mum's the word.

Darkness is for silence.

This I know, Dark Moon.

Just a few words of remembrance, then,

and I will keep the silence with you.

-- Ceisiwr Serith

oh, hell.

all hallow's eve is this week. i knew this. of course i knew this.

how then did i not realize it meant finding a photo of him? of her? how did i manage to overlook the fact that now they have a place on my remembrance altar? how is it that every step i take away from them is like laying earth on the grave all over again?

photos are traps, sharp wire snares of memory, and now i must venture into the mine field.

i am not looking forward to this hallow's eve.

more of the same.

connections. boundaries.

did i imagine the one? did i overstep the other?

but what's done is done, it can't be erased, and now i'm struggling to not regret using my voice when moved to do so. to be proud of the risk. to allow that to be its own reward.

though in truth, i'm staked out between belief and doubt and lost with the uncertainty of it.

(and it doesn't help that there is a portion of myself standing aside from the rest and laughing at the foolish, foolish, utterly ridiculous girl.)

let there be welcome to the night.

the grass was ghost white with frost this morning, and the air cold enough to make my fingertips hurt. winter is almost here.

i had plans for this past summer. in fact, i had a plan, one that would have laid the foundations for my new self come spring. but summer is gone, my plan is as fruitless as an unharvested garden, unheeded and left to rot. i may still have time to lay those foundations, but it is all uncertainty. what will happen? how long can i remain in this liminal state? why didn't i do what i told myself i would do?

but i don't care today. not at all. not one bit.

today the world is fully saturated with color, every shadow another bright shade, another rich tone. my eyes are drunk on it. my breath traces my path, trails along behind me. i have too much life to be confined in my body. i can taste winter in the air, cold and clean. winter air purifies; you breathe it into your soul, not just your lungs. it comes straight from the stars and the black night, and it refuses to sit still. today, this winter wind is everywhere. it streams my hair away from my face, presses my skirts against my legs in an embrace: i'm back, my love, i'm back.

winter is near. my larder is bare, my clothes are thin, but i'm ready for the season all the same. i'm feasting, i'm full, i'm ready for the dreaming night of the year.

so ranty.

how is it that one can feel so safe in such an imaginary environment? i just blew my stack on another blog -- said exactly what i was thinking and what i was feeling without regard for consequences (and now, of course, i'm feeling the inevitable "oh shiiiiit").

and it's not like i was posting anonymously. nope. there's this blog, and this blog is linked to my other journal, and there's an email address, as well. if i pissed someone off sufficiently, they could find me.

but all i received was kindness and support.

i'm amazed, and grateful, and dammit, crying again.

unasked-for editorial.

last night you wrote some beautiful things, but in the end, the one i haven't been able to get out of my mind is this:

Breaking hearts is the only thing I'm good at..

And the twist in this tale is I enjoy it.

i honestly felt a little stab of pain when i read this, to read this claim you wrote about yourself. and i recognized it. it isn't a statement of self-knowledge, but one of self-harm. it is a wound you gouge into your own heart. i have some of my own, and i know them for what they are.

but this isn't true of anyone, and it most certainly isn't true of you. i haven't the ability to convince you of this, but i can hope, i can pray that someday you'll be able to allow this wound to heal. until then, just know that these words of yours i refuse to believe.

what one says in the midnight hour.

secrets and games and people having conversations behind masks. layers beyond layers, and on the surface, people talking about anatomy. every night it seems, there is something to stretch my mind with, and i fear i'll never figure it out, i'll never have the ability to see what lies behind each nuanced word.

why is this little boxed-in world so vital to me? what draws me back, unthinkingly, a swallow on her migratory path?

not the secrets, i think. not the bright new friendships -- though they make it a pleasure every night. not the idea that i might actually be able to help -- i'm not naive enough to claim that power.

to admit this is to risk embarrassment, but...

honesty compels me.

