I had no idea, but my musejournal (for those who don't rp, or write, really, musing helps you get ideas. muse journal was to work out everyday personalities for the people I write for. it's everything from comments on what happened in the rpgs, to surveys, poetry, whatever they were feeling) is still active. i thought deadjournal had gotten rid of it, but they didn't. i feel so weirdly happy right now.
http://thecluster.deadjournal.com/
Monday, December 15, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
A few things first shared with Kubiak, and then with my little Nihilist.
Rising.
Begin again. Chapter one opens in the dark, in a room like this room, in the shadows, all alone. Typing furiously, mind scattered- not so scattered as the scars, but...
Begin AGAIN. This girl's done it a million times. Up in smoke, crawl out of the ashes. One hour, thirty minutes later (give or take) and the symbolism is scrawled forever on flesh, over past mistakes. (Disgust. Lies.)
Again. Again. Is there a pattern in the destruction? The same steps leading down the same long, dark hallway. The same bloody handprints on the same old, cracking walls.
The same voice, beckoning. Loving? Hating? I can't live with this. Surrender. Defeat. The same girl feeling her heart break. The same girl going numb, shattered.
Inside everything rewinds, inside everything burns. Slow decay. Dry rot. Nineveh. You remember that, angel of dessication. Patron Saint of Self Injury- you. Numb. Words. The words never register; the tone is measured, calm, and the anger and disgust slowly resides.
The girl's quiet. Building. Rebuilding. Planning her new form. Tracing the raised scar tissue along her spine. The ashes are so thick they cloud her eyes. It's so hard to be perfect. It's so hard to fail.... but it's easier, easier than being perfect. Ten years later, still working to undo a child's lifetime of hurt, neglect, and helpless anger.
The fire still burns. Still consumes, destroys. Makes way for another version.
You're the weakest person I know.
It's a lie.
Perhaps inward tranquility is lost, and perhaps everything DOES fall apart. But the feet keep moving. Whatever soul is left inside the hollow ribs, the aching skull, it moves on, on, on. On. Striving to improve upon itself. So ready to destroy all which does not fit into its vision.
Fabrege soul, how clever, how hip, very now. The one, the only, and all the others that fail are destroyed.
Worthless.
It would be so easy to jump headfirst into the current. Keep your feet on those stones, instead. Keep your eyes on the sky, because there's a storm brewing.
She will not lose this battle quietly, slipping like shades into the night.
There is a storm riding the horizon, and her fingers are firmly in its eyes.
++++++++++++++++++++
The fairy tale is over.
Pulled out by its roots,
left to wither cold upon the floor.
Lifeless.
Denied sustenance.
We dance upon the remains,
forgotten.
Shattering childhood illusions
of happiness.
No shining prince.
The magic drained,
the colors dull.
Memories fade,
and time brings apathy
to delight.
The only moral left to this
is to know: hope dies quick.
++++++++++++++
Part one.
The person you see standing before you is a lie. A carefully produced construct of pretty deception intended to draw the least amount of suspicion possible toward the substance beneath the lie.
Smile and nod, adorned in make up and pretty clothes and looking very much like a real girl. This is not the case. This is not the truth. But pausing for a moment to consider the glimpse of this that is sometimes creeping through would be far too much effort for almost any other being in existence.
No matter. Pity is not the natural way of things. But this mask, well, it's stifling, and sometimes I wish I could throw it off and be angry, volatile, dangerous, and all those other monstrous things that lurk beneath. Cowed. By years of yes-sir and fearing the strength of those greater.
This is a fucking cheap charade.
This is a girl pretending to be a robot, pretending not to want, pretending all the wilderness is gone, and allowing sadness and apathy to take the place of fire.
Deconstruction begins
NOW.
Begin again. Chapter one opens in the dark, in a room like this room, in the shadows, all alone. Typing furiously, mind scattered- not so scattered as the scars, but...
Begin AGAIN. This girl's done it a million times. Up in smoke, crawl out of the ashes. One hour, thirty minutes later (give or take) and the symbolism is scrawled forever on flesh, over past mistakes. (Disgust. Lies.)
Again. Again. Is there a pattern in the destruction? The same steps leading down the same long, dark hallway. The same bloody handprints on the same old, cracking walls.
The same voice, beckoning. Loving? Hating? I can't live with this. Surrender. Defeat. The same girl feeling her heart break. The same girl going numb, shattered.
Inside everything rewinds, inside everything burns. Slow decay. Dry rot. Nineveh. You remember that, angel of dessication. Patron Saint of Self Injury- you. Numb. Words. The words never register; the tone is measured, calm, and the anger and disgust slowly resides.
The girl's quiet. Building. Rebuilding. Planning her new form. Tracing the raised scar tissue along her spine. The ashes are so thick they cloud her eyes. It's so hard to be perfect. It's so hard to fail.... but it's easier, easier than being perfect. Ten years later, still working to undo a child's lifetime of hurt, neglect, and helpless anger.
The fire still burns. Still consumes, destroys. Makes way for another version.
You're the weakest person I know.
It's a lie.
Perhaps inward tranquility is lost, and perhaps everything DOES fall apart. But the feet keep moving. Whatever soul is left inside the hollow ribs, the aching skull, it moves on, on, on. On. Striving to improve upon itself. So ready to destroy all which does not fit into its vision.
Fabrege soul, how clever, how hip, very now. The one, the only, and all the others that fail are destroyed.
Worthless.
It would be so easy to jump headfirst into the current. Keep your feet on those stones, instead. Keep your eyes on the sky, because there's a storm brewing.
She will not lose this battle quietly, slipping like shades into the night.
There is a storm riding the horizon, and her fingers are firmly in its eyes.
++++++++++++++++++++
The fairy tale is over.
Pulled out by its roots,
left to wither cold upon the floor.
Lifeless.
Denied sustenance.
We dance upon the remains,
forgotten.
Shattering childhood illusions
of happiness.
No shining prince.
The magic drained,
the colors dull.
Memories fade,
and time brings apathy
to delight.
The only moral left to this
is to know: hope dies quick.
++++++++++++++
Part one.
The person you see standing before you is a lie. A carefully produced construct of pretty deception intended to draw the least amount of suspicion possible toward the substance beneath the lie.
Smile and nod, adorned in make up and pretty clothes and looking very much like a real girl. This is not the case. This is not the truth. But pausing for a moment to consider the glimpse of this that is sometimes creeping through would be far too much effort for almost any other being in existence.
No matter. Pity is not the natural way of things. But this mask, well, it's stifling, and sometimes I wish I could throw it off and be angry, volatile, dangerous, and all those other monstrous things that lurk beneath. Cowed. By years of yes-sir and fearing the strength of those greater.
This is a fucking cheap charade.
This is a girl pretending to be a robot, pretending not to want, pretending all the wilderness is gone, and allowing sadness and apathy to take the place of fire.
Deconstruction begins
NOW.
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