The stars are astonishingly gorgeous tonight; they’re like aurora crystals scattered across a swathe of the darkest ponson velvet in the world, with a single glowing pearl placed at the very zenith.

It just made me sad. I couldn’t see the stars very well back home; but after a little while I didn’t care, because…it was home. It didn’t matter, as long as I had my own space in the world, that I couldn’t see ancient light very well. There’s a line from an Onitsuka Chihiro song, 「流星群」 (“Meteor Shower”, or “Flowing Star Swarm”, to be very very literal and oddly enough, poetic — that doesn’t usually happen if you translate absolutely literally), that came to mind when I looked at the sky:

心を与えて 貴方の手作りでいい
泣く場所が在るのなら 星など見えなくていい

“Give me a soul, even if it’s just handmade by you
As long as I have a place to cry, I don’t need to see the stars”

I get that feeling, now. I really wouldn’t need to see the stars at all, if I could go home, or at the very least, have a place that is mine — a place to cry. But I can’t, and instead I have a flowing star swarm that I don’t know what to do with and makes me feel guiltier than sin. (Perhaps I shouldn’t be on this holy week, but alas, I’m not a Christian and really don’t want to be one ever again.) Why long for a place you can never reach when you can dance beneath a meteor shower, partially freely?

I get what the damn therapists and psychs say, honestly, I do. “Change your perception!” But I personally can’t; it’s not something I can do and it never has been, not even as a child. Because my perception is formed by things outside my control, and I don’t have the intellectual dishonesty required to lie to myself. Maybe it’s the autism, maybe it’s the HFß, maybe it’s just a fault in my code yet again, but that’s how it it. I can’t brainwash myself into thinking I’m happy here. I’m not. I never will be. That is what I have to come to terms with.

I don’t know how to do that. I’m not even sure it’s possible. (Pisces sun, Capricorn moon. What are we like.)

In other news, the neighbours are having a Party, note caps — the type with the worst possible bass-boosted music, hooning, random fireworks, and drunken shouting, and I hate them for it. 😀 Mostly because my noise-cancelling headphones just ran out of battery power, so the constant background noise is rattling me. Why do bogans always have the noisiest, ugliest-sounding cars available? What’s the point? (Of the loud cars, I mean. Hell, and the bogans. What’s the point of them, too. Please don’t tell me.)

Think I’ll go watch the ’92 Australian cast performance of Jesus Christ Superstar!. I mean, it is that time of year, after all.
Bets are on for how long it’ll take before I start crying over John Farnham never being able to perform again. That’s what killed me, in the beginning, so.
Oh, misery misery miseryguts. Happy Easter, everyone & anyone.

(I’ll be better soon…)

running out of fantasy

The dying fall of my sentences
The magic of lost consequences
The seduction of a fading power
In a hotel room in the middle of nowhere
I’m running out of fantasy…

I don’t expect your sympathy
I’m old, I’m strange, I’m confidential
Has my fantasy run out of delusion?
Has my fantasy reached its logical conclusion?

what a waste of years

The doctor gave me pills to take
To stop me feeling quite so awake
To take the edge off of this big black cloud
But now it is quarter to ten
I’ll sit with a paper and a pen
Just writing shit until I fall asleep

I’ve got a heart
I think it’s bigger than yours
Because it lets people in
Who constantly disappoint me
And I’ve got a soul
And it’s as sad as they come
Because it used to feel everything
And now it’s just numb, numb, numb

Polly Scattergood