Ellie & River; last night
Sep. 23rd, 2013 01:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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om_mainAt night the girls listen to each other's stream of conscious.
Harley is tumbling through a field of chrysanthemums, dark skies preparing a storm, but of what? Too difficult to tell, dreams slipping out of my grasp, why would I try. Efforts are pointless and the walls are closing in, even when I close my eyes, pressing in oppression precision. Ellie, Ellie. Echoes in my mind, empty shell, river bed, blank cave. Echo, echo, Ellie, Ellie.
There are holes in places I cannot define, sometimes like a sponge, like solid solid hole solid hole solid solid...it's just a hallway of faces, but sometimes these holes hurt. Like hitting a wall. But a concrete one. It is quiet in those hard holes but the silence is deafening and it is hard to decide whether I like it or hate it. Extremely loud or extremely quiet. This room is quiet, Betsy was always quiet...when she was here at all...but the rooms around me are...solids, yes. I can feel them with no effort at all. A small few are warm and inviting, like a still bed of July water waiting to be stepped in. They are oh so nice. Sometimes they are scary...not quite right like they used to be. River? It's not the same anymore, is it?
Things are never the same, full circles are an illusion. All of it has happened before, and all of it will happen again, not circles, a spiral. In or out? Ever expanding, ever looking for its point of origin. Choices, changes, has this happened before? Will it happen again? Hands of blue, a splash of color in the perfect white (never perfect), a cold sweat, and my world's exploded. It has been exploding, it's just a question of finding the right holes to hide. No white rabbit, no more white, rainbows are better, and little green men with their pots of gold. Where is my pot of gold.
It is so hopeless. Things get better and slip into a state of consistent okayness, a calm, cool river drifting along on a nice day, sparkling beneath the sun. Trouble comes and things get louder, stream crashing into waves and swirling into a rapids of chaos that eventually end with an angry waterfall. Over the edge they all fall, closer to the screaming pool and rocks below...and then it is all over. Back in the calm stream drifting away with nothing but the pain to recover from. It seems there's always just another waterfall around the bend...so why do we try to get better again? Is there a point to it all?
It's always quiet before the storm, except the saying is wrong. The calmest of streams is still so much, too much, voicesthoughtsfeelingsemotionssensations battering on once-shields. Now and then, an oasis, a piece of land among the sea, stable in its own way. Steadiness, touchstones, reliable and safe, but the stream is too often a torrent washing me away from them. What am I now? A shadow, a wave? The shadow of a wave...
A wave is hard, a beautiful force to be reckoned with, and able to take a person out within an instant...perhaps meaning to, but perhaps not...perhaps unable to make that choice ether way. Getting hit with the waves hurts and it is not enjoyable being unable to come up for air...it frightens, pains, and stings until my chest feels as if it's going to explode. Or maybe it's my head? That is when it feels as though the shadows are taking over and pushing further and further down into the darkness drowning drowning drowning but...you can hear me beneath the water too, can you?
Other people get to surf, but not us. The full strength of the torrent washes over us and we notice, we feel, we drown when others swim, heedless, when others surf, masters. Surfing is tricky; balance is more problematic when it is figurative. Forever off balance now, tumbling around but I can't stand still, the waves come and shove at me. Hearing underwater can be tricky, with others, but it's clearer with us than with most. Same frequency, or close enough. Maybe the shadows can't take over; now I am one of them. Too much noise, but only as a reflection of others. Nothing of myself, now. Even hunger or thirst are hard to tell, mine or not? Rat lab, shadow, river bed. Narrowing in, hard, Ellie, Ellie. What am I now? What are you.
An old, rusty anchor sinking but not iron enough to stay strong. Peeling away, rotting bit by bit and piece by piece...unable to surface without another's strong pull. Buried in the sand hidden by water and shadows and plantation...perhaps not a wave or a shadow at all but something else entirely, something worse, something heavy and ugly. Never thought about that properly until now, how sad.
How lonely.
Is that right? Am I right?
Less lonely - like this.
Just as sad.
Sand is time - grains in the hourglass. Upside down. Downside up.
