dark necessities are part of my design

up on Melancholy Hill, there's a plastic tree
are you here with me?



I don't...I've never been able to un-love, easily. There are nights I envy those who can throw others aside blithely; that's never been me. I love until it's--emotionally, psychologically, sometimes physically--beaten out of me, and even then...I love, but distantly. I love, but I know I've lost. I love, but I mourn.

"just looking out on the day of another dream
where you can't get what you want, but you can get me



Tonight has a flavor of more, because there has been another loss. It's not just the one I can't have; it's the one bright, shining spark who deserved more time. But can't we all say that, at some point? Still, Ktahdn has passed, and it hit me hard enough I can't imagine the level of grieving for those closer. He was...art with a pulse, in a lot of ways. Living thread of music and sculpture and words. And he will be missed.

so let's set out to sea, love
'cause you are my medicine when you're close to me
when you're close to me



In the interim of hearing the news, and feeling the loss of presence, if nothing else, of a lot of loves...I've been building. I finally finished the shore path I started in 2021 and never got back to. Now it leads from the front of the garden, down to the Fish and Whistle, the new pub by the fishing area. Linkages slowly forming, day by day. And the island in the Dark Sea got leveled in a mis-click, so...I raised a new one. But before, it was a gentle swell of curve, and now...well. Now it's an imposing bluff. Bit higher than I intended.

so call in the submarines, 'round the world we'll go
does anybody know, love
if we're looking out on the day of another dream?



Still, now it has a path too. It's a bit trickier coming down, than going up, because of the steep angle, but that's also why there's a fence. So no one falls off who doesn't want to.

Sometimes everyone falls, though, in spite of our best intentions.

if you can't get what you want, then you come with me



At the top it's much the same as it was before--sheltering trees, a place to stop and rest, the drifting fog between the standing stones. I removed the memorial that used to be up there, as well--though that was designed by Alia for Finn, when he passed, so...maybe it's time that returns. Not sure yet.

up on Melancholy Hill
sits the manatee, love



In other removalist news, there's only one thing left on the Krakenstorm sim, and after the owner of that ship is contacted, and removes it, it will likely be returning to the Linden mists. Though there has been a nibble of interest in renting it--we'll see where that goes, but honestly, I think we'll end up losing it. Going from five sims, down to three, now that New Alexandria's renter has moved on. Passages, transitions, losses. We're in the thick of them.

just looking out for the day when you're close to me
when you're close to me



The one bit of good news in all of this--Darkmere rises, and its denizens return. Which is kind of funny--its duke and master has been a friend for so long, but he'd wandered from the grid for several years. Still, when he returned, word went out, and his people joined him. And I'd met only a handful, once or twice, most I never met in all those long years between the then, and the now, but--they've become some of the joys of my virtual life. Scrim Pinion is such a talent, and he, like Violet, always introduces me to some new song, or new musical group, that then I must dig up and learn more about. Lilly his lovely wife, quieter, gothically amused, but also a joy to spend time with. Diana their reprobate third, eternally searching for new shops (an affliction I share) and the highest of surfaces to sit upon (an affliction I don't). Mourna, shy but present, Vertigo, all fire and electric energy, Charlemagne the genuinely maddened, but in good ways...and still the likeliest candidate to crash a sim on pure accident...(Scrim calls Chaz' inventory a level one cognitohazard. He's likely not wrong. Chaz reminds me palpably of Stiv of the before times, the long-lost dead god of Enigma)...and all the rest...They're good people. Fun people. Funny, not infrequently. And most of them had left the grid, too.

Suppose that shows you the pull one person can have.

when you're close to me...

Now I just need to find ways to lessen the pull.

(The song lyrics used are from "On Melancholy Hill", of course, by the Gorillaz, from the Plastic Beach album released in 2010. Though this one might also be apropos...even if I can't figure out if I'm him, or her, in this scenario. Maybe I'm both...which is far from comforting.)

heart is a storybook, a star burned out

Sometimes, love dies from abuse. Sometimes, love dies from neglect. Sometimes, love dies from absence.



And sometimes...love doesn't die at all, and we just wish it would...



I've been here before.

And it never gets easier.



I asked him today for a hug. Well, no, let me be precise--I said I would ask him for a hug, but I didn't know if that would offend him.

I got back the lines of severance sent by someone else, the new ban firmly nailed in place.

I guess that's his answer.



Maybe it's a good thing, knowing that another fracture in my heart won't destroy me. Maybe it's a good thing that I know how to shore up the weak spots, and continue on. Maybe it's a good thing I know how to operate under stress.

Or maybe these are all terrible things, and they're just familiar to me.

I don't know anymore.



But this is where we are, I guess. No repairing what's broken, ever. No discussion. No further contact. No...more. No more anything.

And I get to be the pillow over the face of love, quietly smothering it until it gives up and stops kicking...while my brain protests there has to be another way, and my heart screams it's not supposed to be this way at all.



Well, I agree. It's not. But here we are. And here, we unfortunately stay.

And the walls go up, and the gates within will be reinforced, and the list of those that have access to anything past the courtyard will be narrowed further...

But, to use a phrase I loathe...it is what it is. And I have to accept it for what it is. And find a way to move forward from here...

and I know, and I know, and I know just how this ends (part XV, and end)

(This turns out to be the last in the series.)

Feb 22, 2021, 7:17 PM

[given name], former master, distant love, inconstant ache.

In the last six years my life has changed a great deal. So...let's go into some of those. Not that you're reading these, but...something in me still says, write, on occasion. This is the last time i will.

I'm collared to a man named Matthias now. Of morbid amusement, since the rise of COVID, things have gone off the rails with him too. But before that, I was his, absolutely, with the exception of clients I took through Sakura. I'm still working at Sakura.

[I] is off and on these days. He voted for Trump, and...I can't get past that, especially with the insurrection Trump and others fomented against his own government, and members of his own party, this last January 6th. So..we don't talk a lot these days.

[F] and I barely talk, these days. What little we had, limping along, finally died, and I was the one to declare an end to things. I walked away; he still would like me to reconsider. It's made remaining friends difficult, for all that I still care. Maybe the fact I still care is part of what's difficult.

I met a man about a year after Matthias, named [E]. He has a lovely spitfire wife named [T]. They're marvelous, and marvelously sensual, and good friends, and we make the time we can to spend time together.

I met a blue-spotted cat named Hiro. Therein followed an extremely tangled thread of interrelations, confusions, mistakes and misunderstandings, and in the middle of everything (for reasons not concerning me), he stormed off the grid and left me alone for three years. I actually met him, and started falling for him, before I met Matthias. I accepted Matthias as a lover, and as my dominant, a year after *serious* conversation on what that collar would mean for both of us, but I, at least, know that--at least at first--I accepted at the end of that year of conversations because Hiro was gone.

Hiro recently came back, and proposed, and...I said yes. And it's been a tightrope walk ever since. But...if it is the most difficult balancing act of my life, it's also one of the most rewarding experiences, and I do not regret accepting his offer to partner in the least.

He met a lovely lady named Justine, and she is a bright shining supernova hiding a core of fractured insecurity. Sometimes the insecurity overwhelms. Sometimes she acts out just to get negative attention from either of us, and it drives me bats. But she's a joy, and so talented, and I watch people wander into her orbit and remain, fascinated. And I entirely get why--she has an orbital pull all her own. And I adore her.

I started following the work of a spoken-word poet and live performer named [R]. We're becoming close. I have spent a great deal of time trying to quit the whole falling-in-love-with-everyone game, because he'd be very easy to love, and recently...I decided that for good or ill, I was at least going to admit it. He's not running away so far.

