I Slept, And Dreamed That Life Was Beauty
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"Yeah, he killed me. So now he owns me. ...I didn't want that to happen to you."

Drama. Flickerpurr. Lights fading to nothingness. Pencil sketches, Bon Jovi (sorry, but I like it), the scent of rain in the air. At least two more hours of alone.

Right now, for no reason that I can think of, I like alone. Curling up internally, living online, nothing to distract me but stray breezes, no sign of people in the world. All I can see out the window are trees and cloud-grey sky. I like it.

Re-reading. I need to get back to writing. Living. I really don't feel alive when I'm not creating something, whether the something is a story, a picture, a complicated romance, destruction of the innocent, education of the young, or just messy chaos that I can stretch in and feel real. I don't exist when I'm out in the world, it's not me that they see, it's not me that they talk to. Just shadow puppets and false faces. Here... here, I'm real.

Real is the feel of a hotel bed under me as I'm holding him down. Real is the whispered words before he crawls into bed beside me. Real is the taste of blood on my lips... the taste of blood on his lips, too. Real is music filling every strand of me, setting my soul to trembling and growing.

Real. *shakes her head*

I, apparently, am not in a very good headspace just now. *shrug* Odd, since I'm enjoying it anyway, now.

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