But we're not ugly when the right (Simon) person looks at us.
They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I suppose, yes, that is something that I fail to see most times. Such a challenge to always pick out the good, underlying things in people even if they can be felt. Perhaps it is just hard to understand them...understanding people is so hard, such a challenge and so so so much energy.
Yet we keep these people close...why? It is like impulse...
Different - singling it out, telling things apart. Everything flows into the stream, chromatography, where is my mass spectrometer. But love shines through, when it is (Simon) strong enough. Understanding is letting it flow over you. Comprehension is being able to explain the currents. I can't.
The idea is frightening! Like standing nude and exposed against all of the elements and allowing it to injure...stinging pain and throbbing but...longing, too...wanting. I yearn to be able to shield myself from thoughts and feelings but perhaps I am broken. Constant vulnerability is how the prey is caught by predators.
A tuna in the mouth of a shark. Are you a tuna or a shark?
Not a fish anymore. Not the sea, either. The sea isn't afraid of sharks, and sharks made the River. Blue fins, white bodies. Dead eyes, dead souls. Emptiness of the spirit. Never let them catch you in their nets.
Or in their teeth...so pointy, so sharp...they've a taste for blood.
Blood makes noise, and they want it all. They take you apart to put you back together all wrong, wrong, skin inside out, sometimes it feels like there is no skin at all.
So much noise, rushing between my ears...like being back at the top of the waterfall once more. The cycle begins again.
Ourobouros, infinity, möbius slip, a dog chasing its tail. The River was one and all, and she drew the Ellie in, focused on the infinite loop. Quieter in here, hide under your blankets, blanket fort of one.
A cocoon, a cave, a grave...a resting place. The mind cycling and running on empty is oh so tiring and to stop in the dark and hide is the ultimate temptation. Fade away into the dreams, shared or owned, and let them be. It's only for a few hours and then the stream will begin to rush all over again. Or perhaps it never stops even while we dream. I don't think it does.
I'm so tired.
Sleep.
They say things are better in the morning.
They say a lot of things.
Sleep.
Back to dreamland again...it's so scary, but...so needed.
Time to succumb.
Thank you.
Harley is tumbling through a field of chrysanthemums, dark skies preparing a storm, but of what? Too difficult to tell, dreams slipping out of my grasp, why would I try. Efforts are pointless and the walls are closing in, even when I close my eyes, pressing in oppression precision. Ellie, Ellie. Echoes in my mind, empty shell, river bed, blank cave. Echo, echo, Ellie, Ellie.
There are holes in places I cannot define, sometimes like a sponge, like solid solid hole solid hole solid solid...it's just a hallway of faces, but sometimes these holes hurt. Like hitting a wall. But a concrete one. It is quiet in those hard holes but the silence is deafening and it is hard to decide whether I like it or hate it. Extremely loud or extremely quiet. This room is quiet, Betsy was always quiet...when she was here at all...but the rooms around me are...solids, yes. I can feel them with no effort at all. A small few are warm and inviting, like a still bed of July water waiting to be stepped in. They are oh so nice. Sometimes they are scary...not quite right like they used to be. River? It's not the same anymore, is it?
Things are never the same, full circles are an illusion. All of it has happened before, and all of it will happen again, not circles, a spiral. In or out? Ever expanding, ever looking for its point of origin. Choices, changes, has this happened before? Will it happen again? Hands of blue, a splash of color in the perfect white (never perfect), a cold sweat, and my world's exploded. It has been exploding, it's just a question of finding the right holes to hide. No white rabbit, no more white, rainbows are better, and little green men with their pots of gold. Where is my pot of gold.
It is so hopeless. Things get better and slip into a state of consistent okayness, a calm, cool river drifting along on a nice day, sparkling beneath the sun. Trouble comes and things get louder, stream crashing into waves and swirling into a rapids of chaos that eventually end with an angry waterfall. Over the edge they all fall, closer to the screaming pool and rocks below...and then it is all over. Back in the calm stream drifting away with nothing but the pain to recover from. It seems there's always just another waterfall around the bend...so why do we try to get better again? Is there a point to it all?
