'punch a hole in my cage, and i reach out blind'

it's a different kind of crying, but everything seems to make me tear up
right now.

songs, books, kissing Light, emailing Girlbiscuit, thinking about my little
brothers. and it's more about what i've got than what i've lost, and that
seems like the neatest transition ever, and i'm sometimes awestruck at the
grace that my coping mechanisms can exhibit when i feel like their host has
none of her own.

i see myself scramble and fret, lj posts from people from times long past,
and i assume they all left me, because i can't imagine any other dynamic
than being left, and i chide myself, trying to remember that i don't have to
make sense of the past, or even of the present. i'm remembering or
relearning that books fill some of the same lonely spots that i look to fill
with people, and any life that contains even half as many moments so good
that they resonate has no place for the despair i can work myself into
feeling.

we bought Media and Saint apples to apples, and it inspired so much laughter
that there's a spot inside me that still hurts, and i can't stop smiling at
the memory. and Saint talked to me about books, and Mech gave voices to
all the things i said hi to, and i got a funny, funny blingbling shirt from
Gamespot, and an anglerfish made of bent wire and marbles from a
streetvendor and we played games of Ghost to past the time in the muni
station, and it's strange and wonderful how much i see of Mech and Media in
Light, or of how Saint and Media interact in how Light and I interact.
(really, i have a sneaking suspicion, they're just a blonder, cuter,
younger, urban version of us.). and it's like seeing a proof of gravity in
action, all the pieces of me that i think to be randomly scattered about
actually are just in orbit around a fixed point i can't see, because
anything that makes as much sense as how huge dorks all three of us are
can't help but point to an underlying sense the world must make. and my
little brothers live on the other end of the seesaw from post-structuralism,
and it may be a delicate balance, but it balances, and i want to focus more
on that.

i've got a very minor stomach issue most of the time, a slightly more
hostile environ than strictly necessary, a leftover bonus from years of
exacerbating ulcers with eating disorders or vice versa. almost all the
time i'm lucky enough that i can just feed myself something starchy and i'll
stop digesting myself in favor of digesting the more palatable bread. (a
hideous oversimplification as i'm sure many of you know, but i'm going for
the metaphor, not the medicine.) i wonder if my mind's got the same
overenthusiasm for acid though, and instead of remembering to eat that
potato roll, or pick up that book, i concentrate on whatever it is that's
serving as an irritant and exacerbate it.

it's hard for me to let things go, slights real or imagined, or people
behaving in a way that i just don't understand, i want to make sense of it,
i want to understand it and boil it down to essentials so i can figure out
how to keep it from happening again. i don't think i mind being the
villian, or standing up for myself, i just want to make sense of the why. i
read livejournals i shouldn't read, wondering about the lives of people i
should know better than to care about, hell, sometimes i even contact the
people i should know better than to contact, not for forgiveness or even
reconciliation so much as this burning desire to figure out what happened,
what went wrong. i assume they don't spare much time thinking about me,
and i envy them that ability to leave closed doors closed. even typing
about this makes me feel like some carrion-bird, picking over the corpses of
things gone past. if i know that i won't find the answers, and i'm pretty
sure i do, why can i not pair that knowledge with enough self-restraint to
just walk away?

i'm hoping that the next lesson to learn, though these days, i'm surprised
by what the lessons are more often than not, the healthier i feel, the less
obvious the next step becomes.

'punch a hole in my cage, and i reach out blind'

it's a different kind of crying, but everything seems to make me tear up
right now.

songs, books, kissing Light, emailing Girlbiscuit, thinking about my little
brothers. and it's more about what i've got than what i've lost, and that
seems like the neatest transition ever, and i'm sometimes awestruck at the
grace that my coping mechanisms can exhibit when i feel like their host has
none of her own.

i see myself scramble and fret, lj posts from people from times long past,
and i assume they all left me, because i can't imagine any other dynamic
than being left, and i chide myself, trying to remember that i don't have to
make sense of the past, or even of the present. i'm remembering or
relearning that books fill some of the same lonely spots that i look to fill
with people, and any life that contains even half as many moments so good
that they resonate has no place for the despair i can work myself into
feeling.

we bought Media and Saint apples to apples, and it inspired so much laughter
that there's a spot inside me that still hurts, and i can't stop smiling at
the memory. and Saint talked to me about books, and Mech gave voices to
all the things i said hi to, and i got a funny, funny blingbling shirt from
Gamespot, and an anglerfish made of bent wire and marbles from a
streetvendor and we played games of Ghost to past the time in the muni
station, and it's strange and wonderful how much i see of Mech and Media in
Light, or of how Saint and Media interact in how Light and I interact.
(really, i have a sneaking suspicion, they're just a blonder, cuter,
younger, urban version of us.). and it's like seeing a proof of gravity in
action, all the pieces of me that i think to be randomly scattered about
actually are just in orbit around a fixed point i can't see, because
anything that makes as much sense as how huge dorks all three of us are
can't help but point to an underlying sense the world must make. and my
little brothers live on the other end of the seesaw from post-structuralism,
and it may be a delicate balance, but it balances, and i want to focus more
on that.

i've got a very minor stomach issue most of the time, a slightly more
hostile environ than strictly necessary, a leftover bonus from years of
exacerbating ulcers with eating disorders or vice versa. almost all the
time i'm lucky enough that i can just feed myself something starchy and i'll
stop digesting myself in favor of digesting the more palatable bread. (a
hideous oversimplification as i'm sure many of you know, but i'm going for
the metaphor, not the medicine.) i wonder if my mind's got the same
overenthusiasm for acid though, and instead of remembering to eat that
potato roll, or pick up that book, i concentrate on whatever it is that's
serving as an irritant and exacerbate it.

it's hard for me to let things go, slights real or imagined, or people
behaving in a way that i just don't understand, i want to make sense of it,
i want to understand it and boil it down to essentials so i can figure out
how to keep it from happening again. i don't think i mind being the
villian, or standing up for myself, i just want to make sense of the why. i
read livejournals i shouldn't read, wondering about the lives of people i
should know better than to care about, hell, sometimes i even contact the
people i should know better than to contact, not for forgiveness or even
reconciliation so much as this burning desire to figure out what happened,
what went wrong. i assume they don't spare much time thinking about me,
and i envy them that ability to leave closed doors closed. even typing
about this makes me feel like some carrion-bird, picking over the corpses of
things gone past. if i know that i won't find the answers, and i'm pretty
sure i do, why can i not pair that knowledge with enough self-restraint to
just walk away?

i'm hoping that the next lesson to learn, though these days, i'm surprised
by what the lessons are more often than not, the healthier i feel, the less
obvious the next step becomes.