Story

For a moment, the world turned its back. Pearly illusions of people-faces swept past in ever-widening waves of white there-and-gone flames; the darkness was rich and full [like black crayon wax on butterfly wings] against my arms and against the soft-sooty-shameless eye-blinking I indulged in whenever the scent of your words created in me that special sensation like falling off a too-high bridge in the middle of a tinfoil storm. I was fragile inside. Signpost spit rained against the windows of my brain with dizzying familiarity...and all at once, I let go. Dark as Heathcliffe on the moors when left without shelter, poor gypsy-boy he was, I ran helter-skelter into you, into what I thought you were but could never know for sure; I tumbled heedlessly through halls of glass, halls of never-should-have-entered ice and secret loathing. This was all before I encountered my muse on a wispy strand of ethernet thought. Funny how things work out like that--how the dead speak before spoken to, counter to better-behave table manners that never really stick inside your face. Not for lack of trying, understand. Never for lack of trying. Tell me again how I've failed to overcome my fears [signpost spit's raining hard again. better open the umbrella, harry] and I'll tell you how I only ever tried for one-person-you. Silly twit. It was clear that they couldn't go on...so don't fear the Reaper. Let Gentleman V.H.V tell you in his shiver-singsong voice.

I don't even want to let on to what I'm feeling. I wrote a story. It's convoluted and pretty. I'd imagine that anyone could interpret it. Like they interpret me. Funny how funny I'm feeling. I'm going to giggle here.

There.

In a not-too-bad mood. I swear I was going to write in routine English, just like in all my journal entries before the month of June. Buuut...you see, I couldn't. It's just too sweet to see the way the words run together in sentences of make-believe importance. Word-paintings is what I create when I let my thoughts go...just go.

Listening to? "Beautiful" by HIM. Reading? "Timequake" by Kurt Vonnegut. Watching? Nothing, thanks. Feeling? Unassorted box of colors. Eating? Anything to help the substitute-nitrofur pills go down easier. What a life it's been. What a summer ride worth writing about when the passions inflicted aren't so raw.

Set me as a seal upon thine heart. As a seal upon thine arm. Find the song. Look up those lines. Fits. Like the tragedy I find myself wallowing in, like the tragedy we talk of when all else fails to convey any meaning, when it's a boring can't-find-a-momentum moment and I want to make you understand but can't, really.

"Oh, I'm doing fine. Worrying about a lot of things, really, but pushing away thoughts of skin-icide and trips to the detox-center," she said in a plastic voice.

Under the cold water tapped into by means of screams, I let my legs dangle. Little did I know your leech-mouth was there to catch what I didn't see. Silly myself, I suppose. Then the white-flame-faces went out, and the insects moved on to flowering fields.

The end.


In addition:
Hours later, and I have the overwhelming urge to convey ideas again. I'm addicted to words. Addicted painfully to spelling out sentiments and aches and misgivings and fears and, and, and all those sillydisgusting things that unfurl like kitty-claws in my middle. Tangential subject -- I always seem to make someone angry. Unintentionally. If you're nothing but a lust-receptacle, I would be nothing but a lust-dispenser. It's not on target. It wasn't about you. Believe me. Swear it on all the things I told you. You always know just where to prick to make me hurt. I'm sorry for hurting. I am. Don't mean to [pause for Davey's voice in 'Just Like Heaven' again. makes me feel better. miss my muse] be so weak.

I'm sorry.