20.Dec.2003
the sound of violins long before it begins
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drowsy
I know, I know, in concerns to the grotesquely informative, preceding entry: It was in poor taste, but, reading it aloud to a room filled with people who matter, it elicited nothing but proper tittering.
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I said I didn't wish to, though I'm sure what I meant to say was that I did. Leave an impression. Start something dangerous. Curl warmly and sleep hearing music in muffled repetition as though through an ovum stripped.
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He wasn't the laconic bits of affection though I almost wish he had been. You're not going to learn; you're not going to grow. You're not going to be saved.
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No ideal replacement, indeed.
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I'm bemused on the notion all of my former paramours who muck about relentlessly in my cascading style sheet planet surmise every possessive noun or possessive adjective directly links back to them. Arrogance in insecurity. It's not the same melody, it's the same dissonance.
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Mayhap I'm simply physically tired.
I'm working on my final Christmas project for someone I can honestly proclaim is my best friend, as she's stuck around with me for the last fifteen years, out of insanity or devotion or Ayn Rand-scorned martyrdom, or quite possibly a reasonably spicy amalgamation of all three. It involves unloading the light-springed baggage of our memories together, and though there's nothing ominous attached to the catharsis, it doesn't lessen its operosity. I mean, that's fifteen years of socks, fleece sweaters, and leather boots.
It is bound in a musical package, because this is the only language I know how to master.
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My sibling-defined boss coined the phrase Ravieslave translation box. I wasn't grinning because sometimes it's required; I was grinning because you understand me.
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I've made amends with this. I'm eerily calm. I'm stealthily relaxed. There's no rush toward immediate completion, vindication, or justification. The only thing for which I long is a meteorological shift. There's no metaphor drifting on its surface. I mean I really want it to snow.
I wasn't fighting solely myself; I was fighting the schizophrenia which accompanied our union. Subtraction has bred objectivity. I. Am. Eerily. Calm.
And tired. I'm probably going to retire following this update. How simply marvelous and comprehendible is that? I relish the joys of appropriate simplification. The magnetic edges of destruction failed to gravity alone. I'm complacent with the change, with the ramifications, with the grammatical twists and that sliver of victory upon the heels of acceptance.
I simply mean that I'm appeased without the encumbrance of constantly defending your failures.
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time & machine