Three in the morning.
And I am incandescent,
For a few brief seconds.
They say I am naive,
Quick to react but slow to consider.
You never change,
But I always trick myself into thinking you will.
Hoping that for once this won’t make me tear down another photo,
Replace it with a brick inside my chest.
I am ever turned towards you,
Needle to your true north,
When all I want is the vast horizon, drifting in an endless sunrise, unmoored.
You are not two-faced.
That would be a compliment.
You are ever yourself, ever the star, ever the underdog, ever the altruist, ever the expert.
And yet my frustration confuses you.
You are wild not because the entropy of the universe lives within you,
No beauty of nature reflected in you.
You do not heed consequences—
Why should you when I take the brunt of them?—
And so you are free to play and piss and pose as you please.
A creator of stories by default, a repeating track of your own follies gussied up and redistributed.
Why bother with your B-sides?
I breathe and try to sleep,
Try to tamp down the fires of my discontent.
Cool girl, pretty girl, ambitious girl, glimmer.
Your sparkle is but dust in my eye.
I care not out of love, but out of habit.
MY AUGUST IS ALREADY SO EXHAUSTING AND IT’S ONLY THE FIRST O_O
But, also, this is what I’m acting in! If you’re in the area, check it out here
First night is tomorrow–or, technically, tonight! Come out, come out, if you can 😀
(I’ll be real, here. Under a cut and in parentheses and italicized, because I want to express myself but I don’t want it to be the main thing, you know?
These past few weeks, I haven’t been my best, mentally. I’m sure some of you might have figured out my tendency for reverse seasonal depression–or overstimulation leading to depression during the warmer, brighter months instead of the usual–and I thought this year I had managed to avoid the most of it. But most likely that was more of a postponement due to being part of The Geek Show and gaining friends and getting more involved with the Bindlestiff community.
It caught up to me in the tail end of July and hit me hard these past few weeks.
But yesterday I managed to have a breakthrough of sorts. In part because I was able to FINALLY clean my room–which does help, more than you’d think–but mostly because I think I realized I was trying so hard to be okay instead of just letting myself not be okay. There are some things I can’t fix, but if I can make the slightest efforts towards the things I can, it helps.
My daily post has long since ceased to be a habit, broken and unlikely to come back anytime soon. But even if I can’t churn out the same amount of creative content as I used to, I hope I will continue to improve in quality–whether that be here or in my real life endeavors.
If you’ve read this far–thank you for your understanding and support. I know I would be so much worse off were it not for this blog and the feedback and interactions I’ve had with all of you, and a lot of my progress and improvement is founded on the courage and inspiration I draw from here.
Again, thank you.)
I should probably learn how to use garage band or something… because flat.io is really meant for just generating sheet music not making songs, and it’s annoying to have to copy paste by measures instead of just telling a program to loop this thing.
But it was pretty fun to make, regardless?
Oh baby I’m a one hit wonder,
you ready to be a bit under-
A/N: A quick little song–I realized it was fifteen minutes to midnight and I came up with this little thing and wanted to see how fast the turn around for song transcription/composing was for something as short as this.
An hour. For five measures. Which is… well… considering with film it’s approximately an hour of filming for one minute of actual footage, that kind of tracks? And given I’m not actually trained in this and have a somewhat suspect ear for notes I guess it’s not bad.
I’m just looking for a
little piece, of mind. Just a
little peace of mind, to
have and hold.
I don’t need a
whole, a part’s just fine. Just a
part to claim as mine to
fill this hole.
‘Cause inside me is a void
that I should stop trying to avoid:
I’m unwell, there I’ve said it.
I’m unwell, don’t you get it?
It’s just me and my depression!
A/N: I made a song! About depression! … not that today was particularly bad–mentally, that is–I just wanted to try my hand at composing? I dunno~ I’ll admit at some points I perhaps got a little too influenced by Beauty and the Beast?
