keeping back the flood

There are so many worlds and so many words inside me, but getting them out is like trying to get water from the moon. I want to keep writing CRESCENDO and the opening scene of FALLOUT 8 is running through my mind as clear as a movie, not to mention AKAYOROSHI’s various pieces (and history pieces)…but the words won’t come. The brain won’t concentrate. It won’t even do me the service of hyperfocusing. It just doesn’t want to do anything.

Or it wants to do everything, all the time, all at once. Which is impossible.

…I need to visit Evergreen Taoist Temple.  I remember how peaceful I felt on that school excursion. And I need, I miss, I need my city. My Brisvegas. My September city. You carved yourself into my heart, I can’t leave you — your absence sits on my soul like a suppurating ulcer.

In other news, I just accidentally stabbed myself in the thigh with a sashiko needle I dropped. Go me. 😀

“for you are in Elysium, and you are already dead.”

I’m brewing a cup of “Boulangerie” tea from Tour de Tea and it smells wonderful…and it also smells like the Wednesday markets at uni. Yet again, I want to cry.

No matter how I slice it, I’m not home. I’m very far from home, my September City, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to find a way out of here. Jericho Bay again, I guess. I’m aware I’m talking nonsense, or stream-of-consciousness…ing…there needs to be a verb for that…but I just…I don’t know. I just miss home. I miss uni. I miss jacaranda trees in wild bloom, I miss chocolate milk tea, I miss flat whites with four sugars and studying by the lakes, I miss hope. I miss possibility.

The tea tastes wonderful, as well…mild and comforting. I don’t want to pollute it with saltwater. I just want to go home, so much. It’s not a place, not wholly. It’s…everything. A feeling. Several places.

A friend visited me in 2018, and I’m so glad they got to see me at my…well, not my best, because my brain was being an absolute disaster for the majority of their visit, but. Me in my home. My September City at its best, the places I love. I wouldn’t let anyone visit me now, see me as I am, like this.

I should have gotten up and asked them to dance. I should have. I should have. I was two drinks down and I was still a coward.

Maybe I’m being negative and refusing to see anything good in my situation. I don’t think I am; there’s just so little of it here. And besides, being forced to thrive in a toxic environment is NOT a sign of happiness or health or anything of the sort.

Sure, there are possums. And stars. And a lovely wee dog who is a handful, but I love absolutely ferociously. But it’s not enough. It’s not home. I’m rotting at the core and it’s spreading outwards and outwards into the grey mist that is the future for me. I want to melt that mist, but I just don’t have the resources.

I have the willpower. I have the sheer bloody-mindedness. But I do not have the resources. Doubt I ever will. You can blame capitalism for that one.

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…”

cala giliath

I walked outside this evening, and looked up at the sky…and it was so clear. So, so clear, like the little rainstorm we had at the very end of the afternoon had cleansed the sky or something like that. So many points of silver in the star-host…so bright and magical…something almost holy, mystical, sparkling scintillas of wonder. I just stared and stared and stared, enraptured.

And I felt it. That memory stirring. The old wonder, my old self. Just for a breath, but it was there.

There is magic all around, still. I think it’s just a matter of stopping, breathing in, letting go, and opening your eyes.

“All light is sacred to the Eldar, but the Wood Elves love best the light of the stars … It is memory, precious and pure. I have walked there sometimes, beyond the forest and up into the night. I have seen the world fall away and the white light forever fill the air…”
— Tauriel, The Desolation of Smaug

lost child stumbles in the dark

yes, indeed, new address, same blog, so on so forth. why? reasons. good reasons? heaven knows. what’s good and bad anymore, in 2020?

I really wish I could write a lifestyle blog that was…I don’t know, picture perfect and I had a face that leant itself to photography and I had endless amounts of energy to live an Instagram life, but I don’t. I am tired. I’m exhausted, constantly, which no, probably is not medically safe, but welcome to life with mental illness: any and every physical illness you have is blamed on that. I wish I was kidding.

“oh, you’re excessively tired? it’s because of the schizophrenia.”

no. I am excessively it-hurts-to-even-sit-up tired and I have schizophrenia. why is that so hard to grasp? if I fall down the stairs and break my ankle, will you say that was because of the schizophrenia, too? so I might as well just wait for it to heal without any help?

but, as the song goes…
so you’re a doctor, and I am just a crazy little girl (who will you believe?)

I want to write strong and poetic and inspiration-porn-esque things about being brainsick, but I can barely keep my mind in a straight line long enough to say anything. and then, really, there’s nothing to say. nothing worth saying, really. “I woke up and within an hour I crept back into bed, because it was physically painful to sit at my desk. repeat.”

I could lie on all fronts, I suppose, but…what’s even the point, if none of it’s true? why not just write a novel instead?

to create is my only outlet, anymore. I don’t have a life outside this, since the disease took almost everything I loved from me. my life. I have to rebuild totally.

so I will sweep myself up in fandom, in sewing, in coding, in Middle-earth, in dolls, in magic, in poetry, and in my own vanity and lunacy. I will lose myself in a crystal ball of a closed world, tiny and worth nothing to anyone else except me. fault me if you will; but really, what else would you have me do? wait aware of the rot? if I must rot, then I will do it with my mind in a million other elsewheres, and I maintain this is escape, and thus sanity. and then, perchance…I might not rot at all.

“I will make everything around me beautiful. That will be my life.”
and it will be beautiful by my standards. my life will be art on my own terms.