And I suppose the final acquisition is a man named [M]. Older than I am, and presenting so in world, with white hair, and wrinkles, and...I love him more sweepingly than I thought I ever would. He is...caring, and funny, and wry, and warm, and a fantastic dancer, and willing to listen to anything I say without judgement, and willing to work around everyone else in my life. And he accepts everything in me--the scars, the successes, the fragility and the surety, and in world, the various avatars that go with them, from my 'human' face to the wee little Kemono demicat. I may keep some things close to the chest just to remain a discrete being, if nothing else, with everyone--but I know to my marrow that there is no face, no change, no mood, no pain, no rage he doesn't see and accept. That's a treasure beyond words.

He reminds me a lot of you, actually. You without the soul wounds.

I am...still wounded, myself. I may always be. I've done a lot of healing, and a lot of processing, and on the other end of things I look at a life that is an odd whirl of social engagements, otherloves, and terraforming--because, of course, Hiro is the Duke of Gearhaven, and the Lindens *finally* reopened the land store since he emerged onto the grid, so we *finally* have the sim of Gearhaven, and the Dark Sea next door, and we're building it up again. We'd been on one of Anshe Chung's rental sims, Oceanpoint, but...it's ruinously costish.

And yes, there is still some small, traitor part of me that wishes you'd return, but there's far more of me that just wishes you well, and living, and hopefully happy, and staying far far away, because...the breaking of faith was too extreme, my once-love. Too extreme by far. At this point, I'm glad you're alive, or at least were when I spoke to your machine that last time, but I'm happier never seeing you again.

But that's my life now. Mostly, I'm content. On more occasions than I expected, I'm even happy. I am loved and I love, and there are many threads in my tapestry that bind me close to the world, and to others, and I am many threads through the fabric of others' lives. I am no longer pinioned on the high mountain, even in thought. I'm still with the girls, not that I ever expected not to be. And COVID has caused great and terrifying fear, because...I had weakened lungs to begin with, and I am now very nearly agoraphobic about leaving the house. But I have a lovely set of masks to go out in, at the least. I have one with chibi cryptids on it, one with a pirate map, one with skulls and roses, and my favorite was one I got from Tormented Artifacts, and it says ADAPT OR DIE.

I'm trying. I am trying with every fiber in me, to adapt to new things, to accept change, and to adapt away from the person who needed to be at your feet. Regaining the ability to listen to Poets of the Fall helped, oddly. Discovering a singer who goes by LP helped also. (This may remain my favorite song of hers, at least the next few years, as it's already been the favorite song of 2020.) So this will be the last letter I send you, into the void of non-responsiveness.

It won't reach you, but I hope the thought does. I hope you know, somewhere in your embattled, mercurial soul, that someone occasionally thinks fondly of you. Because I still do, on occasion, in spite of everything. I am just no longer, and will never be again,

Yours~

J

And that...is that. That's it. I learned what I needed to. I had the talk with Matthias. We're in a better place, though the ground's still a bit rocky. And all roads no longer lead back to that missing master. Barring this excoriative excess, I doubt he even crosses my mind more than once every six weeks or so (when I'm not editing and posting things referring to him), so...it's starting to fade. Another decade, I may not even remember his name.

And that will be something of a bittersweet day, too, but on the other hand...all he had to do was talk to me. All he had to do. I've been here. I haven't moved since I sent him every point of contact I had. We still have the same house phone number that he'd been given.

So...while in the main, while the reason this all happened may have been me, probably was me...the lack of any and all contact? That's on him. And I am no longer taking responsibility for it. Not my fault, not my burden, not my Master, not my job.

I'm moving on, after far too long of standing in this one dark place, reaching out. And for once, you know...that's actually a hopeful thought.



(Though I still don't know what to do with this.



(I don't want to throw it away, because of what it once meant...and I don't want to keep it, because of what it once meant. The one thing I am sure of, is that it no longer watches over me.

(But that's okay. I have others watching over me now.)

and I won't lay down, there's a darker shade of courage (part XIII)

(Continued from part XII.)

A longer one, again. Two years have passed at this point.

Nov 28, 2015, 11:51 AM

[given name],

Still breathing. Occasionally wondering why. I think it's more habit than desire at this point.

In the writing of the...whatever it is...I've been doing this November, I've been trying to cull from all sources to track down things. Conversations we've had, notes both in and out of world, fragments of thought in all the places I have to store them. I haven't worked through physical notebooks; not sure I'm going to, because there's more than enough words to evaluate and transcribe from email, iPod and notes saved on the comp.

Anyway, I found a more exhaustive transcription of the September incident, and thought I'd toss it in here. Again, no idea why, other than it's become habit to write to you.

Shadow man. Missing Master. Shadowmancer, High Priest of the Hourglass. I'm amusing my brain coming up with alternate titles for you, when before, 'love' or your name were more than enough. There's a morbid humor there, somewhere, or maybe it's just me.

Anyway, the note. It's from another note on the iPod, dated July 23, 2012:

"It's a quarter to two and I've been seen for my somewhat yearly mammogram. The breast health center moved from an overly pink office, suffused with ruffles and quilting, to a more neutral structure, all exposed beams and copper-cast, oversized gingko leaves.

"I have about an hour to kill and--sitting outside of the hospital--every excuse assumed if I don't get through this without tears.

"So. Day before yesterday, around five in the morning, I decided to stop staring out the window sleeplessly and I started writing on the iPod, the way I'm doing now. I came about as close as I've ever come to a straight goodbye letter--at least, when the goal is to say anything but goodbye.

"As one might imagine, this left me emotionally unsteady, but after spending some time watering the pillow with silent tears, I thought I'd regained some measure of control, and finally fell asleep.

"The next day, all I wanted--ALL I wanted--was to take some in-game pics of an ongoing charity event. Unbeknownst to me, one of my computer case fans was on its last legs. Added to this was the fact that I'm having animation caching issues which were frustrating enough on their own to deal with.

"I overslept, which meant I woke up with the perception I was already late on things. A friend of mine, far more technically savvy than I am, was trying to analyze why the animations weren't working for me. I'd spent the first hour being awake in stripping down an extra AO device and packing it with static (AKA, unmoving) animations to make it easier to take pictures.

"Then the fan cut out. My mouse froze on the screen and nothing would get it moving again. Finally, I hard-crashed the computer, breathed for a bit, then tried to start the computer again.

"And nothing. Oh, it started fine, but when it hit the verification screen after the BIOS, it wouldn't load.

"And I...just dissolved. No amount of coping strategies stopped me crying, and I was simultaneously hurt, angry and afraid. And the one thing my brain seized on to make it better was cutting.

"Now, for anyone who doesn't know the story--or hasn't seen the pictures. because I'm not sure I'm just going to send it to you--in September of 2002, we were in a situation where we had given notice to move on our place, and suddenly had no money to move. As it turned out, we spent the last three weeks in Spokane surfing various friends' couches, feeling like we were leeches on our friends' generosity, but at that time, in September, we had no idea where we were going, and both Cat and I were under a crashing burden of stress.

"Another step back--since I hit puberty, I've off and on used self-mutilation as a way to deal with emotional stress. While this absolutely wasn't helped by the old boyfriend who stubbed cigarettes out on my arms, and my natural propensity to scar from non-self-inflicted wounds, I will say it's been something I've struggled with for decades.

"Back to 2002. Late one night, after yet another argument over money, I was sitting up at the computer and got the strong urge to cut. I sat there for two hours, feeling helpless against this compulsion, and finally decided if I was going to do this, I was by the gods going to make it memorable.

"I found a very sharp kitchen knife and a seam cutter I wouldn't need past that night. I went to the bathroom and got alcohol, gauze, antibiotic ointment and tape. I returned to the kitchen with two more things: a small, blue glass bowl, a lit candle, and a glass of Bombay gin and tonic water over ice.

