Previous - this entry written on July 29, 2007 at 1:03 am - Next
Funny. Sitting here staring at an empty textbox, so many fragments of stories or bits of poems or snatches of songs running through my thoughts that I have to struggle to pull more than a word or two out of it all. My thoughts are chaotic tonight, caught in 'what if'. Memories of things that haven't happened, so clear, so fucking vivid, but I know that at least in this body, this lifetime, I've never experienced such things... why tonight, why now, would I have this flow pouring through me?
I've been thinking again, always a dangerous thing for me. Trying to sort out the real memories from the false. In the process, I've been rereading, mostly the Collection and Briar Heartsinger, the places where I'd write what few things were too personal or too potent to be posted here. There are tears through so much of what I've written, places where just going back over the words makes my eyes fill, my lips tremble, my body ache as if beaten. I say I wouldn't trade my life for anyone else's and on the whole that is true...
...but nights like this... nights like this I am very glad no one is able to actually offer me such a trade. I might not be strong enough to refuse.
"It's been six days since the slender steel box was closed, since I saw the lid shut and locked, since I looked away to keep from watching them seal you away.
"Six days since you died.
"Six days since I graduated.
"I still can't forget you."
There are a very few people who have seen what happens to me when the words come too strongly. Usually when I feel myself slipping into that particular abyss I hide away, lock the doors, my face masked by the glare of a computer screen or before that, buried in a journal that I knew no eyes but mine would ever see. I write, I pour it out, I LIVE it - do you understand what it's like to LIVE what you write, when what you write is as dark as much of my pieces are? That's part of why so much of what gets posted is only fragments; it's too painful to keep going, when I can feel it all.
I have in my head a perfect memory of what that coffin looked like, the slight decoration around the corners, the hinges on the inside, white satin cradling the battered and broken flesh, the sound when the coffin lid was shut... the tiny click of the lock... I remember weeks later, crying over the unmarked grave half-hidden in a corner of a graveyard that most people didn't even know existed. I brought flowers; left them at the entrance to the cemetary, you... he... they wouldn't have been what was wanted. I was tempted to bring a knife, spill my blood... leave that as an offering on the grave instead. I didn't. That wouldn't have been wanted either.
I remember how the dry dirt tasted when I curled up there, every breath brought in a few more specks, I could taste sand and soil and dead grass, a hint of perfume; I don't think I was the only one who had come out there. Whoever the other person was, they knew enough not to leave flowers either. Just the afterscent of their perfume, and somehow that was comforting, that I wasn't the only one who knew what the world had lost.
I can't remember my own phone number 90% of the time but I can remember what his face looked like when he told me that being around me when I was naked made him uncomfortable.
I couldn't tell you the names of any of my doctors other than four (and I've had what, 40?) but I still remember the names of every pet I've Owned, even those who were just online, passing fancies, not even really Mine.
This... this is one of those rare moments when I honestly want to die. I don't think I'll ever be able to explain why, and I know I won't ever go through with it when I'm feeling this - for all I know, it's just another story fragment and I'll wake up an hour later as someone else.
I remember watching one woman after another hurt him.
I remember wishing I could touch him just once more, knowing I couldn't.
I remember things that haven't even made it into stories. Things I shouldn't know about, should have no CLUE about, but...
...I remember feeling strong hands lifting me up, I had brand-new underwear on, my first pair that wasn't hand-me-down, and I was confused, but he was my father, and at least he was holding me... and then pain... and then nothing. There is no way I should remember that. There is NO WAY I should have first remembered that two years before I met him. It's the reason I believed him when he told me about what he did; I could feel it, see it... there was a beat-up car nearby, I used to play under it sometimes, it was my secret fort. My left sleeve had a HUGE rip right in the armpit. I had a sister.
I've died so many times inside my head, caused so many other deaths, hurt and been hurt, broken people... been broken myself... some days it's hard to draw lines between what I am certain happened in 'the normal world' and what I am certain did NOT happen there and what parts I'm a bit iffy on. I ask those I love to tell me their memories of us, because I can never be entirely certain that everything I remember is as real to them as it is to me, or if I've forgotten something VERY real and very important.
I... have nothing more to say right now, actually. I'm going to go dive into a game or something.
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