...it's got a lot of holes in it, some of them people-shaped and some of them where the fabric tore as a dream a bit too grand for me pulled itself free...

...it's got music piling up in the corners, sparkle and fade, sound somehow expressing itself in the glitterdust that catches at my vision now...

...one of the side effects of this whole thing is that my vision really does get sparkly around the edges right now. It's as if a hundred tiny fireflies decided to orbit me at the exact angle to never quite come into sight but never leaving, either. I'm pouring myself out into this entry, the fragments of my depression sneaking back in as "Morning Afterglow" curls itself around my spine. Shivers. Memories. Love turned to dust and ashes, and somehow still precious.

I wonder, when I decide to give in to my ego and be all introspective, if he even remembers me.

He.

And right now those of you reading this are asking yourself which 'he' I mean, or do I really mean 'she', and what high horse have I gotten up onto this time... I think only one person will know this one, the lost soul I spent so much time with, recovering...

...existing...

...learning...

...how many times do I have to come to this point, watching the razor edge cross my skin or dancing slow to music that brings tears or walking slowly down the bus line, sitting... watching...

...watching them leave...

Gods, but today I'm ripped apart. And I KNOW that if I take the antidepressants, if I go eat some ice cream, if I just STOP this self-indulgent behavior it will flicker and fade.

Which is why I'm still here. Still writing. Still listening (to "Meet Virgina" now) and still moving and still breathing. It'll go away, and I KNOW it'll go away. Somehow, right now, it's more a comfort to feel this. I've spent so long aching that it doesn't feel real if it doesn't hurt somehow, somewhere.

I feel a bit ashamed to be comforted by this. Like I should know how to turn it off and still feel real. I try to joke about it, spit it out, ignore it... but the fact of it is that this depressive demented abnormal strange weird crazy girl is ME.

I wouldn't be me if all this was gone.

I guess that's why I want it to hurt occasionally, to be odd or different, or even just Another Bi Goth Girl: I don't want to stop being me.