"For the next two hours, I set to work. Sterilize the skin, make the cuts. Sterilize the skin again, the blade again, breathe through the alcohol's bite, make the cuts. Take a sip of gin, breathe, and sterilize the skin again. Shudder with the pain and do it all again.

"It felt longer, but that was the first hour. When I was finished, I heated the blade edge of the seam ripper, and burned along the cuts, sterilizing and reheating the seam ripper as I went.

"That took the other hour, and I now know how I would smell cooking. When it was all over, I dressed the wound, carefully bandaging it, finished the last inch of gin, and went to bed.

"For the next ten years, this has worked as a deterrent. When I've really wanted to cut, I think of how branding myself felt, and I don't. Sometimes I actually have to reach up, and trace the marks, but...it's enough, and I don't.

"So. Yesterday. Sent what my mind is thinking as the Goodbye Letter, without ever actually using that word. Feeling an inordinate pressure to cover Hair Fair, even though logging onto SL makes me depressed and jittery just logging in. More than a month of having my eyes blur, trying to take pictures through flawed, stuttering animations on my virtual self.

"And at least three months, if not four at this point, of absolutely zero contact from that oh-so-distant love.

"And my computer dies and won't work. And I absolutely dissolved.

"And I wanted to cut. I even planned out where: a six-inch vertical slice down my right thigh. Thinking of the brand didn't stop me. Thinking of promises I made, to both myself and that distant love, didn't stop me.

"Somehow, somehow, I held to a state of teary, shuddery stasis, and went so far as to pick out a knife and walk around carrying it. I wracked my brain for any excuse to stop what I wanted to do.

"Standing in the kitchen. One hand on the sharpest knife we have. Going over how many gauze pads we have, where I can find paper tape, where I can track down antibiotic ointment. And it hits me: I do this, he wins.

"And I stood there. Thinking. Because [f*ck] him, he doesn't get to win. He doesn't get to break me because I'm too weak without him not to pick up old habits.

"And this week, especially. Today, annual mammogram. Tomorrow, food bank run. Wednesday, labs and bloodwork to see if all the stress of the last month has kicked my thyroid to the curb again. (Personal opinion: I think it has.)

"Then Thursday, Cat leaves for physical therapy. And she'll be gone at least a week, but all of us are suspecting at least a month away from us.

"I put the knife away. I dug around our limited stores of alcohol and resigned myself to a shot of Amaretto, because we have no rum or gin. I forced myself to make a salad, and grimly ate it while watching SVU episodes for the second season of the show. And I didn't stop crying for two hours.

"But there's no cut on my thigh. Granted, on occasion I'm tracing where it would have been with my thumbnail, but I'm not pressing hard enough even to scratch. The girls got home and they brought me coffee ice cream. The bad fan on the comp got changed, I downloaded new drivers for the video card, and spent time with old and new friends watching Spoony's latest Ultima review, and running around in City of Heroes.

"And I will count this down hour by hour if I have to, but I'm not giving in.

"But I'm back to fragile and insecure. And honestly, if this is what everyone else feels when they hurt, I'm wondering why in the hell I fought this hard to feel."

Again, not that you're reading these, but the beginning of this thread still mentions summer, and we are far from summer's balms. So I'm tying it up here, I'll start a new thread to not talk to you in.

[Em]

I'm stopping it here for a while. Not only because of the glut of revelation in this one, which I'm still going to end up publishing, because I'm me, but also, because these were just the ones that turned up on a search for first "poet" and then "others". It's a good general overview, and I think that's enough. For now.

No--one last bit, because I wanted to track down if I'd saved whatever I was considering as the final 'goodbye letter', and...I can't seem to find it. There seems to be a large gap of July 2012 missives, and I may have deleted it. But I found this, after finally making the call that went to his machine:

Sat, Nov 21, 2015, 2:28 AM

I know you're alive now.

And I still love you.

You're a goddamned idiot.

But I still do.

[Em]

And that is all of that.

(Written to OK Go's "Here It Goes Again" on repeat because I needed something more upbeat than memory.)

(And actually...there is one more.)

I've waited here for you forever (part XII)

"I come in peace. I didn't bring artillery. But I'm pleading with you, with tears in my eyes: if you [f**k] with me I'll kill you all."
~~Marine General James Mattis

(Continued from part XI.)

Another.

Sun, Oct 28, 2012, 7:11 PM

because there's just...no point anymore, is there?

I got turned down for disability. The medical doctor turned in three potential jobs I could do--all of them required lifting, standing, and/or kneeling to do the work, and one of them was seasonal only. The judge also didn't consider any medical findings earlier than 2004.

So...it's a no. I'm not sure if I'm going to challenge for a second appeal. I'm so tired of fighting.

And I don't know where you are. Where you went. And I'm tired of that too.

I still love you, but thinking of you depresses the hell out of me. I ran out of any resource I can think of last night, trying to track down [country]'s obituaries. I literally don't know what to do at this point.

[Em]

Another.

After several months of waiting, I've now had my first appointment with a rehab physician--he took an exhaustive medical history, poked in just about every painful area I have, and walked me out with a steroid injection in my left knee, a prescription for Voltaren (which my insurance likely won't cover), and a new type of non-opiate painkiller (which my insurance likely will). I'm to come in towards the end of December for a follow-up, and in the first or second week of January for a nerve induction test on my wrists.

I don't know why I'm telling you this. You're not there. You're dead or amnesiac or uncaring or lobotomized, but you're not THERE.

I don't know if I'll write again.

I may still try to call, but depending on what I find out, when and if I'm able to, I think that's the end of it for me. I'm trying to put myself together again enough to move on. There is a large part of my heart that will always be yours, and right now, I resent that more than a little, but I'll have to cope with that too.

[Em]

Another.

Thu, Mar 21, 2013, 6:21 PM

[given name],

Still miss you. Still don't know why you left. Still waiting for enough free in the budget to buy an international calling card.

I'll make the one call, and depending what I hear, I think that's well and truly the end of all things.

Still love you. But that just makes everything hurt worse.

I hope you're happy, wherever you are. I truly do. I hope you are blissfully happy, or at least content, and not in a coma, or dead, or simply perfidiously ignoring everything I send your way. In any world, with me or not, I'd rather you be alive and happy. And if it has to be without me, then I still know you're alive and happy, and for me, that would be enough.

It's the not knowing, the months of not knowing, that's shredding my heart.

Not yours (though I still want to be); not collared (and that's acid on the soul); and not part of your life anymore,

[Em]

At least one more to come.

(Coded to Daughtry's "Over You".)

I wasn't prepared to be read like Tolstoy (part IX)

"Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts."
~~Winston Churchill

(Continued from part VIII.)

Another one.

Jul 14, 2012, 2:34 AM

[given name],

I can't stand this, you know. The not knowing--the not knowing even months later--whether you've died, or been kidnapped, or fell into a coma, or simply walked away uncaring--honestly, I just want to know that you're okay. At this point, that's really it. My faith has eroded to rust and splinters, my heart has shattered, and still, no word.

No word.

I hate not writing. I hate not communicating. But I am calling into the abyss, and I do not like the silence I'm hearing back.

And I am trying, I am doing my best to keep reminding myself that I love you, that you are still worthy of that love, and that trust, and that faith, and it's getting so difficult to breathe...I am keeping what faith I can, and hoping for the best, and trying to reconstruct a life without you in it.

When I never wanted a life without you in it.

And still, I am~

Yours.

[Em]

Followed by a very short one.

Sat, Jul 14, 2012, 9:59 PM

[given name],

please.

please, [given name], please...if you don't want to own me I will find a way to understand, if you don't want to love me I'll work on accepting that too, I just want to know you're OKAY

please, just that, just tell me that.

