chronic pain

I never tried to reach

I sent a letter to my ex, apologising.

(Not the rapist, and definitely not the Pink Bitch. Not ever. I’m a pushover, but never that much of one. I’m more likely to join the Family First Party than I am to ever contact either of those two nuclear waste pits.)

I don’t know if they’ll get it, because I don’t think they check the address I sent it to anymore — and I don’t know what their current one could possibly be. I don’t know where they are, or what they’re doing, or anything. But I couldn’t just…not. I had to at least spit the words out into the Wired somewhere.

I don’t still have feelings for them, I don’t want to be with them, I wouldn’t say no to talking to them once again if they wanted, but if they didn’t, my world wouldn’t fall apart, and I would understand wholly. I just wanted to let them know that I feel bad about…well, as Phildel puts it, for the times I behaved like a switchblade / for the blame when I should have just forgave.

There is someone else I love. It’s not about chasing them. It’s about making amends, even weakly or uselessly. With my health being what it is, I just want something to be…right. Or as right as possible.

I don’t know. My head’s full of cotton wool at the moment, and I can’t think straight, but.

Everything is, everything was, everything is all, everything will be.

fatanyu

the cavalry is here; mist and shadows all

 Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if, when he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls? The world outside has not become less real because the prisoner cannot see it. In using escape in this way the critics have chosen the wrong word, and, what is more, they are confusing, not always by sincere error, the Escape of the Prisoner with the Flight of the Deserter.

— J.R.R Tolkien

creating and creation

I am so, so sick of this.

“Boohoohoo, Taylor Swift only writes song about her own experiences!”

Oh my sweet stars.

Look, I am ambiguous on Swift the woman, not overly fond of Swift the product, love some of her music, am “eh” on the rest of it, but: SHUT THE HELL UP. Artists do not exist to serve YOU. We make art about whatever the hell we want and have no other obligations; any other expectations you have are ON. YOU. Deal with them yourself.

If you don’t like Swift’s confessional music, here’s a thought: DON’T. LISTEN. TO IT. Don’t give her your money if you don’t like it! She isn’t beholden to you or me or anyone else other than herself.

“The poet’s vow is to–” NO. STOP. Any poet’s vow is THEIR OWN.

If you want a song written about a certain topic? WRITE IT YOURSELF.

You people have made me defend Taylor Swift. Stars above.

creating and creation

medical hiatus; mission critical

ON INDEFINITE HIATUS:

CLOSING:

STAYING ACTIVE:

Basically, everything that doesn’t spark enough joy currently will be put on hiatus (or closed). Quite obviously I’m immersing myself in all things Tolkien, seeing as I’m slowly finding delight in my Middle-earth again; one that I don’t have to share with lying fairweather ‘friends’. (No, I’m not sorry — if you want me to say nice things about you, ACT BETTER.)

Pretty sure today that the internet was a net, ha, loss for humanity, but what can you do.