of this or that?
Story story story, I frame everything in my mind as stories. A story about Terrance, a story about Emily or Loki or Me. Sometimes the stories fall over themselves trying to get out and sometimes I can't shake them out for the life of me.
Even if I see them peeking at me over the boulders of Inconsistency in my brain, and offer scones and peppermint tea, they will not come.
Othertimes, I have merely to linger on the doorstep while they race over my body in their effort to get out, be told, be known.
And sometimes I get so sick, so fucking sick of the part I have written for myself that I turn my back on them and refuse to engage because it just isn't fair, god dammit. Just not fair.
Today is one of those days. I see them peeking. I see frolicking. I hear giggles and laughter from inside.
But I am sick to death of myself and my brain and the stories that demand my attention, or rather the stories that - if I attended to them, would take me away and out of this body to nicer places. Places where I was funny and charming and happy. Places where I sit on terrasses with wine and sunshine and love.
Instead, I lay in my bed on cold spring days waiting for an epiphany that never comes.
Story story story, I frame everything in my mind as stories. A story about Terrance, a story about Emily or Loki or Me. Sometimes the stories fall over themselves trying to get out and sometimes I can't shake them out for the life of me.
Even if I see them peeking at me over the boulders of Inconsistency in my brain, and offer scones and peppermint tea, they will not come.
Othertimes, I have merely to linger on the doorstep while they race over my body in their effort to get out, be told, be known.
And sometimes I get so sick, so fucking sick of the part I have written for myself that I turn my back on them and refuse to engage because it just isn't fair, god dammit. Just not fair.
Today is one of those days. I see them peeking. I see frolicking. I hear giggles and laughter from inside.
But I am sick to death of myself and my brain and the stories that demand my attention, or rather the stories that - if I attended to them, would take me away and out of this body to nicer places. Places where I was funny and charming and happy. Places where I sit on terrasses with wine and sunshine and love.
Instead, I lay in my bed on cold spring days waiting for an epiphany that never comes.
3 Baleful Regards:
spring sucks, babycakes. i've decided it's even worse than fall. and closely tied with winter. actually i think it may suck MORE than winter. i can't believe i just said that.
take care of yourself. please. you're my favorite stalking victim. ;)
As someone once said to me:
Godspeed, cool shade, sweet water.
the sun's coming; don't despair; I think most of us NE girls feel that about this time regardless where we find ourselves geographically. Just don't head down the rabbit hole too far okay?
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