Multitudes

A thousand coffeehouses spread over a thousand cities on the same rainy night. What makes yours stand out? What makes this one so very different? It might be the atmosphere. But then, you could claim that anywhere else, too. The yellow light, shining from the front window into the rain and twilight darkness? Perhaps. It goes deeper than that, though. Allow me to explain, if you will.

Sit back, relax. Have a ...coffee. Sugar? Cream? Sure, you could go for a fancy, seven ingredient concoction. But is that really what you want? Settle for a cup of something simpler. Look around you. It's a haven. The people here, they're disparate. That man, in the scruffy gray sweater? Just this side of unemployed, but he comes in every Thursday for a cup of tea. The tea's not quite as excellent, by the way. Look how he sips, savoring the warmth from the cup circulating through his body. The elbows on his sweater worn, but the garment is clean. The couple, right in that armchair. They're in college, met each other here a few weeks ago. See how she glances up at him as he speaks? I can tell that she's in love. He'll notice it soon as well.

tbc...

Love

He wondered what love was. Was it rainy afternoons in sleepy little cafes, sipping chai and holding thoughtful conversations? Or was it untold faith and belief in the person you were with at the time? A willingness to do anything to make your loved one happy?

Black Flags, Flowing Rum

She was imposing, in a way. Wouldn't have control of the crew otherwise... though it's mainly that they respect her and would do anything for her. Flowing white shirt, purples breeches, tall boots. What piratess doesn't have tall boots? Flintlock at her belt alongside a cutlass, and a maroon bandana to hold back her hair. Peace sign on a silver chain peeking out from her shirt. How odd, that. Perhaps a trinket from an earlier life, or maybe our dear Dread Piratess just likes peace symbols. Then again, none of the crew had ever seen her directly harm someone, when giving it further thought.
This fine day she was in high spirits. The letter had been dispatched, more chai and rum were on their way, and Faerie was hers for the taking. The Stardust had been pulled up on shore for scraping, an odious task that straws were pulled for, dice were thrown, and the occasional fist met the occasional nose. A pier was under construction as well; a shoddy affair, ready to tumble into the sea at a moment's notice, but the lads were giving it their best. Gathering crews were out o pull coconuts, bananas, and whatever lemons they could find, and a third foray into Faerie was planned for later that afternoon.
The captain found herself with nothing to do, thanks to careful planning and organization, and so she locked herself away in her cabin and penned a further report.

Dear Admiral,

I shall now go into further detail on the previous expedition into Faerie, as I'm sure you're quite excited to hear about it. Aren't you? I thought so. But yes, I took a gang of fifteen with me, the most vicious on the crew that I knew about. Vicious enough to fight a shark in it's own territory! Hah! Some of these lads are terrors, Sir. I've seen them in knife fights. Why, Seemus once had part of an ear sliced off, and still stuck the limey he was dueling! Simply wonderful.
We headed past the boundary at roughly noon, armed with our customary weaponry. Flintlock, cutlass, club, that sort of thing. The lads were a bit unsettled by the change in weather, not to mention the terrain being completely different within the span of three feet, from sand and palms to dirt and scrub.

...Beg pardon, but there's some disturbance up abovedecks that seems to need my utmost attention. >_< Shall continue this letter in but a moment, Sir.

Somewhere in the Tropics...

Lord Admiral,

As you may know, we have recently established a beachhead on the island. Recently being several months ago, actually, or will have been several months by the time you receive this missive, if indeed the couriers are still as slow as they were when I first took the post of Captain, back in '73... then again, those were the days when a privateer didn't necessarily need letters of marque, he(she, in my case, haha) simply plundered and pillaged. Ah, how the rum and eggnog flowed in those days! I remember them all fondly. 'T wasn't such a long time ago, now was it, Sir? You and I both, full of ideals and rampant disregard for the King's laws. Then again, we're subject to those laws now, eh? You old scurvy dog, you. But I ramble, forgive me. Paper isn't so bountiful that I can waste space on memories, isn't that right. Though I suppose we could always attempt to press more out of those palm leaves... shall have the crew look into it.

