(no subject)

Well, internet, it's come to this.

I've spent the past six or so weeks writing a letter to someone who doesn't exist. It sprang from a couple different impulses, not being able to type with a cast, not being able to put down some of the things I carry around regarding stiff upper lips and senses of humor and performativity, and a desire for someone to be something they weren't, and then maybe for a world in which the possibility of trusting someone other than Light was feasible.

Namely, I made myself an imaginary boyfriend. Someone who would want to receive a small purple moleskine notebook worth of whatever was passing through my head, someone who I could assume would read what I had to say in the most charitable possible light. And I've had to do a lot of thinking about wanting, and what wanting comes from, and the differences between cannot and will not, and what sort of support I want in the coming weeks, and what it means that I'm only willing to talk about it with someone imaginary, write letters that won't ever be delivered, which I find distinctly different than posting to livejournal, where even if the audience is theoretical and unprovable, I'm definitely getting up on some sort of stage, and I'm choosing my vulnerabilities and having the ability to edit and spellcheck.

the notebook is full. I titled it "not a real green dress" and in the back, I compiled a list of songs called "the mix I'm not making you" which is now a truly eviscerating playlist on my ipod. and now I don't know what to do next. Do I create another, different imaginary person? Do I return to livejournal, or try to navigate google plus? Do I respect whatever coping technique my hindbrain throws up and run with it and continue my onesided imaginary relationship?

(no subject)

Well, internet, it's come to this.

I've spent the past six or so weeks writing a letter to someone who doesn't exist. It sprang from a couple different impulses, not being able to type with a cast, not being able to put down some of the things I carry around regarding stiff upper lips and senses of humor and performativity, and a desire for someone to be something they weren't, and then maybe for a world in which the possibility of trusting someone other than Light was feasible.

Namely, I made myself an imaginary boyfriend. Someone who would want to receive a small purple moleskine notebook worth of whatever was passing through my head, someone who I could assume would read what I had to say in the most charitable possible light. And I've had to do a lot of thinking about wanting, and what wanting comes from, and the differences between cannot and will not, and what sort of support I want in the coming weeks, and what it means that I'm only willing to talk about it with someone imaginary, write letters that won't ever be delivered, which I find distinctly different than posting to livejournal, where even if the audience is theoretical and unprovable, I'm definitely getting up on some sort of stage, and I'm choosing my vulnerabilities and having the ability to edit and spellcheck.

the notebook is full. I titled it "not a real green dress" and in the back, I compiled a list of songs called "the mix I'm not making you" which is now a truly eviscerating playlist on my ipod. and now I don't know what to do next. Do I create another, different imaginary person? Do I return to livejournal, or try to navigate google plus? Do I respect whatever coping technique my hindbrain throws up and run with it and continue my onesided imaginary relationship?