atomizedariel

where being alone is nice, where falling asleep to music (and thoughts of you) is nice.

...is the narrow bridge between self identification and projection.

It is also the starry skies from a hammock in the Himalayas.

And it is also sobbing in the middle of the night and surviving to talk about it.

I let my body weight drop, I was absolutely still and then she told me about the natural movement of my hips, she said it was incredible, like birds flying with their wings spread wide open. Craniosacral therapy, and more doors of perception open.

Right now I've let myself reach absolute rock bottom, and I'm alone here. And that's beautiful, because I'm cognizant of it, and of my desire to climb up, no matter how hard it is going to be.

Cheers to solo travel.

It's no secret, I know you've got other plans, that don't involve me

//Gomez

arms wide open

I have so many things to say//You take them all away.


Why did you have me?

I can't be your go-between punch-bag, I can't be your scapegoat.

I've got work to do, leave me alone. If you don't want to involve me then leave me alone forever.



---

PS -- and you, fucking bitch, you're out of my life. I've dealt with a lot worse, what makes you think I can't deal with losing you? You're the loser here anyway.

One memory that makes me smile: Anu aunty on the phone from Siliguri, after I've mustered up the guts to call her for music lessons again. “Oh baba, so happy I am to hear from you, I can't tell you” -- she has an incredible voice, and the endearing syntax and endearing sincerity just make the whole thing better.

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I can't cry.

How strange. I used to be able to do it. No more.

But then I can think about one distant day last year. And instantly I will cry, no matter where I am or what I'm doing. If someone really wanted to destroy me, they can use this memory to destroy me completely. Maybe I was destroyed that same day. Probably.

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I think about that wonderful sweet boy who cried because he was leaving me, and a lot of tenderness and wistfulness comes over me.

(or yesterday)

for the first time, I found myself not thinking about the stalker for long stretches at a time.

I ended up writing, which felt wonderful.

I kept thinking about life's twists and turns//but I don't want to ruin a happy post by whining about how angry I am at people I consider some of my closest friends.

But that's the thing//maybe I should stop.

Yeah, I should have stopped long ago, except I don't give up on/ignore/forget people so easily.

It's not a control thing. I was afraid it was, but it's not.

I continue to remain extremely grateful to friends who rise above their issues/complications to at least send a shout out.

You continue to be wonderful.

--

And for what may be the first time in my life, I am frigid. Way to go, stalker. I've met two most attractive young men since you invaded my life, but thanks to you I can't even visualise a single kiss. Burn in hell, you ugly bastard.

I'm properly pissed off now. If he comes after me after this I am certainly going to the cops. Enough.

The writing blog/paying jobs are not going well at all.

The magazine has lovely submissions. I have 29 beautiful things for the first issue. There's this one thing, it really hit me, I really love it.

Self esteem is where it all begins. and if that's sustainable then everything else is secondary. That's what I'm chasing, every day. And I get nearer to it every time I want it. Oh, I want it so bad all the time.

I might be alone, lonely, lethargic, insomniac, terrified, hunted, paranoid, hungry, broke and sad, but I'm not dead yet.

Love, heightened, is like a summer storm. Seashells and random bits of paper attain ridiculous levels of sanctity. A little green light beaming out from somewhere is like a friendly wave, an affirmation of love.

I love you.

I'm glad I told you, and by how you handled it, I love you even more.

I've loved you more and more since we've met. You're the only guy in my life who has bothered to stick around as a lover, as a friend. All the rest come with hidden agendas, or don't care enough to try, or mess up so badly they can't come back even as friends. You are honest, and you are so much of a human being yourself you let me be one too.

I will always remember the first time, our first time. And every time I think about it, what jumps out at me is: not the hours of conversation where we shared so many things, staring eye to eye, not the pink sunset on the terrace just preceding going to our room and shutting the door to the world, not staring out of the windows at the mountains after you fell asleep -- but your face staring down at me, in that first instant. Your face so close to mine, just above mine. Your eyes looking down at me. The compassion, the placidity, the steadiness of that gaze. No one's ever been this close to me before. You smile. You're inside me, but we're not moving. It's like a miracle. (the miracle of sex, the miracle of love) It's that instant, you're inside me, and you're above me, and we're looking at each other. That moment, that image of your face pops out at me first, before anything else, when I think of that night. (the miracle of sex takes over, but the magic never fades)

I remember the next day. The church. It was so impossibly beautiful. It rained. We went to the gazebo. Then a couple came, and we gave them a water bottle. They were nice. The walk back to town, that last surprise kiss. Thanks, mate! you said, after you surprise-kissed me, like I'd done something special. You didn't want to see me off at the bus stop... that said much more than anything you could have said. You wanted to say good-bye just after I bought my overnight-bus journey packet of raisins. I pulled at your hand. Come. And we walked. That last view of the mountains together. See you -- soon, on the road, you said. You went back and slept for fifteen hours, but not without texting me first. Ridiculous! I'm ridiculously happy. Still ridiculously happy? Yes. Still? Yes. What's ridiculous? Our (l)ad(y)-venture. God, I love you in that silly floppy hat, with your glasses tied around your head with black string, with that sleek wrist always dressed up. I couldn't say it then, didn't know it then, but I can say it now whenever I like, it doesn't matter. You know now. So I can say it here, to myself, a million times. I love you. God, I love you hiding in that silly scarf that evening in Bhagsu.

I was walking differently, and I was changed forever.

I am now talking a break from the much married Moll, and writing in a little white box. I've been skidding through this week, what with 4 tests, and 3 events, and 2 stories, and 1 endless halfawake/halfasleep dream-state -- Lucyfur knows I deserve a pause. And now, I shall pause.

Also, it doesn't help to have the attention span of a curious hyperactive poodle puppy while studying for Moll Flanders on Sparknotes. I've had two core courses this semester, one very absorbing and one not at all. No prizes for guessing which one Moll Flanders belongs to. And Sparknotes has distracting funny side bar widget things:

"Be merciless.
On the last day of school, don't get sentimental about crap in your locker.



You’re now old enough to vote
...for SparkNotes Yearbook Awards nominees.



His kisses feel like electric currents...
That’s because you’re making out with the TV again.



Your aunt is kind of gross.
Ours is better.



What’s school in Sweden like?
Hint: It’s cold."

Meh.

The first heading has the cartoon image of a boy nostalgically cradling his C plus report card. That boy was me.

Funny, except for extreme home situations, which I will not torture myself about (all behaviour excused, short of murder/pillage/rape.) -- I have stopped having moronic swings of absolute agony and absolute ecstasy. I respect and understand both enough now to give into those supremely masturbatory reactions.

I'm practicing great amounts of show, not tell, so that leads to a lot of edits, which I understand is a good thing.

Three Things --

1. Met Mom for the first time after she left last weekend. It was a lovely evening.
2. Saw some truly strong women dance beautifully on stage. Heard their stories.
3. Leaping into what matters. Writing. And the Little Magazine launch.

Muse Breaks :)