Technically, I finished this before midnight, but then I got fussy about the typos in the lyrics so I had to fix it…
Seriously, this is what happens when I don’t have any prompts… Please head over to my ask box for the Ask Box Advent Calendar!
I miss you, my friend.
And how weird to be saying this now–more than a year after you’ve left, thousands of miles away–more to your shadow than your face.
I guess I thought–I assumed, that is–that you’d be coming back. And you might very well do so, but I never thought there was a possibility that you wouldn’t. That you wouldn’t want to.
Which speaks more of how you’ve changed.
And how I haven’t.
Even if–when, no, if–you come back, what we had, what we might have, will never be the same.
We talk. Or, rather, we message each other. Sporadically.
Part of the reason why I was so thrown off guard.
Over a decade of being each other’s shoulder to cry on, of baring our vulnerabilities to each other, that we’ve fallen into patterns that miss the entire story.
You fell in love–with the land and the people and the work, which you had for months entrusted your… less than stellar opinions on… but the more your grew to love it, the more it made you happy, the less I heard about it.
And so my picture is only half formed, a grueling climb up but no final, breathtaking view at the summit. I saw only your stress and strain and none of the smiles that made it worth it.
I only know the you from a year ago, not who you are now.
Even when you were here, when we were together, we were apart.
Instead of thousands of miles, it was hundreds, and we only saw each other rarely.
But still. That was enough.
Because it was as if, whenever we reunited, the only things that had changed between us were the stories we could tell each other.
And it was enough, every time, to renew our friendship.
I never believed in soulmates, I have more than enough family to spare, but it seemed to me that we matched. Had perhaps formed ourselves to match, subconsciously, as we grew up and learned together.
You’ve grown without me, far far away, and I don’t know if our shapes still correspond.
Perhaps I’m being over dramatic.
I left, too, for a year. Grew into my own–or so people say–though really it just felt like a chance to be a better, brighter me with a deadline if I didn’t like it.
And immediately after I came back, you left, too. Not as long, but much farther, and I know you discovered a version of yourself as well.
But we wrote letters to each other, digital as they were, made time when neither of us had much to see each other’s faces, hear each other’s voices.
But this time… is this what we’re reduced to without our safety net of technology?
I’m being silly, I know.
I’m so happy for you, so proud. So overjoyed that you’ve found yourself even if it’s not a version of you that I’ve met.
But I miss you, and they are not mutually exclusive.
I’m just feeling homesick for you.
If I don’t say anything–not out loud, not where anyone can hear.
If I don’t write it down–don’t leave proof, no records, no trace.
If I don’t admit it happened, then did it really?
But just asking that means something existed to be asked about. To be willfully forgotten and thrown into the oblivion.
It’s not a big deal, the fuss makes it worse than it is, and yet some part of me still wants it to be buried.
It’s stupid. Silly. Not even a second, just the briefest of moments.
God, why am I even still thinking about it? Hours after it happened. Still blushing and running hands through my hair, nervous and coy and bewildered.
He winked at me, mouth curved into a sideways smile.
It was aimed at me. For me, an inside joke for the two of us. Just a small comment given a touch of humor and a delicate layer of secrecy.
It didn’t mean anything.
My heart is still fluttering.
Here’s the thing: he’s not the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen.
I’ve seen more classically beautiful men, met far smoother charmers. He’s not even my most handsome friend. He’s just one of the guys who, yes, has very nice eyes and a way of making me laugh.
And, I mean, I’ve thought about it before. When I first joined the group, learning as much as I can about the members as I tried to find a space for myself… he helped with that, it’s true… and I know that, if he has a type, then I’m not far from it.
It’s been months–over a year–why now?
(You were gone for two weeks, and it both did and didn’t seem so long. Weekends punctuated by hanging out with the guys replaced by keeping track of drunken bachelorettes and high strung actors and slightly ill relatives.
You spotted him, once, driving in the opposite direction–head unconsciously, unwillingly, turning to watch him go by.
You missed them all, of course, through it wasn’t very long.
