September 1, 2014 in The Past

I’m starting this again, maybe it’ll help

I haven’t written for so long. I almost forgot about this site but now I think I need it. There’s a hundred, a thousand, a hundred-thousand thoughts and feelings inside of me, welling up, choking me. I want to cry ,to scream, to strip off my clothing and feel the rain press against my skin. I can’t do any of these things, can’t do anything other than sit here and stare at my hands, to feel the weight of my world on my shoulders and watch the light dance on the razor’s edge. I want to hurt. I want to stop hurting. I want the world to stop hurting me and let me hurt myself, but I’m afraid. I broke down the other night, a week ago, two weeks ago, a month ago, time no longer has any meaning to me. I broke into that horizon and stole that star, using it to mar my flesh. I wanted the release, I wanted the blood to well and to spill, the blackness to leave my soul and give me peace. I wanted absolution, and it was denied me. I wrote the story about my time, about my blades and how I laid my life down to them until Jen helped me pick my life up. And it was a true story, but I didn’t talk about a lot of the stuff that happened after, all the blood that was split, all the promises that I broke and nights that I screamed and cried, begging to bleed, while my mother held my hands and tried to bring me out of it.

There’s so much more and so much less and I’m lost. I just. I don’t want to be. I read a book, a short story by Spider Robinson, one of the Callahan tales, and in it, a junkie compared heroin to dying. That it felt like dying and it felt like peace. And I want that. I want that peace, want that stillness. Do I want to die? I don’t know. Am I suicidal? I hate that question. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Sophia and Cide continue their dance, each pointing out fallacies of logic that point to their way being the “right” way, and I sit in the middle and can’t figure out which direction the wind blows. I can’t do this. I can’t feel this way, can’t feel so pulled, so torn, so out of sorts.

Everything’s spinning, turning, dancing. I don’t know if there’s anything else I want to say right now, anything I want to do. I’m going to sit here and work on maile, work with my hands and turn off my mind. My arms itch, the junkie itch, the tearing of the skin to the bone.

Bonnie’s back in my life, sort of. I don’t know what i think or how I feel. We’re supposed to be writing together, and I’m staring at the screen and I have a story inside of me but I can’t coax it out. It’s a story of loss and of redemption, but I don’t want to be redeemed, I don’t want that character redeemed either. I don’t want to write the fluff of Malia, I want to write of the twisted and tortured soul of Je’ami, to talk about how she spirals down into the eye of a storm and wraps the darkness around her in order to seduce and slay. It’s just the mood I’m in. When I’m not all wonked out and spinning, I don’t mind writing about Malia, I don’t mind the fact that I’ve had to smooth her corners and lighten her soul in order to make it so that she can play well with others. Maybe I’ll write the dark stuff into this story anyways. I just… I don’t know. I just. I don’t know.

Malia’s a dark character, a ‘twisted assassin’ who kills for pleasure, who tortures and revels in it. She started out so different, so sweet and innocent, and as my life tumbled down around me, she grew darker and darker. She’s the side of me that likes pain, that likes to inflict it on people. All those nights when I wished I could flay people alive with my tongue, with my words, she began to take shape, bringing a form to put the anger, the hate, and the fear into. Then she fell in love and her path split into two. I have to write things out of order because there’s some days that I really, really want to just kill and maim, and other days when I want to explore the frightening and complex idea of love. -chuckles- I put way too much of myself into my stories, into my characters. Malia tries to control everything, tries to control love with rules and boundaries, tries to tie it up and leave it locked in a closet for when she wants to play with it, and it doesn’t work like that. Like me, she doesn’t understand how it works, doesn’t understand how it all fits together.

-sigh-

Even trying to drop myself into Malia, to get my mind off of my dark thoughts and into stories, into worlds of my creation… it doesn’t help.

It’s still a red night.

Last updated December 25, 2016