But yes! The island. We found the boundary you spoke of, and have undertaken several expeditions into the ...Faerie, I suppose you'd call it. The place where the natural state of the island meets Faerie is odd, to say the least. It's as if the island simply ends, and Faerie begins, with no sensible markers or anything to indicate a break. You walk down an animal path, looking ahead to the coconut groves, and then find yourself in Faerie, where the land is much like that of the Highlands back home, flattening into moors and hilly plains after about two dayss travel. Tis quite a shock, to trod from tropical heat to that sort of autumnal cool. The meeting-place line extends quite a ways, perhaps half a mile or so, and we've taken steps to mark it with little flags, so as not to get a sudden surprise upon our morning patrol. Everything goes rather well; only minor casualties so far. Lost a couple of men to a rock troll. Terrible, really. Wandering the gully one moment, down the troll's gullet the next. Rest of us just ran; what where we to do against the likes of that? Have marked the gully as well, with careful notation to the rest of the lads to avoid it. I say that everything goes well, but that would be a lie... our rum has gone, and the lads were upset about that, but I calmed them with promises of faerie gold and trinkets. And that worked, but well, there's a problem you see. The chai has run out. And this the lads don't take nearly so well. So please Sir, if you could find it in your best interest to send more chai via an expedient source, then myself and the rest of the lads would be quite grateful to you and the rest of the Navy. More eggnog, too. And some bagels, perhaps? I shall continue to do the best to research the nature of (F)faerie and send updated reports on a reg'lar basis.

In yer service,

Dread Piratess

All The Things She Said

She arrived wearing a long black skirt, semi-gothic in its details, flowing like a shadow at twilight. A semi-formal white shirt, top button undone to show the hollow of her throat, the silver chain with her peace symbol resting there, just at the button. Hair up in chopsticks, still damp... her glasses the purple frames that I liked so much. A grin greeted me when I opened the door for her, followed by a tight hug into my arms and a kiss like peppermint and honey. My tongue briefly touched hers before we broke apart, my hands in hers as I returned her smile. It had been too long since we'd last seen each other, and I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the day with her in my arms. Alas, I had a previous engagement, as it were.

"Hi love, you look beautiful as always. And you dressed appropriately for what we're doing today..." I grinned and lightly bit her neck, wrapping my arms around her waist.

"Oh, and what would that be, my darling?" She gave a soft laugh and ran her fingers through my hair.

"Research at the library. And you, my dear darling librarian, very much look the part of the intrepid researcher, poring over old tomes in search of forbidden knowledge. The only thing missing," I said as I traced my forefinger along the edge of her ear, "is a pencil right here."

"Hmm, well I'm sure we can fix that..." She smiled and kissed me again, more deeply this time, pulling her nails down my back in long strokes as I growled deep in my throat and pulled her tighter to me. Somehow we found our way to my room and managed to close the door before I pinned her against that corner and showered her with kisses burning with passion. She gasped as I bit her neck once more, and wrapped her leg around mine as I pushed against her. Her body tensed as she pressed back, tongues meeting again as I tasted her need for me and met it with equal intensity.

"It's all about us, all about us,
it's all about us, all about us,
We'll run away if we must,
cause you knooooow... it's all about us.
It's all about us, it's all about us.
In you I can trust..."

I slid my hand down over her thigh, turned smoothly to let her pin me, her hands on my shoulders and her eyes staring deep into mine, her smile sensuous enough to make me shiver over my entire body. She paused briefly, then surprised me with a quick kiss and a bite on my lip that again made me gasp. I loved that we were of equal enough height to kiss without trouble, and moaned softly with eyes closed at the memory of our first kiss, there on the rock. She must have sensed what I was thinking, because she smiled and whispered "Je t'adore" in my ear as I held her, content as I always was in her presence. "I love you too, dear one."

Memories Uncounted

I've been living so long with these pictures of you...

-The Cure, Pictures of You

The beach was empty and the wind cold, the air filled with seamist and the roaring of the surf. Gray skies overlooked the sands and the lone figure leaving a fading line of footsteps at the edge of the tidemark. Thunder rumbled, but he paid no mind to the ominous rumble. He felt her there, at the edge of consciousness, a phantom ache in the corners of his mind. She'd been gone too long, and longing was a not word not strong enough to describe his feelings. His hands pushed deeper into the pockets of his coat, and he wandered on. It grew colder, and the footsteps no longer carried a straight line, but the man did not notice. He simply walked on, determined to find her, a lost puzzle piece.