And another.

Sun, Jul 15, 2012, 10:48 PM

Why no word? We're back here again. What went wrong? Why are you just GONE?

Gods, I hope you're okay.

And another.

Mon, Jul 16, 2012, 9:00 PM

It's crossed my mind today that maybe you've decided it's too late. That maybe you think too much time has passed, and you'd rather have regrets than come forward and risk the pain of argument, or even just conversation.

There's a couple things wrong with that assumption, if you have it. First: it's not too late if you come back. It's only too late if you don't.

And the second, paired with the first: it's only too late to fix things if I give up on you. And though I am in pain, alternating between rage, fear and worry, I haven't given up on you yet.

Not completely. Hope may be dying on the vine, but it takes a long, long time to expire.

And I still love you.

[Em]

More to come.

oh, feel our bodies grow, and our souls they play, yeah

This was an exciting day.



One day after Gearhaven launched, I dropped by the sim and saw something under the water. I sunk down through the waves and arrived on the little stairs leading up to the sealed door. I spun the wheel to open it, and...walked into memory.



So this goes back a ways, to when I first met Hiro. He'd dropped by work a few times, and we'd talked, and I thought hit it off, but you know how these things are.



Sometimes it's just friendly. Sometimes it's just flirting. Sometimes it goes nowhere, and sometimes...



Well, sometimes, you meet a blue-spotted cat on a steampunk sim who's rezzing out a laser shark for a tank in an underwater dance club.



And the rest is kind of history. Something just--clicked that day, for me. I have always been enthralled by watching what people build here, how they put prims together, what they want to bring onto the grid. I have literally sat and done just that, for hours--watched people build. I'm fascinated. I'm still fascinated.



And therein hangs a much longer tale, but just above the club, there's an open space? Hiro rezzed out the original laser shark. So wonderful.

a symbol for my shame, the color of your name (part VIII)

"Three separate ER nurses have either rolled their eyes at me or called me 'lame' for dropping a hatchet on my own head. Everyone's a critic."
~~John Roderick

(Continued from part VII.)

The next link in the chain.

Sun, Jul 8, 2012, 10:11 PM

[given name],

Today has been spent, in between scorching bouts of heat adaptation, working on lessening the tendency to reach for you. I have felt, all day, as if I am continuously stretching out my arms, seeking reassurance, seeking presence, which is not there. And each time I have that moment of realization, followed by depression, followed by resolve.

I have ingrained so many processes in you. Surcease and desire, devotion and absolution, fear and balm, and I am again standing in my own way if I keep responding. It makes it difficult to think on you, to process--even to write.

I've written other poems but you're not here, so I'm uploading them to Tumblr and letting them stand.

It used to be just seeing your name lifted my heart, made my pulse flutter and charmed me, claimed me, changed me. Now? I think of you and I cry.

It's not a good change.

Still love you. Still here. Back to trying not to hate you.

[Em]

Still trying to track all the scattered poems down throughout the Tumblr archive. It's taking some time.

More to come if I find it.

(Coded to Black Veil Brides' Scarlet Cross on repeat.)

I know love is the loneliest place when you fall alone (part VII)

"To stray from built order is to confront the man with a gun."
~~Adam Gopnik

(Continued from part VI.)

The first of several short ones.

Jul 6, 2012, 4:52 AM

[given name],

I don't like not writing you. But today was the first fairly calm day I've had in over a month, and it's the first night I feel as if I'll be able to leave the keys, and go to sleep. I don't entirely know why I got so wrapped up in you, but I'm pulling away as much as I can stand, and trying to focus on making my life work again, over why your life separated from mine.

When I have to, I'll take other days off; in the meantime, trying to obey You in looser fashion, and see how it goes.

I'll be here when you get back, if you ever do, and I do love you.

[Em]

This was followed by

Jul 7, 2012, 12:45 AM

Master,

For most of the evening, I've been resting and fairly immobile; I'm keeping dinner down but I have a severe migraine, so I didn't even return to the keys until nearly midnight. I am currently buffered by more painkiller than I want, and carefully breathing until four, where--if I'm still having pain--I'll take my nightly meds, which include ibuprofen, and be off to bed.

I'm still worried about you. I still love you. I'm still here. What I don't know is where you are, but I'm starting to let go of needing to know. You'll tell me, or you won't, and life goes on either way. And though I'm not entirely sure what it means at this point, I still consider myself~

Yours.

[Em]

A slightly longer missive to finish this entry.

Sat, Jul 7, 2012, 9:49 PM

[given name],

Today did not go well. It was punishingly hot, and I didn't respond as quickly as I should have, or there were still lingering traces of last night's migraine. Either way, I quickly grew dizzy and disoriented, and by the time I really thought it through, I was only able to stagger to the reclining chair, where I stayed, half-conscious, until the girls arrived home from shopping. They've been feeding me cold water and sips of juice, and I'm starting to pull out of it. But it was kind of scary. I'm still not all the way back to stable, and my head feels like a drum skin that's been stretched too far.

Because I don't have an effective lead-in to this today, I'll just say it: I've been talking with some friends about our situation, and this was my last reply to one of them:

"Admittedly, that's one of the things I'm afraid of. Survived everything to this point; went into therapy for two years to deal with some of my issues, and get a handle on the others; and finally, the life seemed to be solid, improving...stable.

"Then...this. And it threw me so intensely, I was actually terrified by the depth of my reaction. Thankfully, I have tools now from my therapist and I got a handle on things within two or three weeks from the collapse, but I'm still not back to stable yet.

"It's interesting, too. Half of me is afraid I'll never hear from him again, which would be a great tragedy in my life. But the other half? The other half is fearful he'll slip back by as if nothing happened over these last four months. Four months (or longer) that I spent in severe emotional disarray, begging him to contact me somehow. Four months where it was proven by silence that it doesn't matter if I'm crying over his loss, begging him to talk to me again, or ignoring him completely--I'm not important enough to him to even send out a single line to reassure me.

"That's like razors on raw flesh. And the longer I'm left with only silence as answer means I'm going to assume things that could be wrong, I'm going to make mistakes in what I think and feel, but...I don't see another choice.

"And at this point, if I do give up, then I'm doing it on my terms, too. Until I hear from him, he's effectively made the choice to be out of my life. There's a lot of pain behind that knowledge, but it's where we are. I don't have to like it, but I do have to accept it if I'm going to go anywhere worth going."

This is what I know at this point: I'm not saying goodbye. I don't feel like I'm Yours, most of the time now; or put another way, I don't feel as if I'm protected and loved (at least, by You; I know the girls love me, and they are supporting me all that they can), but I'm not saying goodbye.

This is stubborn; I recognize that. And it will hurt me if you do intend on staying away longer, or even forever. I don't deny that. On the other hand, I've already been hurt by the past four months so, in a sense, I'm already there. I accept this pain.

But if you're too cowardly even to send me a simple text message, just one simple line saying you're *alive*...then you really don't have any room to complain. I'm still here--I haven't left--but today I stop obsessing, I stop fretting over things I can't change.

When I feel it's important, I'll write. I'll try to work on my writing and figure out if there's any ending for either story, or start a new one. And while I have no interest in dating, roleplay, or online relationships in general--I''m stepping away from those rules, too.

And if you disagree, you're welcome to talk to me. Ball's in your court.

[Em]

You know the refrain by now. No further word.

More to come.

and I don't want to go home right now (part V)

"Be pretty if you can, be witty if you must, be agreeable if it kills you."
~~Elsie de Wolfe

(Continued from part IV.)

The last I've found so far.

