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.

apparently, it’s March.

just this morning while i walked up to the letterbox, i thought, this is great, the ground’s finally drying up and i won’t have to dodge puddles and mud anymore!

two storms later, returning to the tin can literally walking through ankle-deep water: nevermind.

my kingdom to return to bloody suburbia and concrete fields. i did my time slogging through constant mud, rain, and biting insects seven thousand years ago, it wasn’t romantic and earthy and cottagecore then, and it isn’t now, either.

i would even have the literal criminal neighbours over everything i’ve endured over the past two and a half years, and i feel like a complete fucking moron for ever thinking it was unbearable. you didn’t know what unbearable even was, idiot child.

come, tame me…

An old entry, from an abandoned journal, but it applies right now, right now, right now:

the heat of the day and the loneliness reminds me of my Malice Mizer days, my gothic lolita days, my Tokyo Babylon days…a horrifically beautiful little bubble of a world I grew around myself, how my love for “her” swelled and overflowed, even though I knew she would never feel anything at all for me, whirling in black and lace and heeled mary-janes, an adopted city, a bright light, all that hope…

god, there is no drug worse than hope. none. once you get a taste for that shit, you’re gone. you need it all the time. gimme that dopamine rush, baby. show me a future. show me a tomorrow.

I yearn so much for that feeling. that, and connection. knowing I am beloved to someone. making sure that they know how beloved they are to me. not necessarily romantic, but love. love love LOVE. swelling with love like an overripe strawberry. tender and ferocious. snarling little foxling. always snarling. always wanting, wanting, wanting…

what to do with all this love locked inside a heart bordered with scar tissue and memories?

“But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world…”


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…)

all your answers as to ‘why’

Nothing like hearing a parent refer to your family as “[their] boys” when…you’re not a boy…nor have you never identified as a boy…and have been quite obviously ostracised by your brothers…

I mean, I’ve kinda known this since I was about sixteen, I don’t belong anywhere with anyone and I never have, black sheep etc etc, and the sooner I just get over that, the sooner this sort of thing just won’t mean anything or have any power to hurt anymore. It’s really all on me, when I think about it.

I promise I’ll start working on it tomorrow. Not today. I’m tired today. I’m tired every day, all the time.

“You’ve got nobody else but yourself, sister.”

I try to touch, but it fades away

Dreamed about Summer Snow last night.

I’m going to miss him forever, aren’t I?
(Why does it have to be like this? How do I stop feeling?)