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.

they could’ve been me.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Lest we forget.


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


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…)

in which we thank all the Powers in the world for the word ‘queer’

It amuses me to no end when men try to be passive-aggressive in order to get me to do something. Mostly because nothing makes me more likely to shut down completely faster.

And I’ll be honest; that fact does amuse me. Keep trying, little boy. You think I’ll lower myself to spar with you? Like I don’t have anything better to waste my time on.

Maybe I’m not as Seelie as I’d like the world to believe. Probably not. I’m probably just outright evil and desperately attempting to swallow it out of some internalised shame, or something.

Not right now, though. Right now I feel…nothing. I feel like I’m speeding and floating at the same time. Unhinged. A little feral. A snarling fox. A black hole for a heart. Sucking up all the light I find because I can’t make my own.

Maybe my ex was right all along; maybe I am a dead star.
Or maybe I’m a new kind of light altogether, and only some people can see it. Or want to.

Also, I’m not going to define myself using any other label than “queer” from now on. Not because I’m confused — I’m not. I’m physically attracted to men, but never romantically or sexually (not if they’re not fictional). I’m romantically, physically, and sexually attracted to women. Trans women, cis women, just women. It’s how I’m wired and I’ve known it for a long time, but the world and its insistence on labels just complicates something that is, at the end of the day, very simple.

My Estel will be a woman, or at the very least, not a cis man.
That’s all there is to say about that.

today’s quotes…

Put here until I can find my commonplace book…which is in a box, somewhere…with all my other notebooks…heavy, heavy sigh…

“The problem starts at that moment when the value of a suit exceeds the value of the man wearing it.”
— “Εκτός ύλης (Ektos Ylis; Off-Syllabus)”, Κώστας Λεϊμονής (Kostas Leimonis)

“Gandalf, if he had the Ring, would be far worse than Sauron. Because he would be righteous…and self-righteous.”
— Christopher Tolkien

highest existence

“A new light had shone, and I was there…I could hear the music and the world was wonderful, then. Music’s part of my coping with the world.”

— Billy Connolly

names & changes

I have changed my online alias. Not without reason.

Sometimes, you have to walk away from who you used to be. I have to. And using a different online name is a start. There will be further changes in many, many ways in the coming weeks and months.

Admittedly, I’m not doing this because I want to, and certainly not willingly. I miss who I used to be before ‘all this’ happened more than I’ve missed anyone else in my life, which perhaps comes off as starkly selfish, but it’s true. And further truth is that I can’t go back to being that person ever again; it’s literally become impossible. So if I have to change, then at least let me tolerate whoever I’ll become. For me, that begins with a name.

(Not one that’s new, really, if you’ve known me long enough — one reclaimed from the past. But one I love, all the same. It fits, for now.)

Besides, names are like clothes, I think. You can have different ones for different situations. Some jackets get worn to the theatre, some hoodies never see the outside of your bedroom. And some friends may prefer you in jeans and a t-shirt, while others love your look in a summer dress. Those who are closest to me usually have nicknames for me, which I kind of adore — growing up without any nicknames whatsoever is very alienating to an already alienated child, trust me.