Jan 30, 2012, 4:30 AM

Master,

Late re-greetings, but we had a group venture into CoH that we wanted to start (a new story arc which it seems the whole of the playing population has completed but us), however, Neome was in a slowed mindset. She wasn't terrifyingly fatigued, but she wanted to get a shower done and food made and laundry started and bed remade and more laundry folded and email answered, all *before* she went in to play. So our target of two ayem turned into three-thirty before we started, and I made the decision to tell you later, and just finish the story arc.

As soon as the mission tied up, I logged off, but as you can note, it's now a half hour behind. However, I am on my way towards sleeping now.

Also, A Hole At the Bottom of the Sea is actually quite the engaging book. I think he's really doing his best to be objective, and not paint BP as the ultimate evil in the Deepwater Horizon oil spill, but he's also been granted some unprecedented access all the way along the procedure, from the first night of the accident onward. I've been very impressed with it. (It even has its own web page: http://aholeatthebottomofthesea.com/!)

And love you, and breathing, and hope you are doing well, and I am~

Yours,

[Em]

As far as I know, the last, while also written out on an iPod note before sending, seems almost too cheerfully upbeat when compared to the others. I get the definite feeling it was 'brave face' time. It didn't work for long.

I found myself playing Phoebe Bridger's "I Know The End" video over and over again, coding these out for publication.

No, for anyone curious, I never heard from him again. Still haven't, all these years later. Likely never will. Life moves on.

(Continued in part VI.)

yeah, I gotta hurt you, I gotta hear it from your mouth (part IV)

"Trouble is part of your life--if you don't share it, you don't give the person who loves you a chance to love you enough."
~~Dinah Shore

(Continued from part III.)

This one's three letters, again due to length.

27 January 2012

Master,

The month advances, and I'm still circling in place, wondering...wondering if I'll ever send this off; wondering if I'll have these doubts forever; wondering about why you haven't answered any questions of late. I wonder how you're doing. Is it just that busy at work? Are there greater demands on your time? Are things okay with your wife, are you arguing with friends? And don't misunderstand me: put me clear to the side as a lover, fine; as a *friend* I worry that something's eating at you, and you'd rather withdraw than talk about it. And I worry that your pattern of not talking until things resolve may backfire on you at some point. Because until, unless, if ever, we talk about some of these issues, they're not going to go away.

And I'm not sure, honestly, how many of these issues, at this point, will go away if we talk them out. I'd just like to make the attempt.

One day later...

28 January 2012

Master,

So, I keep going back and forth between 'Oh please, like he even cares' and 'Of course he loves you, what are you, an idiot?' And I'm currently trying to figure out where this massive doubt is coming from. This is complicated by the week of insane moodiness, followed by the week of anger, which was followed by hemorrhaging, which now seems to be winding up to a head cold.

I still haven't figured out if I'm sending you these notes. Part of me is just appalled at what seems like over-emotional whinging, and the other part is thinking at least you'll know what I feel--good or bad, at least it will be out in the open.

I think what's really holding me in place is the thought of sending all these scattered thoughts off, and hearing nothing back--again. And that is such a debilitating thought, it knots my throat and makes me pause, and take a moment to breathe, even just writing this down. This, I am now realizing, in this moment, is playing on some very deep fears. Fears you never gave me, but that are coming into play nonetheless. Fears of the unknown, of the ones who left and never told me why. Fears of writing letters never answered, fears of my inability to understand, and all of that now overlaid over your seeming distance.

It's been a pattern. This one is far from the first to simply disappear on me without word. He wasn't even the second.

29 January 2012

Master,

It's been a week. I've read over this text file, and none of these issues are resolved. So I'm sending this. I can't live in fear. And if you don't answer, you don't answer. I'll find a way to cope, with or without you.

I love you, but I'm tired of fighting both sides of this battle in my head. If you want to talk to me, it's not like you don't know where I am.

[Em]

One more to go (I think).

spending all night wondering why you let me go (part III)

"The heart is knit by the pain that breaks it; the life is made whole by the death that starts it; the death is made whole by the life that ends it."
~~Diane Duane

(Continued from part II.)

More from the archives.

25 January 2012

Master,

I'm overthinking things again, but I'm thinking about talking with you last night, and I'm trying to find that dividing line. I still feel there's a rift, and maybe I'll always feel like that until--and if--we talk things out. But...I feel closer. So what I'm trying to decide is, can I adapt to a relationship that has occasional staggering pitfalls of doubt, and no explanations, and no apologies? Is that enough of a relationship? Or maybe it's just the relationship I have, and I have no choice, it's this or...nothing.

I don't want nothing. I do love you. I profoundly *hate* feeling shut out, though, and that's what I'm struggling with. And I have no guarantees right now that you're even reacting to any of the things I've said in previous letters, or that you're not simply remembering I'm here again.

Is it my lack of focus that's made you so distant? You don't want to get closer because you don't think *I'll* be there? And I don't know the answer to that, either.

This may be the only one paired with a second letter, because they were both fairly short.

26 January 2012

Master,

"Merely submitting is a good start, a declaration of intent, but not nearly enough.

"First of all, the submission has to be proven--to the sub as well as to the Dom. Every command followed, every lesson learned, every cruelty endured makes the bond deeper and more meaningful. Everyone can say 'I'll do whatever you want, Sir!', but at first that is just a fantasy. It even sounds like a fantasy. But only after you worked and suffered for every memory and experience it becomes a more realistic and now entirely believable 'I’ll do whatever I CAN, Sir!'.

"And second, there is a 'right' way to submit. But what that means depends entirely on the person who is in control. It’s not a specific role that is played, but the sum of the little experiences and lessons that shape the way the sub acts and feels. And it is not a conscious effort--quite the opposite. The only conscious effort the sub should make, in my humble opinion, is concentrating entirely on her little world, her Dom, and the task at hand. Everything else is learned simply through repetition and 'training'. The real beauty begins when the sub is doing precisely what pleases the Dom without any effort or conscious thought. Then she is truly his."

I am trying, trying with everything in me, to cling to that fingers-length of hope that all is not lost, in this. I feel less bereft than this day last week; I feel as if today is the first day I've been able to inhale, and relax, even if minutely. Then I came across this passage, and I'm pondering again.

Is this what I've been doing? Am I so desperately reaching for any kind of connection that I've fallen into "anything" and "whatever" modes of thought? Is that what you want? I know in the beginning you told me that you wanted someone to be Yours, but that it was additional to who we were, who we are to each other. I think I never took that seriously enough, because [ex] had said that too, in the beginning, and then the demands slowly escalated. And please understand it's not additional demands I would mind; it's the fact that I hear a similar phrase, and I think of the last time it was said, and wonder if they're similar circumstances. In my mind, demands escalate, and going from slow exploration, to the...the virtual, real collaring we'd reached (if that's the right phrase for it), and from then to...nothing? Months and months of nothing? I'm circling, and spiraling down, because I think if we're not advancing, then you're withdrawing.

But then I remind myself, this is you. You don't say things you don't mean. You say what you mean to say, whether it's expressing love, anger, confusion, conversation. You don't lie. No previous motives apply to you, ever.

But, I think that's also why I profoundly begin to doubt when you say nothing at all, because that *could* mean, maybe in fact *does* mean, that there are deeper things you don't feel like sharing with me going on. Things beyond simply being busy at work. Things I wonder if I could help with, at least in listening.

But again, I don't have the words to ask. Because that much has become pattern--I ask, I never get an answer anymore. And it's hard not to continually believe that.

More to come.

sitting by the phone, holding onto hope (part II)

(Continued from part I.)

More from the archives.

