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…)