Music: switching from VNV Nation to Diary of Dreams, "Nigredo".
If I am better tonight? I will be damned if I know. Not really. More steady, yes. Then again, Titanic was very steady too, until it ended up in the depths between the fishies. I will take all my heroes down with me; yet another similarity.
In short: I have not written anything save for one erotica piece, and it took me three months to pick up from where I had left and finish it. I am incapable of making any other progress with my story or anything of importance. There is poetry, of course. Yucky one, reserved for my self-torture. And in the case of the erotica piece I think that hormones, and not inspiration, are to blame. This inactivity is driving me up the wall. I do know what is going to happen in the next chapters of my story. I just can't bring myself to write it. I lack the motivation to do it.
Sanity-wise, I am not doing good or bad. I just am my usual self. Tired. Burned out. Hyperactive the one moment, catatonic the next. Plagued by my usual visions of my heroes, so real in mannerism and appearance that I am sure, if I reach out my hand I will touch warm skin and the promise of deliverance. But there is nothing to touch. There is just me and my room around me in its usual neatly bombed state. The bomb contained CDs, books, clothes and cats. My brain, on the other hand, contains little boys. Caged, chained, tied up, gagged and wearing nothing but ribbons for decoration, and maybe stockings, garters, high heels and naughty smirks if I feel like being creative. Other than that, it is empty. I can offer the space to be rented on request. I am not sure if anybody would want to live there but all are welcome to try. Just keep away from the cages, don't feed them. I like them skinny, their nipples a tiny fleshy addition to a flat, smooth chest. And never open the cage door, for they will bonk you silly in milliseconds. Seriously. Ravenous little sex beasts that they are, they will have it their way with you, and I will not be held responsible for that. You have been forewarned.
Waiting drives me nuts. Then again, I can't possibly get nuttier than this, for gods' sake, can I? Ritualistic murder is the next stage and I just don't have the appropriate daggers for that.
It's hard to admit you managed to make me cry again. I never thought you'd be able to do that. Not after all this time. I had raised my walls and put up my defenses; I had locked my inner being away. I had "buried my heart under the snow." I had done everything and yet found it you did, like the blind man who stumbles upon the proverbial pearl by mistake.
I went home, sat on my bed and let the night sink in. Seconds later I was crying. Just like that. The one moment I was thinking and the next overwhelmed. All I could do was let it out. The instinctive wisdom of a drowning man.
Don't get me wrong. It isn't hard to for me to start crying lately. Quite the contrary, actually, as I'm more fragile than ever. I just didn't think I'd cry again because of you. I thought myself dead over this matter. "Comfortably numb." However life loves to prove us wrong. It would have been even encouraging, in some sense, if it wasn't so utterly devastating. The one moment there was ground under my feet and the next there wasn't. Just like that, really.
We create mental images of people in our minds and when we run away from them we start living with the image and not the person anymore. We unwittingly create our own tormentor and feed him or her on a daily basis with all the "what if", the frustration, the anger, the guilt. The more time passes, the more this imaginary person gets out of touch with reality and the person it was based on, till we end up harbouring a ghost and living with this creation in the past, dwelling in our misconceptions and mistakes. And one day we meet the real person once more and that ghost vanishes, leaving us to rediscover the other in flesh and blood.
What hurt me the most, my dear, was not the lover I lost, for our relationship was a failure in every aspect you care to name. For me giving is the most natural thing in the world, while you were incapable of taking. Some people even said that you were a bit jealous of me in some sense, that I was too much for you. I'll never know and it doesn't really matter. That night I did not cry for the lover I had lost years ago for it seems you were never there to begin with. Therefore I never actually had you in order to lose you. Maybe the timing was wrong, or maybe we were not cut for each other. I will not allow myself to reconsider the whole matter from that aspect, because I had done this countless nights and it led me nowhere save for the darkest pits of despair. No, for whatever the reason, it was not meant to be. What I lamented for was entirely different. I did not mourn for the kind of relationship we had and neither for wanting us to be lovers again. We are incapable of being together; incompatible, for some reason. What I cried for was that for one more time I realised what I had loved in you: your intelligence, your wit and humor. You had made me laugh countless times (and I am as easily provoked to laugh as I am to cry) and that night you did so again. And it all came crashing down, and then the bottom fell out.
