batteries work, but it did. The screen comes to life with a happy ding, Mamet's unmade bed showing up in the view. I fastforward through the last five months of my life. This perfect world that didn't exist. It needs mood music. The two of us in bed. Logan surfing, backlit by the greeting card sunrise. Eostre and the girls. Mike and the girls, yelling something at me silently in double-time. Mamet playing his guitar... All these little things. Then they all stop, abruptly. Screen going black, in some kind of warped symbol of uncertainty. I shut the screen and pack up. It's not a long walk from here.
I do it on my own, for whatever reason. I left a couple t-shirts at Mamet's on purpose, like he'd need an excuse to stop by. Make a big circle around Mike and Tom's huts, just in case. Part of me wants to see him, but the sane, cautious part of me thinks maybe it'd be best to give it a few days.
Then there's the hut... It's not too small. Smaller than the old one, but it's nice. Well-built. Built with love, whatever the fuck that means. Nice area, apart from the heaping pile of awkward I just dumped onto myself a couple days ago. There's nothing wrong with it at all, but the moment I step through the doorway, staring at the empty room... the bed made up on the floor 'til I get some actual furniture made, the air crushes out of my lungs. Knocked in the face with this... panic. Overpowering and jarring, and I step outside with a gasp, sitting down on a fallen log with a heavy sigh.
Max sniffs circles around me, nudging his nose at all the things that haven't made it inside yet. Not much. Some clothes shoved into my backpack. The few things that came with me from home. A hand-sewn teddy bear and a pair of patent-leather, thigh-high stiletto boots. And that fucking camera bag. I sit there for a long time, almost like I'm afraid to go in -- afraid to admit that it's mine, throwing rocks into the small fire-pit out front and playing fetch with the dog. There's no bench to sit on. No windchime hanging over the door. It's quiet, and even a month later, I think maybe this is the loneliest I've been.
Guess it's time for me to... just get used to it.
[OOC: Please, do be saving Neil from the saddest little hutwarming known to man. He'll be happy to see... just about anyone, and even though it might not look it, he'll be in a fairly good mood once he's not alone. Open to all. ST/LT always welcome. Oh, and his hut is south of the World Tree (south of the Hamlet).]