23 January 2012

Master,

I am finding out how thin my veneer of self-esteem really is. I'm trying to break it down into separate components, and I'm working on rebuilding, but I'm understanding now that part of the cracking of that very thin veneer happened when you started ignoring me. I know I invest heavily in those I love; I can be hard to cope with, I can be high maintenance, and I'm never sure I'm worth the effort spent on me, but believe me, I do notice that effort. Especially, I notice it when it's gone.

You got busy. I get that. I've said that before, I *do* understand, honestly. But all previous times you've been busy you've always had...something. A hand on my hair, a few words, and I survive on the small things.

But...what, three or four months, now? Whenever it was that things got so hectic, you went away, for the weekend that turned into the holiday that turned into that extended vacation, and when you came back....everything seemed to stop.

Am I misremembering it? Perhaps they tapered off over a longer period of time than I recall, but to me, at least, it seemed quite sudden. One month was fine--or at least, broken in understandable ways--and the next month...you stopped talking to me.

Why?

And then there's the talking, period. After everything, you said at one point, we'd have to take some time and talk everything out. You were waiting for the right time, you said. That time never seemed to come. I kept waiting, but I didn't think I should ask about *when* we'd be talking, I just wanted us at some point *to* be talking. I thought you'd made it clear. And I've been waiting as patiently as I can, but I think the longer it sits, the longer things aren't going to be resolved.

The bigger problem is, I keep going back to the basics. I love you; I'm sure of that. But I'm mad at you, and that's true, too. I want you to talk to me, but I don't know how to ask for it. I know I'm willing to ask in print, but you never answer.

You *never* answer. Why don't you ever answer? Is it too hard? Do you no longer care? These are the questions I keep coming back to, and it gets worse the longer we go on. I've gone from "you're busy so I must be patient" to "Do you even love me anymore?"

In another month, two, three...will I move from insecurity and doubt to solid acceptance that you don't care? Once I hit there, then what happens?

Do you even want to prevent me from drawing the wrong conclusions?

And if I ever send these missives off...will you fail to answer them, as well? Because that's what hurts the deepest--not being ignored; not being dismissed because right now, I'm less important than the things you need to do (and I understand that, I *do* understand that, because that much *is* true--I *am* less important than the real issues of your life); but the fact that I ask questions, questions I (at least think I) need the answers to, and the fact that you don't respond.

And while you never answered all questions I asked, you did answer *some* before. And that was okay. But over the past few months, you've stopped answering anything. It's like I'm speaking in a void, a vacuum. And *that* has been telling me, over and over, in quiet and harmful ways, that you *don't* care, that you're just waiting for me to leave.

I don't like thinking that. I really don't. I'm trying very hard to hold that locked into a specific place, so it doesn't wander and create more doubt. I don't like doubting.

But you're helping the doubt thrive, right now.

More to come.

oh, I'm scared if I look in your eyes, I might see your soul (part I)

While we're still talking about old loves, and survival...a series of letters I never intended to publish. Which likely will make no sense to anyone but me, but, based on this Twitter thread...it's on my mind.

So this will be a series I'll set to publish randomly over the course of February and March [Insert from the Editrix: They're going to run into June, one every week or two. Oops], depending on how many of these I find.

22 January 2012

Master,

I don't know when I'll send any of this. I may not. I only know that now is the night I start trying to figure it all out.

I'm beginning to think that things started to go wrong the first time I said no. I don't think we ever recovered; in time, we might, but you were angry, and I was hurt, and it all took far too much time to resolve. Even with that, I believe things still might have recovered, *may* recover, but...for the past four months, I've felt as if I'm standing by myself, not next to you. That, if you're near at all, you're only watching now, not interacting.

And I've done my best to think this through. Yes, I miss talking to you, but that's just talking. Yes, I miss the sex, but that's really, at the end of the day, just sex. I miss...what I miss is feeling that I'm *yours*. Treasured...loved...bidden to your will...when at this point, all I really feel is the burden of it, like you're waiting, with grieving patience, for me to get fed up and leave.

Like everyone else has.

Here's something I know about me. I can endure just about anything. Especially wavering right now between soul-deep depression and abiding anger, I know I can endure just about anything. Especially if my stubbornness kicks in, which I'm still trying to figure out if it has or not. But I also know this: I'd rather give in than give up, and especially in matters of the heart, my version of 'giving in' generally means I can't take any more damage and survive. And I do know I push it, sometimes to places which break me, because...because something in my make-up is tragically flawed. I can submit, though I'm stubborn about it; I cannot give up until I'm driven to that place, broken and bleeding, and it's give up or die. And even then, I fold rather than admit I've fallen.

I haven't given in yet. But I'm starting to hurt more than I want to, and I'm deeply unhappy. I feel forsaken, I feel as if I'm grieving having never had the loss to show for it, and I feel very, *very* deeply angry. And so far, I'm too depressed and too angry even to *cry* over all this, which by the way, my therapist wants me to do before she sees me next week. I wonder what she'll say when I tell her I wasn't able to do it.

Whatever I write here, however long it takes me to get it to you--assuming I do, assuming I'm willing to open myself up to more potential pain--this is where it ends. Once I hit wherever the 'end' is, to these notes (assuming I send it then), I send it, but then I'm done talking. And if you never bring it up, *any* of it up, that's it. Sooner or later even I'll hit that point, and I'll give up on you too.

I love you, you bastard. Don't push me to that point.

More to come.

let's raise a glass or two to all the things I've lost on you

There are times in any life when nostalgia becomes its own toxin in the system. My life, I think I've grown used to the presence of memory's poison, but some nights I'm still brought up short by unananswered questions, digging down to the tender, flinching points.



And this one, in particular...why am I still haunted by old love? Or to be specific, old loves, I should say.

The demon and the vampire still haunt me. The first one, I should say--the second, the Sídhe-sided, half-Drow Queen's Raven, he just bemuses. I wish him well wherever life has taken him. But those first two...they linger. They prick and sting, even in recall. Even with distance.



And I think...I think it wasn't just that I was new on the grid. That's its own opiate to the mind, that rush of new experience, new desires, new realities...that happens to everyone. I am not unique there, far from. I think it comes down to intensity.



All endings hurt. I don't deny that. But the first two relationships I ever had on the grid--one ended in death, the other ended in betrayal, and then death, and...what does the mind do with that? My mind, as with so many things, went completely off the rails when the vampire died, because I had no good place to put that in context, to begin to move away from it, make my way forward.

And when the demon died...it was just one more acid drop of spite on the wound, already raw and deep.



And of every relationship I've had since...there have been soaring heights, there have been crushing depths. There are those I will never forget, amd those I cannot even remember the shape of their name. They all have places in memory's river. I have adapted, have adjusted, to eacb loss, and for the most part, everyone's moved on.

But those two.



And it's not that they didn't bring their own lessons. One taught me that virtual death can be as real, as painful, as actual. The other taught me that my polyamorous, compersive soul can feel jealousy, and the bite of that is even more acid than the pain of loss. Jealousy is swallowing fire, expecting it to be sweet. Jealousy is crippling fear, crushing anxiety, blatant mistrust. Jealousy is defiantly trying to wrest control from an uncaring universe, instead of floating, blissful and relaxed, from shore to shore.

But I did learn. I learned, I grew, I shifted, I altered, I transformed, and every time I returned to true, I learned new lessons. And I like where I am now. My heart is full, and healing, even if my schedule's a bit difficult to manage. I am aware I hold other hearts in my hands, just as they hold mine, and it is up to me to neither clench too tightly, or let them slip through my fingers, uncaring. It is always a great gift, that trust, and I try never to prove it false.



But they're still...there. Lurking in memory. Refusing to completely go away. Was it just the pain? The loss, so intense the first year on the grid? It's certainly not that I want either back. Of everyone I've ever lost, there's perhaps two I'd return to, and...circumstance and time alone will prevent that. One by his own choice, one by mine, and perhaps that's for the best.



