Two Step
I am doing laundry. Fouled clothes that I couldn't bear to put back on after swimming without clothes in the ocean, using the salt to purify me of my grime, my exhaustion, my silence. It is strange that I will wander about naked in public only if no one I know is there. I had walked down to Wreck alone after working 8 hours straight again. My muscles strained against the weight of a lifted shovel, again and again, hour after hour, yet my legs didn't slow even later when I would ascend steps that leave some breathless with the rapidity of a slow jog. I have a job now, and it seems unlikely I will have a day off until the 12th, yet it is equally likely I will not have employment as of any day now. I finished my exam and frankly have no idea where I stand, it being roughly a 50-50 even chance whether I pass or fail and, truth be told, I'm not sure I care which happens.
I'm avoiding my friends. I'm avoiding my ex. In many ways, I'm avoiding my life, such as it was a week ago.
Unhad conversations fly through my mind. Screaming I was not yours to give, you cannot give something you don't possess fills the empty silence in my head, fills the void that rests upon my tongue, fills the unsent messages in my e-mail box, fills the quiet moments of contemplation. I have to let this one sit, let it stop boiling. Love and Hate are so very very close, and I do so dislike hurting people, especially when only done out of a short time's overwhelming flood of emotion. I realise this particular passage officially breaks that silence; I am not that naive. However, the purpose of these writings differ greatly from direct message. One would be personal, private, specific. This, more abstract, with not much more of a purpose other than creative non-fiction. The irony of that isn't lost on me either.
My lover is a former suicide girl. I officially can never complain about my sex life ever again.
I'm glad you are going to take pictures and write me stories. I am thankful that you seem to truly and deeply care about me, no matter how detached from your emotions you claim to be. And, like most people that have actually and truly mattered to me, you scare me. Power over me is something that manages to be one of my only fears. But your smile brings the sunshine out, and I would laugh and giggle my way into death with you. Most of all, I love the fact that I have to merely be myself, and it seems to fill you with a happiness I have never seen before. Every motion, every word, every fact, and every story from me seems to be like serotonin for your soul and I don't even try. This feels right, like a wonderful convergence of desires in which there is nothing but gain. My last lover pulled hair out of my dreadlocks, whereas you put them back in. There is something beautiful and right in that, and it isn't even metaphor.
I missed Sounds of the Underground, and that makes me sad yet I know it is something I know I had to have done. I'm currently missing Apex Project and it feels the same way.
I am thinking about you, and have often thought about you and your conspicious absence from my life as of late. I'm almost certain that it wasn't entirely purposeful, mostly being a combination of your dislike of LJ and the certainty that I would be there for the most significant electronic music event of your year. But I am worried about you, especially since seeing you has been very infrequent since you spoke to me with liquid truth that pulled the water right from my eyes even before I realised what had happened. I hope you aren't too disappointed with my absence, but at the same time think that I'm very fragile right now and frankly a repeat of last year is not something I'm interested in. The largest reason for my not going is of course practical in nature, but you know as well as I do that I could have changed things around if I really really wanted to. I'm not even sure what to say to you. In the very least, you are important to me. You are, after all, being written about.
There, I think I'm done.
Written On: Brother's Computer
Currently Listening: The Postal Service - Give Up (full album)
Currently Reading: A Canticle For Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller, Jr.