Ethereal Journey, Memory

The forest continues, unabated, for as long as the eye can see. The trees stretch skyward, leafless and gray on this overcast fall day, and the farther trunks obscure sightlines. The man walks on, accompanied by the ravens, who periodically take flight to perch on lone branches, far ahead. He turns and twists the dull black knife in his hand, and distance becomes meaningless as his mind moves inward.

Memory: It is raining, a cold rain that soaks quickly into the skin, hard drops coming in multitudes from low thunderclouds. They step outside, and she presses against him, her mouth finding his in a kiss filled with passion, and he embraces her, bodies tight together. Tongues meet, and she runs her hands through his hair as he caresses the back of her neck, one arm wrapped around her waist. She whispers "Pin me" in a low whisper, filled with urgency, and he complies, one hand sliding over her thigh, her leg wrapped around his, the kiss breaking only to draw breath.

Later he recalls further kisses, embraces.. conversation held hand-in-hand. As he dreams that waking dream, he sees that the raven called Memory has become sharper, more detailed, more substantial. The real world paled in comparison, shadowed and dark against that black-feathered avian, and he in turn looked into the man and quorked, in a voice of thunder and ice-furied blizzards, power of centuries behind the words "This is the power of Memory..."

Matters of the Heart

He looked at the raven, perched on its branch in the leafless tree. It looked back, and quorked at him. Beneath, behind, woven into the quork he heard the question. "What will you do now?" The man adjusted his coat, ran a hand through his hair. The hand slid into his pocket. "Wait. And be there. I am hers, as she is mine. Our threads have interwoven, and I will be there for her when she needs me. Because right now, that is all I can try to do. That, and love her." He glanced down, deep in thought. A second raven joined the first. Claws scraped bark as the bird secured his perch. The two examined the man, and he, only partially startled, examined back.

The birds were large for their kind, and their eyes shone with an old intelligence. A hint of having seen too much in too many places. The first to speak ruffled his feathers with a slight shrug, the movement expressing distaste with the world. The newcomer preened for a moment. Another quork. "It is a long time to wait. The time will pass slowly." The man gave a small grimace. "I know that. But I will wait, as she will wait for me. We are together now, and this will not change." A pocketknife appeared in his hand, dull black, and twisted and turned in his fingers. He appeared not to notice.

With a screech the larger of the ravens flew from the branch and dove for the man's face. Its claws scratched bloody lines, almost taking the man's eye, but he reacted with surprising speed, and a small rain of feathers graced the frosted earth. The bird landed on, gripped the man's shoulder. "Good memory. I will be your reportory of knowledge long forgot in these modern times. You will need my help, Child of Man. And I may have need of yours."

"You and she will find one another again, there where the sea meets the horizon. You have told her so. We shall make it so. A journey lies ahead, as much of time as distance. Let us guide you, as once we were guided by Wodan in his search for wisdom. Love is not an easy thing to find, nor an easy one to lose. Yours has been found, and now needs safeguarding." No longer restricted by clumsy quorks, the two ravens claimed a shoulder each, silent now that their advice had been given. The man gave each a look and then, resigned, began walking. The direction didn't matter; it was all featureless forest anyway, apart from the tiny path he now followed. He would get to his destination eventually, and be reunited with her in his arms. He smiled, and thought of her... and the journey seemed lighter.

Cont'd.

Mal made anothert tour of the home, checking on various cases as he made his rounds. Checked off that each resident received his evening medicine, stopped in a few rooms to chat for a minute or two about the day, the weather, how this season's sports teams were doing. Mrs. M still hadn't shown up by the time he slotted his time card and signed out for the evening. He wrote a quick report, left it with the front desk for the night shift.

The afternoon and early evening sun gave way in the south to a bank of thunderclouds, dark and menacing on the horizon. Rain before the night was out, he was sure. Even as he watched, lighting flickered through the storm and a cold wind picked up. Reached up to adjust his glasses and checked the his messenger bag was closed all the way.

The first drops were just beginning to fall as he unlocked his apartment, the crescent moon of previous nights now hidden for the duration of the storm. The place wasn't in the best part of town, but at least management kept things tidy, and the rent was cheap. Mal never saw his roommate. A few years older than he was, the man made an art form of entering and leaving with minimal noise. Paid his rent on time, and kept his portion of the kitchen tidy. No reason to complain. Mal threw together a quick sandwich, checked his email as he ate. Nothing new. An hour later he was in bed, fast asleep.