So perhaps it's finally time to accept they have nothing left to teach me. They certainly have nothing to say to me. Lost for so many years I'm not even looking, if I ever was. No trembling, anxious thought that I might be missing...something...no, I know that much. I'm clear on that.



So...I will let go. I will detach the last remaining nostalgic threads, tattered and frayed, and release them into the dark. I am better now, different now, stronger now, and they are no part of me going forward. They have been, far too long, a part of me at all steps previous. Enough.

(Stills from, of course, Christine Aguilera's "Fighter".)

said you'd give me light, but you never told me about the fire

Have TIME's list of the one hundred best fantasy books of all time. How many have you read?

In other news, I got one of those random things I get now and again, this one pushing a DNA service. So I hit the link to what I thought was the entry I'd mentioned them in? Only...it was a WHOLE PAGE of entries. FROM 2007.

And...I'd honestly forgotten how much fun our Lord and Savior, Stiv, was.

But the point was--there was a point--I had to read through all the entries to find the one they mentioned--which, by the way, didn't even mention the actual site with ancestral records they wanted me to mention, just old (and now missing) web tests they used to have many, many updates ago--and to get there...

2007 was...that year had a lot of pain. A lot of loss. The vampire. The Raven. The lad from the east. My Naruto-haired neko boy...and of course, of course, the gods-be-damned incubus, and did I need to read through any of that again?

No. I did not. But I felt it was my responsibility to track down the right entry, to make the correction if it mattered, and now...

Now I'm just depressed.

Tragic histories make for great backstories, but they don't make for good nostalgic reflections, I'll tell you that. But there. There's your "correction", since it doesn't really fit with what was going on in that entry from thirteen years back...and now I'm shuttering the look into past history again, because I have far too many good things happening at present to dwell. No more mourning for those who will never come back, bceause even if they did, I wouldn't take them back...and they might not even want me back, as I have changed a great deal within that decade-plus.

And I'm mostly happy with the changes. And I have most definitely moved on. In so, so very many ways...

I'm hungry, and I hope you feed me

[08:23] Ren 'Jinx' Flow (ren.float): (repost #1) All groups, regardless of the number of members, are being affected

Okay, fine, but...by what? Because that's the first message that's come through in any of my groups this morning...

Wise words from Wiseblood Wisent:

"We really need to rethink the way houses are built to minimize the cost of the damage done by tornadoes. If bone is stronger than concrete and very light, why don't we build houses and cars out of bones from dead people and animals? It would be considered recycling and the dead bodies would be more compact without the skeleton and take up less burial space. Also, we could use animal bones to build houses that could be more tornado proof. Our cars could be more protective. I'm surprised Volvo hasn't come up with that idea. "Soylent Green" could be my tornado-proof house and crash-proof car. I'm not joking. Someone really needs to study and explore this idea of using bone as a building material."

I think he's on to something.

So...been a significant change.



That happened on August 7th. It's been something of a whirlwind since--care, love, laughter, plans, redecorating, name changing, public displays of affection, goofy smiles, sentiment, and peace. I'm very happy he asked. I'm very happy I was able to accept.

That being said...the first "social event", I suppose, that I went to with my new title as Duchess Gearhaven (oh yes, I very much married up) was the Summer Ball at the Rose Theatre at Angel Manor, for the Bó'ài Hónglián Companion Guild House.



This place...just so impressive. Polished black marble floor so glossy I could see my face mirrored in it, huge columns reaching to the high arched ceilings overhead. Grand on a scale that was grand even for grand.

That's High Priestess and Goddess Varahi, by the way, at the base of the stairs on the right.



This angle shows a bit of the stage, with full-grown trees apparently growing from it, and the gilded chairs and small tables in front of the stage.



This is when I briefly snuck into one of the alcoves for a wide shot.



Part of the performance onstage, which is part of the training for new acolytes to the Guild house.



Another angle of the dance onstage. Very traditional, very formal, and though they were very nervous, they performed beautifully for the guests--and their Guild.

The lighting was so interesting, too. Near as I can tell, it wasn't a spotlit effect, it was just that overall, almost UV glow. Wild.



I had a surprisingly fun time. I hadn't expected much, to be honest, knowing only--I thought--two people there, but I discovered other friends, and yes, it tickled me immensely to be called Duchess. Oh, I know, it's not "real" peerage, I married up--I do comprehend that--but you know, when one is this sweepingly in love, does it truly matter?

And..I am. Genuinely. There are those beyond me who say this was on the whirlwind side, to which I say both yes and no. Yes, from the asking to the actual partnering was a bit less than 48 hours, in all seriousness, but...I have known the Duke since 2017, and he has always been in my thoughts. This felt more like...the right thing to do.

I like that.

all this confusion in our heads is going to bring us to our knees

(Note from the Editrix: Because these are mounting, sadly, I'm going to start generally indicating when they were written, as opposed to published. This one is from the 25th of July.)

Seen on Tintin Tuxing's profile:

Legend says that when you can't sleep, it's because you're awake in someone's dream. So if you could stop dreaming about me, that would be great.

So, the nights I get sleep are when people aren't dreaming about me?

Okay, I'll take that.



two weeks late like a surplus reprieve
I found a hair the length of yours on my sleeve
I wound it round and round my finger so tight
it turned to purple and a pulse formed inside

Self-destructive behavior is sort of one of my mutant talents, both conscious and unconscious. Most of the tendencies towards physical harm I've managed to grow out of, or burn out of me, more directly, but there's still a ton of self-destructive emotional behavior. I pin myself into prisons of my own making and then dare to complain when it's not easy to escape.

A former love in SL, long ago, told me that he'd never met anyone who was so dedicated to their own self-destruction. It's stuck with me all these years later, because...though it's never by conscious intent, he's not wrong.



and I knew the beat 'cos it matched your own beat
I still remember it, from our chest to chest, and feet to feet
the easy silence then, was a sweet relief to this hush
of ovens, aeroplanes and distant car horns

I haven't been describing this feeling as 'silence', I've been describing it as allowing me to breathe. That's still there, though overall, I can breathe on my own now, for the most part.



a fire, a fire, you can only take what you can carry
a pulse, your pulse, it's the only thing I can remember

I know I'm misinterpreting the songwriter's intent here, I do know what he's getting at, but that line struck me when I first heard the song, which made me go and dig up the lyrics for this entry. How much fire can I carry, after all? How much is necessary? Can I put it down, or do I need to wait until I'm consumed by the flames?

What happens then?



I break, you don't, I was always set to self destruct though
the fire, the fire, it cracks and barks like primal music

There does seem to be a pattern to this, the ebb and flow of an occasionally crucially indistinct life. I've come to expect it, after all, but then again...I think that's another reason everything hit so hard, because I'd stopped expecting the sudden drop after the major lift. Things had leveled out, things were (relatively) smooth, and...I saw no storms on the horizon from expected quarters, so why would I brace for unexpected ones?

I mean, other than hindsight, and expectations, but...I don't think I was paying attention, really.



I said I knew the beat 'cos it matched your own beat
it's become my engine, my own source of heat

It's a pretty conceit, that what we love fuels us. I don't entirely believe that; no one I have ever loved has made my heart beat, my lungs inflate, no matter how important they are, or were, to me. But they have been no less necessary in spite of that. Love, while never anticipated, is nearly always treasured, because it is a rare thing. Infatuation is everywhere. Lust, desire, they're everywhere too. But love--true connection, true adoration--that is far less common. It may not make my heart beat, but it does fuel my soul.



the sea between us only amplifies the sound waves
every hum and echo and crash paints my cave

This is becoming pattern too. Fire and saltwater, sound and echo, the engine's roar and the high, lonely trill of wind through barren trees. Even though we're moving from spring into summer, and no trees are bare. The patterns recur, flame and ash, water and wind. And I'm feeding bones and memories into the hopper as often as I'm pushing for the surface of the waves, gasping for air. The dichotomy is...jarring.

