This Is Happening To Me
Previous - this entry written on June 23, 2002 at 11:52 pm - Next


Sara says
nothing else exists but this
moment we created
our memories are jaded
our dreams have finally faded
nothing else exists but this
empty street
mardi gras masks and broken bottles
line a road of dawn-kissed pavement
there's a girl two stories up
above the world
she's making love to yesterday's ghost
she's trying not to burn the toast
not to chase the dream away
sara says
when it's morning you will leave
walk down to the corner
each time it gets harder
each night we go further
when it's morning I will watch you
costume stained where
a barfly bit you
and that stranger kissed you
when will your waking
be for me?
sara says she's tired
of the dreaming
and the scheming
and the lines are finally blurring
but she can't quite seem
to wake...

Ever heard the song "Meet Virginia"? Me.

I'm waiting on a letter or an email that may never arrive - I believed once, and it made me smile, but really, how many times do I have to be bitten before I can't believe anyone ever again?

Cried on Spike's chest last night. Not loud, not sniffly, just those silent tears that sneak out when you're not expecting them. It's nice to know at least one man who isn't anything but a friend. Yeah, I care about him. Yeah, I worry about him.

Yeah, there's emotion and obsession and lust. But... see...

...he isn't for me.

Not tonight, anyway. Not when my mind is like this.

It's... funny. Almost. Music in my mind, words flittering just out of reach, none of it real. Nothing is real. Nothing exists.

Deb says that she doesn't like reading my journal because she'll ask me how I'm doing and I'll say 'fine', then she'll read and I'll have written about how depressed I am, how horrible life is, etc. Point of note: generally, I write when something intense, important, whatever, is affecting me; that means I'm more likely to write when I'm depressed. When I'm ACTUALLY fine, that's when I am around, when she can talk to me. If she's able to ask me in person how I'm doing, odds are good it'll be better than I'm doing the times when I'm up all night writing and shivering and hating the life I am in.

Love is just a bloodsport.

Last night... I drove out to Beaverton. Needed the CD burner, and my books, and my alter stuff, and my sandals, back. Grr, it seems, ended up going to the SCA thing after all, so I couldn't get some of my stuff, so I hung out with Spike for a while. We grabbed dinner, got a bit buzzed, it was all good.

Except for one little part.

I wanted - and still want - to be cut. Not to cut myself; there's no point in that, nothing to prove to myself that I exist. I don't trust my own touch tonight, nor did I last night. I want to sit, eyes closed, or open and staring at nothing. I want to listen to music building and pulsing and raking apart every thought that tries to tear at me.

I want to feel someone else's hands on my skin. I want to feel a so-sharp blade slicing into me, cutting, stinging, hurting, aching. I want the tickle of blood running down my back. I want the ache of bruises so deep that they won't fade for days or weeks. I want to lick my blood off someone's fingers and lips, I want to tangle my hands in someone's hair and feel the burning heat of blood between us as we thrust and rock and shiver and finally collapse, sweat and crimson tears coating us both, scratches and bites and cuts and whipmarks and everything anything all of it...

...you're the bottom of every bottle...

I want someone who will fuck me mercilessly. Someone who will beat me without caring if I scream or cry or laugh. Someone who will hold me down and hurt me. Someone I can rip into. Someone who will let me trace a blade over their skin, or claw at their back, or pull their hair, while they sink sharp teeth into my fragile flesh.

Drake says:
Well I hope you don't get too overloaded... *shrinks into the background a bit, and occupies himself with giving you a shoulder-rub and watching you type*

Just A Jax says:
*smiles softly, leaning back against you* Can't overload when I'm not getting any sensation. I don't actually exist right now, you see.

Drake says:
Got the wind blowing through you again, all ethereal-like?

Just A Jax says:
*spins slowly, eyes all pupil, pureblack and wild* That's it exactly. There's a wind blowing through me; I'm not even here, it just passes me by.

...If you told me you were drowning, I would not lend a hand...

It's Game Night here - there's a crowd of people out in the main room all playing a tabletop roleplaying game. Laughter. Shouts. Eager conversation. They are eating each others' souls out one word, one roll of the dice, one piece of paper at a time, spreading the remains thin and locking them away. The room is a trap, and I refuse to enter it.

