"I will barter you sorrow for the sun somehow"

The anonymous comments make me grin and blush, and for a little while, I've decided to just assign them to the people I want them to be from and run with that. And even typing that, I smack myself down, thinking that I should be content with them anonymous, or realistic about where they might come from. And I've been struggling with not saying some things, because I know they are bitchy or begging, and I don't want to be that girl. I want to take what comes freely, and let go of the rest.

It seems, not only will I crawl across broken glass for praise, I'd do so for feedback on how I'm writing and the knowledge that I'm moving someone, somewhere. I don't think of this as a legitimate forum, I'm not Anais Nin and I'm not writing anything else these days, and I don't suspect I ever will, but I still a small measure of what I think of as success.

Pre-Light, I used to tell myself that life was worth it if I managed to ever communicate what was happening to me in such a way that it saved someone, or made someone feel less alone in whatever they were going through. Of course, the accompanying belief was that it was always too late for me.

Now, I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing with this writing, and I don't entirely understand when people tell me it's hard or weird to comment because it's either cryptic or self contained. To me, these entries are somewhere between the emotional equivalent of cutting and trying to believing that my mind is a puzzle, and if I get enough scraps of information and other people's opinions, I'll eventually solve it. Or maybe I think alchemy's still possible, and if I keep looking, I will be able to transmute all this sadness and anger into something easier to carry around.

I keep trying to draw myself lines, find formulas for unquantifiable things.

Here is the line where hope turns into desperation. Here is the line between striving for connection and looking desperate. Here is the formula for determining how much you can take before you snap and here is the formula for how often I should go out and how often I should stay in. Here is how much self-loathing it requires to keep me moving, and here is how much joy I can hold. Here is the line between when I should fight for what I want and when I should walk away. These are ideals, and these are windmills.

Here is where acceptable compromises run out and crazy sets in.

Here.
Here.
Here.

"I will barter you sorrow for the sun somehow"

The anonymous comments make me grin and blush, and for a little while, I've decided to just assign them to the people I want them to be from and run with that. And even typing that, I smack myself down, thinking that I should be content with them anonymous, or realistic about where they might come from. And I've been struggling with not saying some things, because I know they are bitchy or begging, and I don't want to be that girl. I want to take what comes freely, and let go of the rest.

It seems, not only will I crawl across broken glass for praise, I'd do so for feedback on how I'm writing and the knowledge that I'm moving someone, somewhere. I don't think of this as a legitimate forum, I'm not Anais Nin and I'm not writing anything else these days, and I don't suspect I ever will, but I still a small measure of what I think of as success.

Pre-Light, I used to tell myself that life was worth it if I managed to ever communicate what was happening to me in such a way that it saved someone, or made someone feel less alone in whatever they were going through. Of course, the accompanying belief was that it was always too late for me.

Now, I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing with this writing, and I don't entirely understand when people tell me it's hard or weird to comment because it's either cryptic or self contained. To me, these entries are somewhere between the emotional equivalent of cutting and trying to believing that my mind is a puzzle, and if I get enough scraps of information and other people's opinions, I'll eventually solve it. Or maybe I think alchemy's still possible, and if I keep looking, I will be able to transmute all this sadness and anger into something easier to carry around.

I keep trying to draw myself lines, find formulas for unquantifiable things.

Here is the line where hope turns into desperation. Here is the line between striving for connection and looking desperate. Here is the formula for determining how much you can take before you snap and here is the formula for how often I should go out and how often I should stay in. Here is how much self-loathing it requires to keep me moving, and here is how much joy I can hold. Here is the line between when I should fight for what I want and when I should walk away. These are ideals, and these are windmills.

Here is where acceptable compromises run out and crazy sets in.

Here.
Here.
Here.

Music Question

Also, I need to find someone who knows a lot about music, specifically about the names for tempo changes. There's a moment in Pink's Funhouse, around the two minute mark, where there's a very distinct shift, and I'm like 90% sure there a name for it and it's frustrating me wildly not to be able to remember or find it. And I'm pretty sure it's not Italian, or anything else I would have come across on sheet music.

Music Question

Also, I need to find someone who knows a lot about music, specifically about the names for tempo changes. There's a moment in Pink's Funhouse, around the two minute mark, where there's a very distinct shift, and I'm like 90% sure there a name for it and it's frustrating me wildly not to be able to remember or find it. And I'm pretty sure it's not Italian, or anything else I would have come across on sheet music.