Mrs. M wandered in the next morning, looking slightly confused and partially dazed. Her pupils were dilated, and she made repeated mention of “that nice man at the cozy house.” After a checkup by the resident doctor she was given a sleeping pill and led back to her room with orders not to leave the premises unaccompanied.

Bobby was in charge of the front desk. Jittery, his cracked Garfield mug close to hand. The desk a scattered mass of papers, pens, inkwell – where did he get inkwells from, and whatever for? - random office paraphernalia that always seemed to accumulate around him no matter where he went.

“Hiya Mal. Might wanna be careful... Abrahams is up in arms over the whole Mrs. M debacle, and looking to tear somebody a new asshole. Coffee?”

“Thank you, no. Which cup are you on? Never mind, it doesn't matter. Did she ever show up?”

“Like a lost kitty comin' home. They tranq'd her and locked her in her room. She's out like a light, shouldn't be up again til tonight. Supposed to have an hourly check anyways though, and since you're the first one here, hey look! You get to look in on her.” Manic grin as he took a swallow of coffee.

Mal wandered the halls, mind wandering as he passed the large windows, shafts of late afternoon sunlight lighting his face in random bursts. It was strangely quiet for a Sunday afternoon. Most of the residents were in their rooms, asleep or doing whatever it was that they did when left alone. He came across few visitors, eyed them warily with trepidation and tried to look busy. His white coat was wrinkled and creased; no chance to iron it the past few days. A strain of piano-laced cabaret music fled down the hall ahead of him from Mr. Poransi's room. He paused, his tiny food cart wobbling to a stop ahead of him. Burst of too-loud laughter from the entertainment room. Must have been watching the Oldies channel.

The walkie-talkie at his waist crackled, and he jumped, startled.

"Mal, did you sign out Mrs. M? She's not on the premises, and wasn't supposed to be out today." Evie at the front desk. Worrier, too organized, anal-retentive. Good attention to detail. Too much stress. Snuck pills from storage on the late shift.

"No I did not. I haven't seen her today either, maybe she went for tea again? Ask Carl, he may know. Will call if I see her." Sighed and glanced at his watch. Another hour to go. The retirement home was quiet, a rambling old estate surrounded by a few acres of park. Family was always welcome to visit, but so few really did that there was little point in setting official visitng hours. He felt sorry for the residents, who had little in the way of entertainment and less in love and support. The staff was stretched thin these days, a blessing in disguise for him since it let him grab extra hours to pay for expenses. He ran a hand through his brown hair and set off to find the wayward Mrs. M.

Dark Places

He stepped, and found himself on the hillside. It sloped down, down to the crashing surf, harsh waves breaking against the rocky beach. It was less than twilight, in that the storm blackened the sky to ink, yet there was light to see. To his right the land curved gently around the bay, dunes stretching away into the dark. Leftwards led toward the mountains, and the factory. Lights winked even at this hour. Behind him was the forest. Its branches offered a small respite from the light drizzle, but he hadn't entered that shelter in a long time. The wind keened off the beach and up the hill, cutting through his t-shirt and jeans, the grass rustling with its own low noise, at once soothing and sibilant. Raindrops marked his gray shirt, and he stood to watch the lightning play in the distance, across the sea. His bare feet found a patch of sand, and his toes dug into the still-warm sand. Something troubled him, a feeling hard to put words to, even for him. And that in itself was cause for worry. He'd go down the dark spiral again, and the cycle of sleep and dream would begin all over. A frown creased his face as he considered. Thoughts fluttered in his mind, but none stayed to offer comfort. Nothing would help, could help. Well. There was one thing, he thought. But the chances were too remote to offer the hope he wanted, needed. And so he quietly gave up on that memory.. thought.. wish.

