Two, anon posting is back on, and I'll tell you why in a minute.
I'm not hiding anything anymore. This is bullshit. I'm through with being like.. "Well I feel awesome, in such a way that I could stop a stranger in the street and tell them all about it with a big grin on my face if it weren't for the whole I'm Swearing Myself To Secrecy thing and I'm not saying anything even AMBIGUOUS because I'm afraid people will get mad at me."
I already got ripped into once. I didn't even goddamn deserve it. (D, I know you figure I did, or I don't even know what you figure, but I didn't.)
My friend assures me, "It's all or nothing"
I am not worried
I am not overly concerned
My friend implores me, "For one time only,
Make an exception." I am not worried.
I wasn't happy god damnit. People say they didn't see it coming, people say he didn't deserve it, people don't care what I say, say they'll listen and then don't, say they care but really don't, people are so self-serving. People are so self-serving. It deserves repeating. What you think doesn't matter. The fact of the matter is what I feel, what I think, my reasons, my needs. My wants. If nobody wants to listen, to think about it from my end of things, to think about how I could have seen the situation, maybe sans knowing how it felt to be in that actual situation, I realize it's difficult, but some people know, some people didn't understand, some people played devils' advocate and then were put in the same situation and looked at me and asked how I kept from laughing when they refuted my points.
Wrap her up in a package of lies
Send her off to a coconut island
I am not worried I am not overly concerned
with the status of my emotions
"Oh," she says, "you're changing,"
But we're always changing
Things should change, but not like that. A mellowing, a tapering, a re-alignment could be necessary, but comfort remains intact. Discomfort is difficult, because then the walls go up. The walls won't come back down again. Fright is an interesting thing. It's protective even when you don't need it in the physical sense, but in every other sense you could possibly imagine. Things shouldn't change like that -- Not a sickening lurch, not the clank clank clank of the rollercoaster climbing, as your white-knuckled fists grasp the handlebars praying, praying, that instead of the drop, the shudder, the moment of final realization before your stomach takes a flying leap into your throat, before your gullets revolt and scream at you, before the rest of your body falls while inertia claws back at you with protein lancets, instead of the drop, that you'd float off into space somewhere, gently, set down in midair, off a cloud, gently, in the dust, in the soft dirt, comfortably, quietly, almost asleep.
It does not bother me to say this isn't love
Because if you don't want to talk about it then it isn't love
And I guess I'm going to have to live with that
But there's something in a shade of grey,
Something in between,
And I can always change my name
if that's what you mean
A shade of grey, a friendship, something you promised would stay forever, I promised would stay forever, and nobody cared to keep that promise, I because I was a frightened rabbit in the woods, somebody who ran off, ran away, had to do the deed in a cowardly fashion because I was AFRAID of you, yes, yes yes yes! I'm a fucking coward! I could blubber in somebody's coat sleeve (leaving white saline patches once dried) about how timid and cowardlike I am! But I don't fucking care! I don't! I don't I don't. Nobody should have to be that afraid, especially afraid of someone they're not supposed to be afraid of. What happened to that gray? The glitter went away and tarnished so long ago, now all that's left is gray anyway, the bit, the scrapings from an ancient silver ring, that fall on the table, the waxy bits, a little of me and the world around me, the scratches, the black tarnish. ... The black tarnish.
My friend assures me, "It's all or nothing."
But I am not really worried I am not overly concerned
You try to tell yourself the things you try to tell yourself
To make yourself forget I am not worried
"If it's love," she said, "then we're going to have to think about the consequences."
She can't stop shaking
I can't stop touching her and...
Glory and happiness and gladness comes in spurts -- is it supposed to come in spurts? Am I supposed to still feel suicidal when somebody who really really truly loves me is next to me? The answer is obvious -- The answer is no. If I need people to keep me from myself, there's something there I need to deal with. If I need someone else who isn't close to me to help me deal with it, there's something wrong with those who are close to me. The more I stand back the more I realize how different we are, how different we were, how fickle and attention-grabbing, how scornful and avoidant of chances, how self-cruelty and narcissism can hurt you when you don't even know you're doing them, how lying to make yourself look better or worse or to try and change a situation (because I don't know WHERE the fuck that came from, dear heart) is never a good thing, in fact is a bad thing, is horrid horrid horrid, it's going to destroy us all, my conscience, your conscience, who needs, who knows, at one point they were inseperable but now I wondered if where mine ended yours really began. Were we there? Were we? Were we? An echo is a haunting sound.
This time when kindness falls like rain
It washes her away and Anna begins to change her mind
"These seconds when I'm not shaking leave me shuddering for days," she says
And I'm not ready for this sort of thing
If the shuddering comes on gradually, is it a problem if I don't notice? I used to wonder why it was I was so attracted and yet so unattracted, what it was I truly loved. The more I thought the more I hated myself for being just as fake as everyone else, as everything I hate. I'm not a nice person by nature. I never was. But I've accepted that. I even like it. It's something to keep the hoi polloi away.
