Nov. 16th, 2012

Overtime, like my heart is putting in extra hours so it can take a vacation, so it can prove itself to the boss. I don't even know. Music used to make me happy, but now it just makes me feel like I've never done anything, never will do anything that moves on its own, stumbling through the world without my constant nudges.

It's so soon, too soon to panic, but it seems like panic is all I do. Like the only safe place is a hole filled with a thousand different iterations of someone else's life. In them, the dark is where everything happens, where everything comes together and falls apart and rebuilds into a glorious conclusion. Where the characters find their power and pull it deep into their bones and remake themselves.

But the dark is really just cold and alone, and there's no power in it. There's nothing uplifting about the constant edge of raw panic under every rib, squeezing and distorting the shapes of my dreams into nightmares where I can't breathe, and it doesn't matter anyway.

In the stories, in myth, you steal power you don't have from someone else. There are no sense-memory folk tales about witches who steal power from themselves. It's a pity, that. I could use an instruction manual.

December 2015


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