I profoundly mislike crying for people. I have three reasons for this.
Partially because it always feels somehow spurious, the vague manipulative air, even if I tell them not, even if I speak of it never...something in me knows I was brought to that point, and I feel vaguely unworthy and ill-used over the whole affair.
Partially because the lump in my throat swells, and then becomes yet one more thing I won't talk about without duress, and I have so many of those already, they bury me under drifts of past misdeeds and misapprehensions. It gets harder of an evening to dig out to the surface at all.
Partially because it stains my fur, but that's the least of the reasons.
It's funny...in a very morbid sense. I haven't spoken of this before here, because...for once, it was too personal. My trio of shining loves...one is leaving me, and already refers to what we have in the past tense...one is likely leaving me, and won't--at least yet--speak to me about it...and I am left with one.
And...there may be surfacing problems with that one, as well, and...I don't know what to do about any of it.
Forget the train wreck; someone smuggled a pony nuke aboard, and I'm just another seared shadow on the wall, dim wraith of former vibrance.
I will get better. It's what I do. But for once I'm quite looking forward to my weekly Wednesday separation from the grid. It's one day I don't have to be in world and be responsible for everything I can't find a way to mend...
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I've got a three day headache and it's all in my head
It's the 30th of March. One day before Ostara. And there's been a lot of...well. Conversations like the one below. [18:43] Emil...
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Fire's high and the airbag's tight, Food's low but the skies are bright. Props spinning all through the night, ...we're low ...
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Sometimes, playing Echo Bazaar ends up a uniquely trippy experience: A dream about a corridor lined with brass mirrors In the dream, the mi...
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Pony nukes scare me.
But a single vial of deadly contagious virus scares me even more. ... It could be worse.
I mean, its not. But it could be.
When you get down to zero, call me. Actually I take that back.
When, one of your seven gets down to zero. Call me. After all seven is a holy number.
But zero? Thats origin.
-=-
My personal profile. My name is turner. I live in a box that I move around alot. Its got two holes cut out so I can see things. Theres a nice guy in the park, he wants me to come back to his home with him. He said I will get to wear lipstick and a costume.
I want to Meet YOU
Turner--I think you should consider the guy in the park. I mean, lipstick and costume--does it glitter? Could be very cool.
And I'll be honest with you, I'm being honest with myself--I get down to one--or zero? I think I'm taking myself off the relationship market for some time.
After all...I'll need to rebuild the train wreck. At the very least.
Oh, and--I do not believe I've ever had a love affair go viral.
I'm not even sure it could, to be honest. What's viral love, anyway?
*sitting in a treehouse in the jungle canopy, he puts down his binoculars, wipes his eyes and picks up the portable aetherscope*
Emilly,
It saddens me to see you in so much pain. As accomplished a healer as I am, I know a broken heart can only mend on its own. Otherwise we spend the rest of our lives chasing ghosts..
*glimpses something moving fast in the leaves and scans the horizon again*
Someone very wise once told a story.
A woman had a life replete and happy. She had a husband who loved her, a child that was the light of her life, a house that was a home. Goodness and light filled all of her days.
Bandits snuck in at night, to reap some of the good. The husband died fighting, the child because the child got in the way; the wife they thought they killed, too, but she survived. Broken, heartsick...but alive.
It took her many years to stop grieving. But she did. Finally, she was able to reach out again, and met a new love, and they were very happy for a few short years. Then he was struck down, and she lost love again.
In this place, the Goddess was real, and once a year, could be asked a question. And this was hers, the night after she buried her second love--why, after everything, did she have to go through such pain again?
The Goddess answered. Told her that the last time her heart broke, it hadn't healed right. It wouldn't be strong enough until it did. "So I had to break it again, you see," she was told.
The big loves leave marks. And some leave scars. Maybe I didn't heal right, the last time. I don't know.
I only know I'm growing less willing to reach out, again. It happens. I'll work on that...
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