I never mean to leave the train, after all. Is it throwing me off? Or am I just lagging behind?



fire, a fire, you can only take what you can carry
a pulse, your pulse, it's the only thing I can remember
I break, you don't, I was always set to self destruct though
the fire, the fire, it cracks and barks like primal music

There was a night a bit ago, where I simply had to touch him. It had become imperative, as driving a need as breathing itself. It had been a very bad few days before that night, and I had spent many, many hours trying to argue myself out of it.

You'll just be raising expectations you can't fulfill.
It's just virtual, it's not real, it won't help.
It's silly. It's ridiculous. You're being excessive.
The more you give in to your whims, the harder it will be to detach.
Don't you want to make this easier, not harder?

But...when we finally did meet...and I slid my hand beneath his shirt...Virtual or not. "Real" or not. Whether any of my arguments were sound. I relaxed so completely, so suddenly, it was as if some unknown anaesthetic kicked in, and for that moment...I will not lie, I'd give a less favorite body part willingly to keep that feeling.



a fire, a fire, you can only take what you can carry
a pulse, your pulse, it's the only thing I can remember

And that was all it was, is the thing. I wasn't asking for sex. I wasn't even asking to tease him in any way. Just that one, simple thing--my hand, on his skin.

Chest, even, far enough away from any erogenous zones to not be perceived as any level of hint. Just that. I don't think it was even for an hour, even. But...if helped, immeasurably. I couldn't even convey how much at the time.



I break, you don't, I was always set to self destruct though
the fire, the fire, it cracks and barks like primal music

I can't survive like this.

(Pictures taken at Denmu's Japanese Tea Garden, Roji Obscura, Fuji Kyoka, Tuli's Moonlight Teahouse, Summer Tea House of the Windy Wind of the East and Tsunami. Lyrics from Snow Patrol's If There's a Rocket, Strap Me to It.)

I always make the same mistakes, 'cos I'm bad at love

(Note from the Editrix: Because these are mounting, sadly, I'm going to start generally indicating when they were written, as opposed to published. This one is from very late on the 25th of July, with the pictures being taken earlier in the day.)



whoa, whoa, what if this is all the love you ever get?
whoa, whoa, you'd do a couple things so differently, I'll bet
whoa, whoa, what if this is all the love I ever know?
whoa, whoa, I'd say the words that were so hard to say: 'don't go'

No one went anywhere, that's always been part of the dilemma. "How can I miss you if you won't go away?" the saying goes, and its reverse is true in this case--how can I heal from him if he's still there?

Leaving aside the question of, wasn't our choice in the first place.



so you've fallen in love
so you've fallen apart

Yeah, well...wasn't looking for it, wasn't planning on it, wasn't asking for it. I had what I wanted, or...at least, that's what I thought. I know I've said this before, but things really were starting to line up. For the first time in far too many years, nothing was actively on fire, or leaking mutagenic vapors, or exploding. Nothing had wrapped me up in barbed wire.



what if it hurts like hell?
then it'll hurt like hell
come on over,
come on over here

I'm not saying nothing hurt. I'm not saying there were no jagged, uneven breaks in the pavement. I'm not saying things were perfect by a long shot, because they never have been, they weren't then, and they won't be in future. Just flat out. I am not destined for a pacific existence, that is not my place in the fabric of the universe. I'm the pin that snags as often as I'm the needle that mends, but both are sharp.



I'm in the ruins too
I know the wreckage so well
come on over,
come on over here

And I tell people I'm broken and they say I'm perfect; I tell people I'm damaged and they say, isn't everyone? And I know what they're trying to do--tell me that they understand, tell me that my self-perception is flawed, tell me I'm a better person, stabler person, more emotionally rich person, than I let myself see.

Okay. Everyone has a blind spot; mine's about three feet in diameter and striped like a target. I get it. I see my flaws clearly and my virtues dimly, if at all.



whoa, whoa, what if this is all the love you ever get?
whoa, whoa, you'd not worry so much about counting your regrets
whoa, whoa, what if this is all the love I'm ever shown
whoa, whoa, I'd not be so scared to run into the unknown

But this, iterations of this, some even worse than what I'm dealing with at present, keep cropping up. I have a scarred and scarring history, and while I did survive it, I did not survive it whole. And all the claims of perfection and wonderful and 'it's not so bad' will not change that.

Though the one who recently named me an opiate, that may come closer. And the lady in Caledon who told me that she'd been correcting people saying I'm poison, and telling them, no, no, she's not poison, she's been poisoned...and therein lies the difference, I suppose.



so you've fallen in love
so you've fallen apart

No. Fallen in love, yeah, probably--while we won't say it, because the word is uncomfortably charged with everything...it has been acknowledged. But driven apart is closer. And the circling question I've been trying to answer all these nights is still there--can I be friends alone after being lovers, and closer?

And it's taken me all this time to finally see why that was the first question, and not others. There's another situation, for instance. We were deeply in love, I believe truly. Issues rose, his and mine, and drove the first wedges in. And perhaps if we'd caught it then, and genially walked away from each other, none of the rest would have happened, but...neither of us are good at letting go.



what if it hurts like hell?
then it'll hurt like hell
come on over,
come on over here

I think at this point both of us from that former situation know we will never be a couple again, in that singular sense. But he still loves me. I think I may always love him. Enough damage happened, over time, though, to make the walking away not only necessary to my health, but in a sense necessary for his as well. And on the other side of it, years past it...we're still friends, though it remains awkward. We still talk, nearly daily. We still can't completely detach. And we both still have moments where we think back, and wonder.



I'm in the ruins too
I know the wreckage so well
come on over,
come on over here

But we went through hell to get there, hell we both created, a conflagration we both fed until the flames ate the world. He descended into darkness, I descended into hallucinations, because we are the people we are. Neither of us are six shots at the bar and some barely remembered lovely in some random back room people.

what if this is all the love you ever get?

The point I am so inelegantly trying to make is this: we have what we have on the other side, not because we stayed in love, but because we had to rebuild any sort of relationship after. And it was a slow process. Stone by stone, brick by brick, until we had something other than broken bones and shattered breathing. Or, at least, that was my side; his may be completely different.

We are where we are now because damage drove us apart. We lost that sense of love and yearning we had because it did not survive the shattering. But if the only damage between myself, and the present other, is tied up in the mistakes made, and not grinding, unendurable, arguments and screaming, acid tears and thrown daggers...then there's not the same level of damage.

So I'm not getting to the place where I can start to let go. Right now, it's not...bad enough, if that makes any sense. And that's key--my past pattern has always been try to fix any broken love, try to keep it going, try to swallow the glass shards threatening to slice me open from inside, if it will keep me in that place, until...there's too much damage to ignore, too much pain to function, too much glass in my system.

And then they leave, or I do.

So for the question that keeps circling, the answer I'm only beginning to perceive now is...things have to get worse, or they have to restore. But I will not heal where I am. I have to get to the place I can abandon, or step back from the decision.

Which...doesn't help, overall. One I don't want and one I can't have, so...it's life on a tightrope until another path reveals itself. Until then...I breathe, I process, I try to find more answers. I work on letting go, and I try not to flinch, overthink, or cling too tightly. I try to get better about walking the wire.

I've never been good at walking the wire.

(Pictures taken at the Rainforest Reserve, the Forest of Astray, and the Seance. Lyrics from Snow Patrol's What If This Is All the Love You Ever Get?)