Patches in a Larger Tapestry

The house on the hill, before the rain arrived, stood as it always had. Seemingly from the very day it was finished, it had projected and air of looming dreariness. This was not so much a fault of the house itself as it the house's Victorian-esque construction. It quietly shouted "gothic". The large front windows somehow managed to be dark even during the sunniest afternoons, and the lawn stretching up to the porch resisted all attempts to keep itself kempt and orderly. It always looked as if it had last been mowed two weeks ago, shortly before a heavy rain. Today the coming storm provided a scenic backdrop for the old house, black thunderheads promising anything from light rain to windows-lashing torrents. Poe himself would not have been able to write a better setting. And while the windows were usually dark, today was an exception. Perhaps it was the rain. It may even have been the owner of the little red car parked haphazardly on the lawn, perilously close to nudging the mailbox. She(because a she it was), was currently busy lighting candles and creating an atmosphere of cheer, albeit it slightly forced. An old record filled the house with the bustling sounds of jazz, and the smell of thick stew(beef, made from scratch) wafted through the house. You may be wondering at this point about the owner of the little red car, and what she was doing in such an old, gloomy house. Her name was Magda, and she had purple hair. A dark blue skirt swished around her legs as she flitted from kitchen to living room, and a small locket on a silver chain hung around her neck. She absentmindedly tucked it back into her blouse as she tasted the stew, and a stray strand of purple hair was brushed back behind her ear as the spoon returned to the stewpot. Magda gave a pensive frown and added a dash more pepper. Striped socks were evident as she dashed back to the living room and lit another candle. Her uncle was still upstairs after having given over the house to her ministrations; he'd retreated to his study to pen a letter to her mother, probably already wondering when she'd be out of his quarters. Well, she thought with a smile, he'd have to learn that life wasn't all gloom and doom, and she was perfectly willing to prove it to him, no matter how long it took.

Falling Falling... on Broken Wings

So. I invited her to dinner, sent an invitation even. And never heard back from her. Somehow, I knew I wouldn't. But I got myself all nicely dressed and ready anyways, just in case she should show at my doorstep, apologetic smile ready to pacify me. By 8:15, I knew that I could forget any plans I'd made, that a nice dinner at a nice restaurant was something for another time, another place. A different girl. Someone who would actually call me back, and graciously decline an invitation, even if it meant making up some random excuse that was as easily seen through as a Japanese rice paper screen. I'd found Spiderman 2 on HBO by that point, and managed to lose myself in the movie even as the back of my mind kept listening for some knock at the door. Afterwards I saw her online. Let her contact me; I'm done with invitations and niceness. I've done my part, and she knows how to reach me. If she so chooses, I'll accept any apology she might make. I think, now, that telling her she was my first kiss was my first mistake. Possibly my first and only mistake. And even as I said it that night my mind gave this little mental scream of "noooooo!! idiot!" and I instantly wished I could take back the words that had just come out of my mouth. It makes me sad that out of everything I could have learned from her, the one lesson I really got was not to share revelations such as the one I did. Growing more guarded in what I tell people, rather than less, is not something I like the idea of... the thought's a weird, strange little one - that each relationship or kernel of a relationship that I go through will teach me to share less and less. Such a sad world, when it comes to that. Our lessons should be good ones, not harsh ones that make us regret decisions in the first place. So... now the waiting begins, and I'm back to the lesson I was trying to learn before she kissed me and made me smile and way to happy for nearly a week - that caring too much from the very start just hurts too much in the end. It's better to force yourself not to care, and then be pleasantly surprised when life does go your way. What a fucking pessimist I have to be. Break my halo and blacken my wings, I can't stay this good forever. "Someday, love will find me... in the rough."

Preponderance of Happy Thought

I'm sitting here, grinning inwardly like a fool, at the simple thought of kissing someone. Specifically, someone gorgeous with two lip rings and a labret. And the thought is making me all weak-kneed and totally "omfg". *melty swoon* Holy fuck. This is happy thoughts at its best.


And in other news life is going fairly well, fall semester starts soon and I have no place to stay yet, woot. But I hope I can figure that out, as it's kind of important. Hmm. And that wrap up my will to blog for tonight.

