Floating alone on waves of despair & nothingness. I want to say things I shouldn’t say, or rather, things that shouldn’t be contrived. My therapist has rewired me to say “I wish” instead of “I should have” & that has changed circumstances significantly. But the olde beast, it still yearns for it’s ancient ways of dealing. There are still so many “should haves” washing over this oceania of regret & it’s all I can do to bite my tongue.
I have so much to say darlings, about this dreary world that only reading books about Kilgore Trout can satiate these days. There are secret scribes inside this mechanism that take notes & other gears that tear those notions asunder once the pen hits the paper readily. *Kilgore Trout* *Kilgore Trout* Those 2 words burned themselves into my slumbering imagery through the night, like I sometimes allow the word *Messiah* to do.
In this place I can be safe to be me, but for how long? Another facet of myself chooses to betray my words & make them public, as if to say, “See! I told you you were an ass, Rachel… or … whoever you are for today!” These things make me whimper with invalid frustration.
I have 3 specific images I have deposited into my spank bank of reason. No, not so I can go masturbate freely to the lustful rhythm of my clitoris, more like, thought candy for the night when all the other humans I love have failed me, or like, when I have failed them?
2 are of the female race. They intrigue me. They have puzzle pieces that don’t easily fit into the full picture that is them. They keep me awake @ night wondering about them so. I love their colours.
The other is a male specimen. This one haunts my dreams occasionally. Once I dreamt that they were an unknown roommate living in a loft I had no idea was a part of my abode & above their sleeping quarters was an adorable sign that had the words “Carved of Flesh to Eat Your Young” hanging like those nooses I so adore on the game Hangman. He was reading, laying with his back to his pillow, a shadow & claw volume of sorts, & someone came into the apartment building trying to kill my beloved friend & I, & instead HE killed them with a Rabbitslayer (see 'Chaos War' article). When he was done he simply pointed to the adorable sign, smiled a smile of satisfaction & prophesy, & ascended his ladder to resume reading.
There was another dream where he knocked boots with one of my besties & I was jealous but arguing with my thought propelling self as to why I should be jealous because I was still married in my dream too. He was in a pre-existing state in this dream too, like how I imagine him to possibly be in his past. But I didn’t even know him in my past! It’s funny here too because I feel like some part of me knows some part of him, like a Children-of-the-Grave (see Never-Never Boys) typed thing?
Either way, one should feel so lucky that they partake of my daily reasoning so frequently. But in the swing of things I feel lucky to have them to think of. It’s strange & arduous.
I hate my cogs of reasoning. For keeping me imprisoned. For being far too creative for their own good. I am like the Victor Frankenstein of reasoning. These parts of me have no boundaries. That is a boon, I feel that with every fiber of my unbeing, but @ the same time, it disqualifies me from so much. It easily removes me from the sane category & puts me in the predisposition of ‘highly unplausible’.
Eff you Fates.