It's always quiet before the storm, except the saying is wrong. The calmest of streams is still so much, too much, voicesthoughtsfeelingsemotionssensations battering on once-shields. Now and then, an oasis, a piece of land among the sea, stable in its own way. Steadiness, touchstones, reliable and safe, but the stream is too often a torrent washing me away from them. What am I now? A shadow, a wave? The shadow of a wave...
A wave is hard, a beautiful force to be reckoned with, and able to take a person out within an instant...perhaps meaning to, but perhaps not...perhaps unable to make that choice ether way. Getting hit with the waves hurts and it is not enjoyable being unable to come up for air...it frightens, pains, and stings until my chest feels as if it's going to explode. Or maybe it's my head? That is when it feels as though the shadows are taking over and pushing further and further down into the darkness drowning drowning drowning but...you can hear me beneath the water too, can you?
Other people get to surf, but not us. The full strength of the torrent washes over us and we notice, we feel, we drown when others swim, heedless, when others surf, masters. Surfing is tricky; balance is more problematic when it is figurative. Forever off balance now, tumbling around but I can't stand still, the waves come and shove at me. Hearing underwater can be tricky, with others, but it's clearer with us than with most. Same frequency, or close enough. Maybe the shadows can't take over; now I am one of them. Too much noise, but only as a reflection of others. Nothing of myself, now. Even hunger or thirst are hard to tell, mine or not? Rat lab, shadow, river bed. Narrowing in, hard, Ellie, Ellie. What am I now? What are you.
An old, rusty anchor sinking but not iron enough to stay strong. Peeling away, rotting bit by bit and piece by piece...unable to surface without another's strong pull. Buried in the sand hidden by water and shadows and plantation...perhaps not a wave or a shadow at all but something else entirely, something worse, something heavy and ugly. Never thought about that properly until now, how sad.
How lonely.
Is that right? Am I right?
Less lonely - like this.
Just as sad.
Sand is time - grains in the hourglass. Upside down. Downside up.
But we're not ugly when the right (Simon) person looks at us.
They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I suppose, yes, that is something that I fail to see most times. Such a challenge to always pick out the good, underlying things in people even if they can be felt. Perhaps it is just hard to understand them...understanding people is so hard, such a challenge and so so so much energy.
Yet we keep these people close...why? It is like impulse...
Different - singling it out, telling things apart. Everything flows into the stream, chromatography, where is my mass spectrometer. But love shines through, when it is (Simon) strong enough. Understanding is letting it flow over you. Comprehension is being able to explain the currents. I can't.
The idea is frightening! Like standing nude and exposed against all of the elements and allowing it to injure...stinging pain and throbbing but...longing, too...wanting. I yearn to be able to shield myself from thoughts and feelings but perhaps I am broken. Constant vulnerability is how the prey is caught by predators.
A tuna in the mouth of a shark. Are you a tuna or a shark?
Not a fish anymore. Not the sea, either. The sea isn't afraid of sharks, and sharks made the River. Blue fins, white bodies. Dead eyes, dead souls. Emptiness of the spirit. Never let them catch you in their nets.
Or in their teeth...so pointy, so sharp...they've a taste for blood.
Blood makes noise, and they want it all. They take you apart to put you back together all wrong, wrong, skin inside out, sometimes it feels like there is no skin at all.
So much noise, rushing between my ears...like being back at the top of the waterfall once more. The cycle begins again.
Ourobouros, infinity, möbius slip, a dog chasing its tail. The River was one and all, and she drew the Ellie in, focused on the infinite loop. Quieter in here, hide under your blankets, blanket fort of one.
A cocoon, a cave, a grave...a resting place. The mind cycling and running on empty is oh so tiring and to stop in the dark and hide is the ultimate temptation. Fade away into the dreams, shared or owned, and let them be. It's only for a few hours and then the stream will begin to rush all over again. Or perhaps it never stops even while we dream. I don't think it does.
I'm so tired.
Sleep.
They say things are better in the morning.
They say a lot of things.
Sleep.
Back to dreamland again...it's so scary, but...so needed.
Time to succumb.
Thank you.