Lost in the Sprawl

The rain came down from ash-grey clouds, sidewalks already darkened from previous storms the night before, thunder rumbling high above, an epic clash of forgotten gods. He hadn't bothered getting an umbrella, so he stood under the eaves of a Starbucks, waiting out the fiercer parts of the downpour. Headphones today sang the melancholy chords of The Cure; techno was yesterday's beat, no room in today's worldview for the thrumming, bone-deep bass right now. So instead he floated on a mental sea of incredible depth, Robert Smith alternately screaming and whispering of lost love and anguish. Yeah, that fit. Consumer whore customers jostled him as they came in and out of the coffeeshop; he ignored them all. "Consumer whore... that includes me as well, doesn't it," he thought ruefully as he sipped a $3.95 cup of coffee. At least it kept him warm. He grinned and fingered the envelope in his pocket; at least he'd managed to get the part he needed for that last upgrade. The grin faded as he thought of her again, for the hundredth time that day. Always when he least expected it she'd surface in his memory. The sky broke open then, and an especially heavy rain started with an ominous rumble of thunder and several flashes of lightning. He sighed, shrugged. Flipped the hood over his head; he'd already waterproofed it, along with the rest of the jacket. A little rain wouldn't hurt, and he could feel the pull starting, calling him back home to finish that 'frame. Technology was a bitch, sometimes.

Layer 01: Thinking of You, Wide Awake for Days

The tangle of equipment and wiring had grown in the past week, a labyrinth of LEDs and cooling fans, chips and circuitboards to match the mess his mind has become. Tangled sheets slithered from mattress to floor, the bed abandoned in favor of the floor, his lanky frame resting on once-plush carpet as one hand idly typed on a Logitech keyboard. Monitor glare flickered over Kid Emo's face as he glid down electronic paths of infomation, flowing like rivers through the nexus of his room, network servers handling terabytes with an ease belied by their massive frames. He cackled, low and madness-tinged, as the text message flashed with a low ding on his screen. So much for Fate and good luck. A sigh followed, dredged from the depths of despair. Emo, they called it now, as if to make it cool and hip for the next generation. Well, he'd earned his nickname many times over. Typed out a reply and hit send, waiting for the next reply with something akin to morbid fascination. A motorist staring grimly at the scene of the accident, only here it was the network admin watching his screens in horror as the virus ate through layers of protection. Damage control was pointless; previous experience had taught him that much. He shrugged and switched tracks on Nodal Point; the everpresent headphones finding t.A.T.u's "All the Things She Said." Techno beats matched his heartbeat with an interesting counterpoint, as another ding announced the next reply. He read it, smiled, and hit the 'x'. No need to continue down that path of sorrow tonight. There'd be more opportunities tomorrow, and the night after. There always were.

Kid Emo

He sprawled over the entire bed, one arm overhanging the edge, fingers trailing. "I've been living so long with these pictures of you / that the pictures are all I can feel..." The Cure's melodic strands of infinite depth and sadness pouring into his ears via the headphones, cord to the iPod snaking its length over his body, tangled around a limp wrist. He floated on the music, a pioneer among pioneers, drifting through the endless spaces of his own mind. Kid Emo, they called him. Dark eyes flickered toward the internals of his computer, cabling like intestines stretching in multiple directions. The hard drive here, power supply there, clear worm-tubes of coolant invading the lesser wires. It worked, though. It always did. It was the rest of his life that didn't. No matter how many mainframes he built, how many corps he hacked into, riding the Matrix in a stream of digital information, his life outside the tech always strung him out into the melancholy depressions that earned him his name. He sighed. Being yourself didn't work outside the vast realms of cyberspace. He'd managed to fail again, perhaps spectacularly, the damage not yet fully realized. Maybe a few day's time would tell. Or not. The wilting lillies filled the dark room with an almost cloying scent; they'd long since bloomed and begun fading. Eyes closed as he breathed out. The week had begun with promise, but now... Maybe he'd stop trying again. Not that it ever lasted long; like his skills with tech, that was a part of himself, deep down, that he knew he'd never be rid of. Movement now, as a finger slowly switched tracks from memory, The Cure's "Lovesong" becoming U2's "Tryin' to Throw Your Arms Around the World." He gave another sigh, and drifted back through old memories, drowning in dreams, past and present intermingling as the music played on.

I have no idea what I'm doing wrong; I'm being myself and perhaps that's the cause of everything. And it's not like I can stop being myself, or even want to. If people can't deal with that, then maybe they're not the sort of people I should be spending time with. Or, more appropriately, trying to spend time with. Because as it is, I've not managed to successfully do so yet. I'm going emo again, and it's maddening because I can't help it. I have no patience when it comes to romantic relationships, and it frustrates me to no end that every time I make plans to go out with someone they end up not happening.