Maybe you missed him the most.)
A/N: I KNOW I SHOULD HAVE BEEN DOING EXTERNALITY! AAAAAHHHHH BUT I DIDN’T HAVE VERY LONG AND ALSO I HAVE TO DO STUFF TOMORROW STARTING IN THE MORNING SO I WON’T HAVE MUCH TIME THEN EITHER. AAAAAAHHHHH
Grief is a very personal thing, my friend.
There are layers to it,
variations in how deeply,
how long a loss will pain you.
I’ve had the sharp,
distracting pain of a sudden
but expected loss.
A paper cut,
the side effects of
And the screeching,
and broken glass,
shards through skin,
Scars even afterwards,
aching in the cold.
Grief draws closer,
organs shutting down.
I will not ask how you are, my friend,
only if I may help you survive.
She doesn’t cry often, but she does do so easily, deliberately, spending tears like shiny coins in a gum ball machine. Better to release them when she chooses than to hoard them, hold them off, keep them at bay until the dam breaks. She feels her tears oncoming like the tide, the salty air and the change in pressure, ozone sparkling behind her eyelids. When that happens, she doesn’t batten down the hatches, she redirects them and channels them–tearjerking music with nostalgic, haunting melodies, fictional lovers with doomed relationships–emotional irrigation for the fruit trees in her heart.
And so when the time comes…
when the time goes…
her eyes remain startlingly dry.
“You’re allowed to cry, you know?” someone says, and you grunt in response.
Of course you know you’re allowed to cry; how irritating. You don’t need someone’s permission to cry.
You just aren’t. Haven’t.
Not for a while. Not for a long while.
Maybe not ever.
You feel hollowed out, as if your brain has shut off higher functions, higher feelings. You’ve been slouching from day to day, no momentum to propel you forward.
You’ll restart, soon, living instead of just subsiding, but you might not be the same.
it was never about you
you’re beginning to get that now
their snide words, dismissals,
that frustrating scoffing noise
and roll of the eyes,
the way they broke your heart,
and tore up your dreams,
or even just ruined your day.
it wasn’t about you.
it was about them.
of course it was,
what else? who else?
why would they apologize?
they did nothing wrong,
after all, it’s your fault
for taking it so personally,
for expecting otherwise.
they were just being honest,
just looking out for themselves.
what a waste of time, they say,
no sympathy for the weak.
(how cruelly chosen your words,
they haunt me even months later)
you pay in money, in time, in effort,
you try to hang onto memories,
of singing and sunshine
and the salty air by the sea
(i cried for hours
on my bedroom floor,
sobbing and heaving
hoping i would vibrate apart)
you edit yourself constantly
now you have nothing left to say,
everything crossed off
(everything too vulnerable)
they ask why you never respond
(i’ve learned it’s better not to)
you are silent and stagnant
filled with hurt,
cracks poorly glued together
(no thanks to you)
it’d be over with anyone else,
stricken and blocked and stored away,
wrapped in old newspaper
boxed and taped up,
let the dust make things softer,
let the sharp edges wear away.
(and yet, still, i revolve around you)
if this is what love is, it’s a disease.
(tear it out of me.
just let me heal)
It is easy to become the king’s Favored, for kings are whimsical and easily pleased. But it is far less easy being the king’s Favored.
Nobody talks about the after.
After you’ve completed the impossible task. After you’ve slain the giant or rescued the princess or guessed the fairy’s name and brought glory to the kingdom. After the wedding and the treasure and the happily ever after.
Nobody talks about it, but is not the being more important than the becoming? The existing more difficult than the creation?
Once you were a common peasant, plucked from your charming, simple life and thrust into a daring adventure. Now you are the king’s Favored, and your life is hell.
Did you love me at all?
Fingertips pressing bruises into my skin,
the scent of your shampoo on my pillow,
traces of you in my life,
footsteps in the sand.
I will excise you from my heart,
scalpel sharp and swift,
triple bypass for a flatlined love.