the lure i cannot resist is the chance to have more words from him. the few addressed to me are the best, adrenaline-laced and terrifyingly wonderful. the rest are a solid warmth that i return to repeatedly. i love his words. for them, i will swim in the bottomless currents that seem to make up this cloistered creation. for them, i will take liberties with strangers. for them, i will oh-so-willingly suspend disbelief and embrace credulity.

everyone is a fool in the quiet hours of the night.

i have no bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.

two years ago i learned that my life was dying. terminally diagnosed in autumn, toe-tagged the following spring. since then, i have stood on a shrinking sandbar, pretending to build a new life for myself, dabbling in transformation (look! i dyed my hair!), and accomplishing absolutely nothing.

at times i can see the shape of the life i want, a glimpse of a shimmering shiny mirage. i can almost taste it, that feast laid on the table in the next room. yet, i stand here. the sandbar is so very much smaller than it was last year. a sliver, really.

i want to jump off, splash into the rushing river and make my way to the shore. i want to be a pioneer in my own life. i know who i want to be, i always have. i almost know what i have to do to become her. yet, i stand here.

a writer who does not write.
an artist who does not create.

where is my will? where is the fire i can call on to make this transformation real? how much more do i have to give up before i have nothing left to lose?

too much cinderella has left me too skilled in waiting, i fear.

riding the night mare

i dreamt about my uncle last night. in the dream, he had been ill for awhile, with a major disease, though i don't know which one. probably cancer though. finally, he made the decision not to persue any more treatment, and died.

here's the thing i can't shake about this dream though. it was my dad telling me this. he was standing right here in my dining room, right next to me where i sit at this computer, and he was describing how my uncle made his decision, and slowly pulled out the iv from the back of his hand...

and i was watching my dad mimic the removal of the iv, watching him pluck at his own hand.

my uncle isn't dead, and i would never wish that he had died instead of my dad...at least, consciously.

stupid brain. i didn't need to know this about myself.

my mind is flexible, but...

there are limits to its ability to keep up! i think i've seen at least three versions of the world tonight. i'm not sure what to believe anymore, beyond the fact that i know myself to be a believer, still.

am i toy? am i gullible for believing? eh. maybe. but it's my belief, thankyouverymuch. if this was a performance, then a sincere bravo for the display of creativity and exquisite manipulation. if this was yet another messy implosion, then...well, he put it better than i could: quamvis longa sit nox, aurora tandem illucescet.

everyone needs to belong to something, and regardless of the foolishness of it, this is all i have. so i'll breathe deep, listen closely to my heart, and stand steady through the confusing night, waiting to meet the dawn with a single lit candle in my hand.

every day a different story.

tonight i might very well explode from the happy! why?

it's just...

there are two very clever, very tricky, very delightful people in the world, and through their separate actions, they have made this day better than about a hundred christmases! damnitall, i just want to give them each such a bear hug, they'd think they really had popped a rib!

in my arms you are buried.

my beloved dead come close to me in this season. it is a new experience for me. last year i had only nameless ancient ancestors. this year, the dead.

autumn has always been my favorite season. the leaves all blood and bronze, the sky sheltering soft and damp, the air scented with life in this dying season. after the hard flat skies of summer, autumn has always been a time of utter exhilaration. but this year, you see. this year, the bright leaves falling in my path are leaves he never saw. the grey sky is the one i travelled under to go to him. this air, the last he breathed.

and the music i still listen to -- the soundtrack of those trips, the security blanket of those sleepless nights -- sings again of fear and disbelief. and each song calls out the memory. see, here is where you believed he could pull through. see, here is where you sat beside him and held his hand -- had you done that since you were a child, i wonder? -- and said nothing. see, here is where food turned to stones in your mouth. see, here is where you grieved without acknowledging that you were grieving.

oh yes. he is close by. i feel him and i ask: why didn't i miss you when you were alive?

it's autumn, glorious autumn, brightly burning autumn. can you see me, walking alone under the trees? my bones are showing. my heart is flayed by the scourge i lay on it. but at least i have my beloved dead. you can take everything else from me, but i hold him close, now.

now that it's too late.