From the Lion's Teeth

It's been far too long since I've updated. Becoming busy will do that. Not that I have much to say that's relevant to anything... I've decided to make a soundtrack for myself, of myself, about myself. Yeah, it sounds weird. Basically, I'm picking songs that fit me. The outside me that everyone sees, and the inside me that's, well, me. It'll be two cds, I think... Layer 01 and Layer 02.

I've been doing rehearsal for Merry Wives of Windsor and they're going well; we open in less than three weeks, on Monday the 11th. I'm excited and nervous. Zy said, in regards to tattoos, that one should wait 6 months to be really sure you want it, then wait another 6 months before finally getting it. She told me what she'll be getting, and it's a really cool idea.


School ends in less than three weeks as well. Our final is on July 7th. Squee! One session down, one to go.

Adrift on Dark Wings

It's hard to be alone, sometimes. I think I've gotten used to it by just not thinking about it and by burying it beneath dreams and random thoughts, and wishes. And I don't really mean "alone" in the sense of "not in a relationship" or "lacking that special someone". I have friends, and I'm very close to those friends. But even so, at times I feel like I'm one entity, unnoticed and forgotten, amidst this giant stream of life occuring all around me, and all I can do is watch and observe. Like the times when I go to Barnes and Noble or Half-Price Books by myself. I see couples, children, people with friends, all interacting and being, and I stand by and wonder what they're thinking, what they'll do tomorrow, and so on. At Half-price it's even worse, because all those people seem to know another by first name, it's like this little clique that no-one wants to tell you the password to, and all you can do is think "I wish I could be on the other side". Every now and then I wonder what life is like for those people who have a thousand different aquaintances, but no one they can really call "friend". I've got people I can call "friend" in the truest sense that should I ever need it, they'd probably help me move bodies. But I'm not sure I have all that many aquaintances, and often it's hard to wander around without anyone to talk to. So I deal by not thinking about it. Which, when you're as inclined to overthink and overanalyze as I am, is not an easy task. It's an amusing life I lead, I think...

Falling Into Darkness

I've been told by two people in my life so far that I'm clingy; no, three people. All of them at one point or another meant a lot to me, and hearing that I was clingy wasn't the most fun in the world. But it opens your eyes to flaws you might not see by glancing at yourself in the proverbial mirror of your soul, as it were... And to be honest, afterwards I did start to look at myself, and wonder if maybe I was clingy. I do notice it, now, when I start doing things that I personally would consider to be clingy, and I always try to stop, or at least tone down, my clingyness. Sprite mentioned tonight that I worry too much, and that most people worry too much. It's true. I've always been a worrier, an eternal pessimist(except when it comes to certain situations in which, truly, I should be the most pessimistic of all), and yes, when I care about someone I make it known. *shrugs* With Brey it was different, because it was a long-distance relationship, and after we started talking on the phone it just became habit to talk to her nightly that way. It's very difficult to move back to simple online conversation when you've heard their voice, especially and even more so when you don't see that person every day, or even every few months. Fade was different... she's still different, now that we're talking again. I got drawn into the black hole of her personality, her disfunction, her problems, and, being me, I tried to help in the best way I knew how, by talking and being there for her, even if only through instant messages and emails. And when she tried to tear me down, at the end, she brought up that flaw(is it really, though?) amongst other things, and that was the end of our conversations. We didn't talk for almost a year, and I drowned myself in forums and webcomics, staying as far away from instant messaging programs as I could, for more than six months. Now that we're talking again, we just are... I'm not sure that there's friendship there as much as a sense of "I still care about you in some way". She's incredibly self-destructive, but brilliant at the same time, and I think she's the only person I've ever managed to stop worrying about. I know that regardless of what I say she'll still have her habits, and she's not willing to change, her environment won't let her change. So I wall off whatever worry I may have felt at some point, and ignore it, if that worry even still exists. She doesn't surprise me much, anymore.

Since then, I think I've managed slightly well to keep from clinging too much. Everyone needs their personal space, I should know that more than anyone. So I find myself not sending that email to comment on whatever is going through my head at the time, or not immediately dropping what I'm doing to go over and talk with whomever. Or at least I'm trying. And that's what counts, isn't it? The trying?