Funny, the things you think of when you're laying alone in a dark room, listening to a hint of a breeze trying to sneak in through a barely-open window, tired and yet not at all sleepy. Funny, the places the mind wanders at times like that... dark places, shadowed, full of half-remembered and half-imagined dreams that flit in and out of conscious thought like memoryghosts. Funny... well, no. Not really funny at all. Nothing to laugh at, nothing worth joking about, not those sharp-clawed, wild-eyed moments when only the night wind and the taste of dust in your mouth keeps you company.

I feel as if there should be more here. More words, more thoughts, something solid to hand out to the greedy wayfarers who wander through this sketchy excuse for a journal. Something to feed you, something to satiate, something worth gnawing at, rather than the featherdust dreams and starflecked ramblings that are much of my entries, of late. Nothing worth putting into words, here. Nothing worth the time I pour into it, not really.

And yet I keep writing. Why? It's not for the audience, these fragments of melody and tattered scraps of prose. It's certainly not for my own sanity; I left that behind years and miles ago, threw it away unhesitatingly to chase at electronic butterflies and dream of cybersheep, as it were. It can't be a muse's urging, as that would require some muse to indeed be involved, some consistant and steady source of inspiration. I've no models here, no driving goal, no Helen of Troy or Cleo's ebony locks to spur me to new literary depths. Just myself, the tangled mess inside my mind, just and only and always me.

Perhaps that's reason enough, I tell m'self, perhaps all I really need to justify my verbal meanderings is the knowledge that they are a part of me and that in some way I find them pleasing. Certainly it's the only reason I'm going to bother with tonight.

Just A Jax says:
*nods approvingly and as soon as the music begins she once more captures your hands in hers, fingers curling around yours, guiding the palm of your right hand until is is pressed against your heart, her eyes slipping further into shadow* Precious pet...

Just A Jax says:
*her fingers clench, forcing yours as well to curl inward, nails digging in slightly, as if reaching further in to hold your heart, sending waves of sharp, hot ache inward*

Sometimes I wonder if the ones I hurt are aware of how much it means to me. Sometimes I wonder if the ones who hurt me are aware of how much it means to me. And the only one who didn't... ehh. That chapter in my life is closed and sealed, and I'll read no more of it.

It's always a bit of a shock to realize that some portion of what I experience as reality is finished, closed off, that nothing more will come of it. When I read a book, even at the last page there's the sense that there is more, a sequal, a prequal, a chance at a bit more of the story and another morsel of knowledge, the characters' lives spreading out before me, mine to enjoy. It makes it all the stranger to realize that in my own life, chapters and stories end.

Maybe there actually is some overall theme to this madness that passes for a journal. The music - the heart of much of my writing, the beat I dance to, the pace and rhythm my best and worst moments are measured to - that's the muse I worship, I suppose. It's the one thing that is consistant in all of this. Not every entry, certainly, but so many of them, at their center is a song or songs, pacing my words, underlining them with phrases and emotions I myself can't quite find a way to express. That's the soul of me, the songs I quote and the notes that echo just beneath what I write.

I'm realizing this, or re-realizing this (it's a discovery I seem to make anew every day, or close to it) because my fingers are typing in perfect match to the beat of the song playing right now. "Smooth Criminal", the Alien Ant Farm version, is keeping time with the click of keyboard, and it's making me smile to realize how soothing it is to have the rhythm set for me.

And another topic change... right now I desperately want to curl up and be petted. I want to lay my head on someone's lap, to wrap myself around their feet, to rest beside them and know that their hand, their will, their pleasure, is the source of my own contentment and joy. I want to drown myself in someone else's existance, worshipping, savoring, enjoying the knowledge that right at that moment, I am what I am and where I am, feeling what I feel, because they wish it, nothing more and nothing less. I want, for just a moment, to surrender.

I want to rest.

I don't care if it involves pain. I don't care who it is, at this point... although truth be told, were I offered this comfort by most people I would turn it down despite wanting it, my own self-preservation and pride kicking in. That doesn't change the fact at the heart of this, though: I simply want.

I wish, at times like this, that I had some easy way to turn off my pride. It holds me back, sometimes... keeps me from becoming someone able to submit easily. True, I'd not do well as a slave. Too much of me is tied up in my boys, too much of me prefers to be the dominant partner. Over all, I don't think I would be a good slave.

...I just wish I could make an honest attempt at it, right now. I wish I had someone who understood that every now and then I want and need to be small. I wish I could submit without worrying that the next day, when I needed to be myself again, it would become a struggle or insult the person who had accepted my submission tonight.

I wish I could have my cake and eat it too, I guess. *wry grin*

Y'know what I actually wish? That I'd have a moment to talk to Snowtygrrr, or Drake, or Elru. Or Faceless.

Hell, I'd almost be glad for Michael's company right now.

I am, apparently, spiralling quite neatly down from dizzy-and-introspective into hungry, hurting, and masochistic as all get-out. Not my idea of a great night, but oh well... the rest of today was pretty damned good, so I suppose I was overdue for a karmic bite on the mental/emotional arse. This happens sometimes... usually after I've had a nice dose of Sadism and Such. Something in my head decides it needs balance and boom, if I don't get petted or punished or generally pushed around, I start feeling as if the sky is falling. Gods, but my head is fucked up and fucked over.

...love is just a bloodsport...

My head is pounding, I'm... hrm. I'm 99% OK with the whole no-last-hurrah thing (see Grr's entry thereon) but to get that last 1% I'd really like to hear it from Spike that he's ok with this too. I know, logically speaking, that he must be, or Grr wouldn't have said it... but it's a comfort thing. *shrugs* Chalk it up to hormones and PMS and paranoia, but please, Grr, will you ask him to email me or something with a 'yeah, fuck off' letter? I'd really appreciate it and I don't know if he reads this any more.

Two parts lime juice, four parts gin, one part green-olives-and-olive-brine, a sprinkling of salt, two ice cubes. Drink, follow with a chaser of grapefruit soda.

It'll put hair on your heels and point your ears. *grins faintly*

I really wish I could sleep.

If wishes were fishes, yeah, I know... it's a hard habit to break, this wishing stuff is. Tired... stressed... wanting things I can't have, wanting things I don't have, and desperately praying I can get rid of some of the things I DO have, such as an overloaded sex drive, an apparent inability to reach orgasm (an hour and a half of masturbating, with nothing happening... TWO FULL HOURS after a nap and a soda, hoping it'd be better... argh.).

...err... where was I?

I've no idea. Apparently, I am at the bottom of my glass of Hobbit's Blood (which is what I'm officially naming this concoction, as it's not got any other name). That's a good enough place for now. The fern lady is online and getting drunk as well, so I've company at least... and maybe soon I can sleep. Sleep is good.