No One Exists
Previous - this entry written on May 27, 2006 at 1:37 am - Next

I will be writing this entry over the course of... dunno how long. Posting regularly, then going back in to edit. You'll know when it's finished.

Good things die all the time, or so the song says. That's ok. Right now I'm not talking about death, precisely. Right now my mind is in that perfect state between the world where I can see everything, literally everything, spread out below me, and for just these moments I can accept it because I can finally see the patterns, the reasons. Fuck the depression, fuck the cheap highs, fuck it all. What matters is what's already happened and what will happen next, this 'now' isn't even real.

Call me an anti-buddist, I guess. I no longer entirely believe in 'now', certainly don't see it as important. These series of 'nows' really only begin to matter when they change what will be, or become memories of what was. I've lived a thousand 'now' moments that aren't even real in the aftermath because they are forgotten, unremembered, unaffecting anything that matters.

I want things. Oh, now there's a familiar line. Part of me knows this semi-rant should be off with the Collective, divided so the speakers are clear, the source of each word becomes real, but honestly when it's just for my own stress release and as a whispered prayer to the gods of my idolatry who don't even fucking speak my language, does it matter if it's clear or not? I don't think so. Ask me, ask and I'll transcribe, show the conversation between the coagulation of thought into text, but I don't care enough to do it on my own.

I'm in heaven, I'm a god, I'm everywhere, I feel so high, it's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive...

Oh, we won't even cross those bridges tonight. Right now it's heartsong and my soul screaming, my body's been left behind for hours and we're glad, so glad. It only complicates things. Want a bit of humor? There are only a few people who can either moderate or guide this outpouring of things precious to me and of those few, most slumber, or are unavailable, or I no longer have any right to touch. Right now I would kill to talk to Rhett. He'd understand this better than most, know the fury that builds when you have a thousand images in your head that you can't share and can't keep from writing down and can't get to come out in text the way they live so vibrently within the sheltering walls of your mind. He knew. He knew.

Believe me, there is plenty that I want to say right now. Words upon words building images so hurtful that to even think them is to bleed. I do think them, though. I can't help it.

I think of a man, balding, going to paunch. He's stopped beneath a streetlight, looking back over his shoulder, some soft noise having caught his attention. He keeps walking after a moment, steps out of the light, and that's when he sees an arm, a fragment of a face, a whirl of motion beckoning him off the road and into the shadow of a nearby tree. He doesn't scream, doesn't have time to scream before what he thinks is about to be a kiss is instead tape slapped hard over his mouth, more of it wrapped around his fingers as he tries to pry it off, layer and layer and layer until he can't move. He is screaming now but there's no real noise, it's muffled, caught in his throat. His blood soaks into the ground, into the hole dug weeks ago, shallow but deep enough to make it easy to cover it over again. He is pathetic, dying. Still trying to scream for help or beg for mercy, thinking that he doesn't deserve to die like this. He's right. He deserves far, far worse.

There's the taste of sea salt in the air here. I know it's just my imagination but every few minutes it's as if a breeze has swept in from the sea, salt and cool and a tang of weeds and birds and rocks older than anyone who might climb on them tomorrow. I danced, once. Danced naked, no music, just the pulse of the surf, danced until I could no longer stand, could barely move. I danced until I collapsed at the edge of the sea and lay there as the tide rose, exhausted. Waited. Let it cover me. I didn't stand again until the water had completely covered me. I know who I was dancing for, what my motion's prayer was. I was praying for Her and for myself both. Praying for a way out of this dead-end little town. Praying that things would get worse or get better, just... not... stagnate. I prayed to whatever beings would listen, gave them the moment, my body, my fears and my pains and my lusts and my love - only one love then, one simple, pure love. Gave them everything, if they would only give us happiness, together, a way out.

I still can't stop crying, y'know. Eight valium in the last few hours and I can't stop crying. Chocolate, fruit juice, pretty new underwear, ink on my skin, and I can't stop crying. I know one thing that would... purify... my emotions enough that the tears would end but I have to see doctors tomorrow, I can't really risk new scars.

Funny. Haven't stopped to save yet. I can't help it, I just want to keep writing until the exhaustion somehow kicks in and I can stop. I need to stop. It's cleansing, yes, but I know if I go too far I won't be able to come back in time and that's what I'm afraid of. I have responsibilities right now, I don't need another Self leaking in and taking over, it wouldn't work well. I just want to stay awake until 7-ish, get this OVER with, come home, and sleep for a week. Kadin's got his work. Puppy's got Sarah. Torian... *sighs, shakes her head* ...Torian has jack-all but I'm not sure I can do anything to help her, with this mood I'm in. Caleb will worry less if I just sleep a lot - can't eat when I'm sleeping, can't rack up bills when I'm sleeping, can't cause trouble or be overemotional when I'm sleeping.

Worst part? A chunk of my brain has been on 'hunting mode' for the last two months. I don't need any new pets, I can't fucking USE the ones I have nine times out of ten, they're busy or stressed or absent or weirded-out or too tired or not interested or... or... or just don't care. Does it matter what the reason is, if the end result is always the same?

I know I'm addicted to a lot of things.

I know in the last few days I haven't gotten any fixes. Any.

I know I'm about to shut down, emotionally. I can feel it, that gate, that wall, looming. I don't do it often. I CAN'T do it often, to stop feeling is to stop existing, for me. I... Just... I guess maybe it's time I stopped existing for a while. Really, what good am I doing, hmm? Stuck away from everyone else, constantly sick or in pain, full of mood swings and bad advice...

I don't even know who I am any more. "It's like I'm not me."

And you're not there. Right now, when I need reassurance that there is more for me than these four walls and this screen and this hellish moment... you're not there.

"Tomorrow, Wendy" is playing on WinAmp right now.

This song... gods, this song. So many memories.

...I told the priest, 'don't count on any second coming, god got his ass kicked the first time he came down here slummin'... hey hey, goodbye... tomorrow wendy's going to die...

...tomorrow wendy's going to die...

...only god says jump, so I say 'in time', 'cause if he ever saw it, it was through these eyes of mine, and if he ever suffered it was me who did his crime... ...tomorrow wendy's going to die...

Yeah. It's that kind of a day. Night. Whatever. It always is, have you noticed that? No matter what joy, there's tonight. I remember being happy when Caleb and Kadin were both here. I remember being happy playing stupid video games while Ryan snored. I remember listening to Rhett for hours. And yet... here I am. Explain that.

Go on. Tell me I'm not depressed. Tell me it's not a problem. Tell me that after eight fucking valium the fact that I am crying, feeling near-suicidal, and so miserable it feels as if my heart is breaking, that's not depression. Try. I could use someone to kill right about now.

Maybe I'll add more later, like I thought I would when I started out. Maybe I won't. It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters, really.

Sorry I'm not up to writing more right now, but I've got to go throw up, drink a cup of tea, and get ready to kill the only child I've ever seriously wanted to keep, in about five hours.

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