Do you know what tears taste like? They taste like someone with nothing to tell anybody. They taste like the salt on a hardworking person's hands. They taste like fist in a fight. They taste like everything, and nothing, drugs you took, drugs you should have taken, they taste like the edge of a knife, the point of a key, the feeling your forehead gets when you've been sobbing against a cold steering wheel for an hour.
But I'm not going to break and I'm not going to worry about it anymore
I'm not going to bend, and I'm not going to break and I'm not going to worry about it anymore
It seems like I should say "As long as this is love..."
But it's not all that easy so maybe I should
Snap her up in a butterfly net Pin her down in a photograph album
I am not worried; I've done this sort of thing before
But then I start to think about the consequences
Because I don't get no sleep in a quiet room and...
It's bad to say "well if this is love then this must be what love is," love is always new, always different, that's why nobody can define it, there's different kinds of love, as many as there are soul mates, as many as there are puppy lovers, as many as there are fuck buddies. Security blankets are allowed, but only if they get folded up and put aside, only if the liner is zipped off what's really inside keeping you warm, because when you're horribly warm, a blanket's not much good for anything but pinning around your neck and pretending to be a super hero. Perhaps you were right all along, nay, I conceded earlier, far earlier, before you were listening, I conceded that you were right, dear heart, you were right. I should have broken a long time ago, I'm so obstinate, so malleable at the same time, like steel, difficult and malleable, useful indispensable, a thousand other things, but not kind to the hand. Not unless I'm made that way. Not unless I want to be that way. I conceded - you were right - I was afraid of losing something by breaking, by bending, instead of remembering that if I break, there's still a me, there's still a me, two pieces mind you, but I can be spot-welded together, good as new, a good friend acetylene may be hot and painful, third degree burns in fact, and if you stare right at it it'll blind you, but if that's what it takes to be good as new...
She's talking in her sleep
It's keeping me awake and Anna begins to toss and turn
And every word is nonsense but I understand and
Oh lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing
Her kindness bangs a gong
It's moving me along and Anna begins to fade away
It's chasing me away
She disappears and
Oh lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing
Anna should never fade away. Anna shouldn't fade away. Or if anna fades away, she should be with somebody who fades away too. Because a disappearance always frightens.
I couldn't be what he needed. I couldn't be what he wanted. I'm sorry. I never intended to horribly mar his life, I never intended to make it horrible, I never intended to be a zillion and one things, I never wanted to be a zillion and one things, I just wanted to be comfortable, I just wanted a friend, and I had a friend, even for a short time. My track record of a year as of yet remains unbroken, (Save for Carla,) and my kindness gets me nowhere.
Which brings me to my second point -- about the anon-posting. In a sense, the anon-posting was kindness -- I was trying to keep people from making themeselves into asses on my journal, by being unkind, by trying to be hurtful. Go ahead and do your worst, because whether I have anon-posting on or not, I'll still hear your words, I am Math, I am Gwydion. I am Ceridwen. I'm cheating people out of commenting just because they don't have a lj, and that's not fair. I'm also being kind in a way, and kindness moves nowhere. I'm also forcing people to be kind, and kindness moves nowhere. (You repeated this to me on many occasions, you know who you are, "Why do I try, why am I so kind, why do I let myself be taken advantage of," I'm through telling you the truth, fine, you're weak, you deserved to be taken advantage of, you deserved to be stabbed in the back, it doesn't happen to the best of us, only the losers! Fine! I'll lie to you! Make me lie to you! Kindness gets you nowhere! Go spread your vinegar! Don't be humble! Hubris is the way to go.)
How's that for a production? This is MY journal. I'll make a production if I want to make a production. I never forced you to read it. The whiteboard has an eraser streak on it now.
You can't tell anybody about this part, though. The part that's coming? Shh. This is my ambiguity.
I'm in love.
Who knows me and saw this coming, who hates me and saw this coming, who now is angry and was afraid this was coming (who incidentally now also has no reason to be angry, so do me a favor please, and save your energy, it's more useful otherwise, bake some c00kies for kim when she comes to town.)
I never knew this could happen, admittedly, lots of self-doubt had been floating around, the whole "I thought I knew what was love" bit flying into the wall (on a dart, with a note, penned in blood)
He knows. He knew. I knew. We knew.
His other half. As yuppie and cliché as its typical usage, that's not the way I'm using it, and it's more beautiful that way.
Yes, I've stood on the cusp of a change, a fate that could be dealt. My dice have been rolled. I remember asking the cards before. I remember asking them. I remember them telling me things that left me uneasy. "Why aren't my answers happy?"
Sixes, that's why. This time they rolled sixes.
A two and a five does not true love make.
I know what it is to reach out in the night. In a fatigued stupor, to grope about for love, to grope for warmth, to be met with a pillow, and to be resigned to imagination.
And it's not as dour as I make it sound.
(I have a good imagination.)
P.S: GO SEE AMÉLIE. It's good.