February 8th, 2004

what lies behind locked doors

Answer Key

vaguerant: Not very recent, but this is the one series of events that comes to mind with any degree of certainty every time similar questions are brought up. I used to be friends with this girl who I could describe at length but won't.. suffice to say she had this mentality that made life more bearable. The kind of person who even now, just knowing she exists somewhere on earth makes me happy. At any rate.. she, myself, and my b/f at the time spent a lot of time together, and we were all very good friends. Over time I noticed she was falling in love with him. She never said anything about it, she never did anything about it, she never made a move and never even tried to do any of those vaguely shoe-dropping things that people do and rationalize they didn't really do anything. But it was tangible, anyway. The way I started acting towards her started changing. I didn't confront her or get "hostile", but there was something different, uncomfortable.. there. I only changed out of my own insecurity.. I didn't expect her to make a move, but just knowing that these feelings existed made me so afraid that in the end, because of the new awkwardness I inserted into our relationship, we drifted apart. She stopped calling us. Over the next few years both of us tried to get back in contact with her, but when we'd call her there was always this space in between, and she'd promise to call back but never would. I know this only happened because I let my own fear take over a situation irrationally. I could have just been her friend.

meetzemonsta: You know the answer to that, you've been shopping with me.

theepumpkingirl: You need to trade in those wee folks for Dish Washing Gnomes. Only then will the whisker pulling stop. The cats might be a little soapy, though.

insect_in_amber: I think that's a combination of obsessive introspection and a partial will to communicate fully (despite how in-obviously I write). I think, there are all these networks and systems and processes going on that I have no idea what's really going on in there. I want to be able to see it as clearly as one would see blueprints, and to exchange mine with other people for theirs.

rasp_utin: One: You are a crazy cheater. Two: I don't remember specifically (re: the first part of the question), but I know it's something along the lines of mentality. I could say I like reading about this thing or that thing that you write about, but that kind of thing is more of a basic frame that has nothing to do with the actual content. I guess it's just the kind of thing where you perceive some people as being of similar mind, in some way. "On the same level". Sort of. Speaking the same language, in a way. This last sentence is just an excuse to say "in a way" again, in a way.

zulko: Yes yes yes yes!!! Yes.

rhys_wizenfork: Judging by the icon, yes. By the picture from the 3rd, no.




This is all I've gotten so far. The window of opportunity is still open. Soon we'll return to our regularly scheduled ashes and lies.
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In Dreams

Lemmiwinks' adventure

When I trip, I forgive everyone.

Also, I understand metaphors. All of them, all at once. I was going to say I understand poetry, but that's not really it. I know the things that make people laugh and think of as jokes, the things you say are ridiculous, I know how they are true. Nothing is anything if not monumental.

Things opened badly. I saw a lot of faces and shapes I never knew existed a year ago, the first time. I was aware of a level of infinity that was wholly unpleasant. How many possibilities there are to every single situation, the things that can result from other choices. Awareness of capability. Alternate universes where blood is the law. There were no white mice, not one. I could blame Battle Royale, but I'm really not sure. I think that's a lie.

Different phases of vision. There is the time when I close my eyes because I see things that unnerve me, when I peek and hide. The time I close my eyes because I prefer to see what's unfurling inside than the mundane, when I shut them tight to avoid being brought down. The time I start to open them to recognize the world again, when I'm welcomed home.

I'm not sure how thoughts can explode across my mind like flash-frost across a window, but I open my mouth and it's all stutters and "I don't know how to say". The words are all there, on the inside. Where does the connection break between my headspace and my mouth?

In the center of everything is the small, beating heart. This initially started as a shame about how something expansive can be reduced to such a small core. But no, it's the small core that matters anyway, that makes it work at all. Without the beating heart, however small, is nothing.

I smiled so hard that when he leaned in he kissed my body. I thought to myself that if I hadn't been smiling so solidly he would have kissed my mouth.. so I thought, is it wrong to smile like that? These are the things I worry about. These are the matters of consequence.

People think of beckoning in terms of pulling from out to in. A finger that curls inward, an arm that sweeps towards the body. But before the finger can coil inwards, it has to extend. Miles in between each sublime twitch of muscle that opens a finger. Tentative footsteps. Ten minutes leading into a year, each tiny sound joining with each other gradually to form the whole of an invitation. And then suddenly the invitation is over, you are there in a club with your friends, and all of you are together and bouncing off each other and smiling.

She'd said, "If I could live like this every single day, I would.", and I finally understand. It was too intense and relentless the first time, I couldn't do that every day. But the smaller illusions, the internal vision, everything comes together. And then I think, "Guys writing poetry say "she". I shouldn't say "she".".. but I do anyway.

I don't understand how anyone can pick one small thing to appreciate but ignore the whole. You can't have a piece.

He says, "You and your blankets.", and I think "What is a blanket if not 900 feathers?" Air moves between the threads. It's so visible it's painful.

He says, "I'm glad I didn't cut my hair like I'd wanted to the other day, so you can play with my hair.", and I think "No, if you'd cut your hair you'd be glad you did so I could rub your fuzz." Life is a series of doing things and being glad you did. You chose one thing, it makes you happy, if you'd chosen another you'd still be happy, you wouldn't feel like you'd missed the other happiness because it isn't there. I forgot the original phrasing (and extent) of these thoughts, but that's essentially it.

It ended much sooner than I'd expected, but I think our dosage this time around was very different. The first time I was owned by the drug. This was more of a sparkly ride.
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