The world is like that tonight. Everything is... different. Cold, and sharp-edged, with grinning spiders waiting in the corners, their webs bits of folk wisdom and empty pill bottles and the good advice no one ever really takes. They are hungry, those spiders, and they creep closer with each careless laugh; unobserved and untouchable.

It's dusty, between worlds. Everywhere you go you leave footprints, tracking the memory of your passage. The prints don't always stay for long; some people, their passing is almost unnoticable, prints dissolving into nothingness and more dust within minutes. Others are world-shapers, and their marks last for centuries. Some... some, the soft outlines of their passing last but briefly and yet lead others, so that where there was just one small print now there are thousands.

There's a door in my mind and tonight it is open. If I walk through, will I find something worthwhile on the other side? Or will I just find myself coming back?

I wish I had the words I need.

I'm listening to music - when one is lost in otherworlds music becomes important. It is the only accurate map; everything else turns into handkerchiefs and unicorn manes, or worse, is written in goblin languages. Hiring a translator can be dangerous, as they charge too much and will follow you for eons and inches, wanting to see where your map might lead. Never trust the goblins, only bards - they are the truest mapmakers and the deepest dreamers.

Odd, this sensation of certainty. Nothing I do right now is anything I've done before and yet there is a rightness to it, a correctness that is almost deja vu in intensity. I can see myself as I type, as I think, and it is all... right. For once, I know what I'm doing. Admittedly, once I stop writing I will have lost that certainty, but for now I pour out the words and truly believe that this moment, this is where I need to be and what I need to do.

Contrarywise, I also believe that once I leave, I will return to the hunger for a lifeline that drove me to begin writing. I will crave the bloodbound hope that no one I trust will give. And, being me, no one who would give it and could give it tonight is trustworthy. *sighs* I wish there was a table of contents and a nice orderly progression and maybe some page numbers for my thoughts and my morals.

"Narcissus" is playing, Alanis yowling, and funnily enough I am thinking again of Alex, of the priceless sense-of-self he clings to some days. I wish I'd seen him in his coat. I wish a lot of things on days like this, nights like this, and then I wonder if maybe I really AM Nathaniel.

...why do I try to love you when you really don't want me to...

There's an odd ache in the back of my neck and my eyes have gone dark. Sometimes, some nights, when I stare into the fabric the world is made of it's as if a dark veil drops over me, cloaking everything in shadows, making it so very hard to see anything but people. People burn, bright-white lights that leave me breathless.

Other nights, it's sparkles... little firefly lights that no one else notices and no one else touches, but I can follow them into forevers of laughter. Dizzy, then, the sparkles accompany a rush of up-is-down and usually I end up collapsing in a heap of giggles, smiling up at a universe that laughs with me, not at me, and it's ok.

Tonight, though... tonight it's all impossibilities and the only light is the reflection of firelight off a knife edge. Nothing else. The world seems to exist, I can see it, I can hear it, but so many parts of it no one else seems to notice and that makes me doubt all of it. If no one notices me, am I a hallucination too? I've always wondered that.

Maybe if you get ignored enough, you become a ghost.

...love is just a bloodsport...

I am lost, tonight. Dreaming and lost. Even the music is leading me deeper rather than drawing me out, and I suspect that when I crash this time there will be no easy way to regain the heights I've finally found. At least I've a chance to capture this, to find words for the insanity that stalks me. Prey - I am prey. Madness hunts me.

...love is just a bloodsport...

Tight silver bands pressing into my forehead, cheeks, my chest, my heart is wrapped in silver metal and pulsing frantically in its prison. It races, beating faster and faster, then slowing finally. Amazing - I am counting heartbeats and they are matching the rhythm of the song that plays.

...love is just a bloodsport...

I never promised sanity. I never promised anything but me; and me, I have promised to far too many. When do I get to fulfill one of those promises? When will someone take what I offer? When will I know what it's like to exist again?

Spiral... fall... fade...

Suddenly I find that the shadows I so recently danced with are not only shade, but solid; they live and move, flesh formed from tears and absence, and if this is goodbye I think I will shatter. I don't deal well with goodbyes if I'm not causing them; much like I don't deal well with rejection and yet I've gotten oh-so-good at rejectING. Easy to throw something away if you think it's going to leave tomorrow anyway.

...I don't know if I can go as far as you go...

...everyone keeps telling me that this is good...

...I needed you...

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