...watching someone else dream my life for me...

It's so very strange. I don't particularly like feeling like this, not without either a drug or a drink to explain it... but I've drunk nothing but sparkling cider and water of late, and haven't taken oxycodone in over two days (yay me? but it's turning me into uberbitch), so that's not it. Unexplained dilution of my Self.

But I've just taken advil and tylenol, and hopefully that will be enough to let me either get some decent sleep or throw up so I have a good reason to be awake. Right now, I'm hovering somewhere between dreamland and an angry rant, without being able to fall into either one.

And I keep looking at my hand. My fingers. Wondering how something that is a part of me, even so distant a part, could... *shakes her head*

At least I have only aftershocks of it. Faint memories, like an overheard TV show, last week's dreaming, it feels distant.

I don't actually think that's good, though. I mean, think about it. If part of ME can do that... and then when I'm myself, there's only this horrible guilt, without even memories to cling to... but I know why it was done, I know why it happened. I know there are things I shouldn't do. Lines I shouldn't cross. I know that, for lack of a better way to put this, it's for my own good.

Funny, she won't hurt me to make me listen. She'll hurt him.

And let me see.

This might be another one of those days when I don't like being me.

I have "Songbird" printed out and ready to go, at least the first four segments of it - if you're wondering, they are here: (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

I re-read it... it still makes me ache. I guess that's why I think it's still worth working on; it affects me. It's something that, if I found it on a website, I would re-read it. That's... important to me, in more ways than one. Some of Akasha's stories are like that. Some written by a friend of hers whose website has now disappeared. Some that I've found elsewhere. A few I've written - Jedite's Tale, Raven's Story, and Jei come to mind, as well as a few of the fragments littering Briar's page. I read a LOT, and anything that catches me, matters to me.

Speaking of which, I highly recommend "Catspaw" by Joan D. Vinge for anyone who likes sci-fi and punkboys who happen to be psions and aliens and oh-so... hrm.

I'd say delicious... but... that's not what I feel.

It's something deeper, and for lack of a better word, it's something more painful. Something I can't ever really tune out. The sort of pain that, in seeing it, in tasting it, even in comforting it, I feel it myself, and somehow it comforts me in turn.

*sighs softly, looking down* Is it any wonder I hate myself some days? I mean, really. How many people can say that? That someone else's pain can comfort them, can... feed... them?

One of my fondest dreams when I was little was that I wasn't really human, that I was a changeling, so that my horrible thoughts and the horrible things I went through, they could just be things that were fitting for aliens, things that happened to aliens. That no one human would have to feel this.

Sparkling cider is nummy, you know.