It just broke my heart to realise, my dear, how little time we have at our disposal before I leave again. I cried because you are not going to keep in contact -you did not do that even when we were a couple- and I will miss you. I will miss you more than words can say. But some things are not meant to be, some people are not meant to be together either as lovers, friends, or anything, really, and that's that. "There is no time for us, there is no place for us." I cried because everything and everybody that I hold dear is always snatched away and removed from my life, be it a person, a favourite pastime like role playing games or anything, and those that stay are usually changed beyond recognition or had never been what or whom I thought they were. And I am left in the company of books and comics and CDs and my imaginary heroes and heroines. Don't get me wrong, I am more than honoured to be their focal point of existence, but from time to time it is just not enough. It cannot keep my sanity intact.
Some people might say that it would have been good for me if I fell in love again -it has been a very long tome since the last time- but I know that nothing good is ever going to come out of it. Wisdom-wise, I can certainly be taught a lot of things by it. But happiness-wise, not a hope in hell.
PS: The title refers to the tenth graphic novel of the 'Sandman' comic series. For some reason (obviously because Mr. Neil Gaiman is such an excellent writer) the very essence of how I felt was perfectly captured and depicted in that volume. And what better proof there is of an artist's skill that seeing one's personal experiences clearly, almost blatantly reflected in a strangers' work?
And the worst thing is that all I can write lately is lame poetry!!! The kind of poetry others politely compliment when they read, but you know that they'd rather be doing something else. Like stuffing their ears with barbed wire and their guts with living lizards. How do I know? Told you, I am Supercrap Zombie Girl. I bloody well know, okay? Now buzz off.
What do you mean why I am not publishing some to support my claim? Ef off. I do not have the copyright yet. When I do, I will proceed to do so and torture you with it. An artist's ego is as huge and inconvenient as a giant fluffy pillow. One can even sleep on it, but other than that, it is just a nuisance. Now matter where you try to place it, it always takes up too much space, has absolutely no practical use and sticks out as pleasantly as an inflamed monkey butt. Believe me.
Soup! Soup is calling me. I hope great Cthulhu does not decide to rise from its depths on top of everything else.
I am conveniently close to hysteria. So close that I think if I stretch out my hand I can touch her shoulder. Too close for comfort, as they say.
I keep having minor health issues. I do not really know how minor they are unless I have them checked, of course. And how can I have them checked when I have no insurance, no money and no time to go see a doctor, even if I magically find a way to pay him? (maybe in kind? Make him sick too, for example?) Such laughs, oh the laughs of my life. It is impossible to explain how hard the situation is to a another person without getting into an endless conversation about Greece, fees, my life and Karmic debts, so I won't get into this long and sorry conversation. I do not like long and sorry conversations. I do not like other's sympathy most of the time; it seems alien to me. Then of course I have not explained that I am Superman, have I? (Rolls eyes). Supercrap zombie-girl in new adventures. The one thing I hate more than asking for help is getting unwanted advice from those who know better. I can chew off people's balls and ears for unwanted advice. Some have found out the hard way. A lot of others are waiting for their turn in a queue, worry not.
So, half hysterical and with a serious chronic case of cat squeezing and cat pampering gradually getting out of hand, I feel the need to squash people's heads with mauls and tear their jugulars free with my bare two hands, then jump up and down on their half flattened heads. I can put up with just about anything. But no health issues, you bastards. Not that. Let me be healthy so that I can put up or struggle with the rest. My health is an under the belt punch, you fucking bastards. Let me be, leave me the fuck alone; I reek of death and despair already. I do not need more...
At times like that, I understand Dorian (a serial killer from my stories) more than ever. But I am not Dorian, I am just me, Elizabeth, mad at virtually the whole universe. And since the universe is rather busy now, I'll go make some soup and get a good night's sleep. Maybe tomorrow I will be better.
