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I'm tired of hiding.
Mar. 23rd, 2010 12:01 amI realized, on further consideration while seated in the stairwell where I am not meant to be, still not home because the promise of safety was too tempting, and then the floor too distracting, that I have not had a final waltz tonight.
(I sat, very specifically out, and was told by a friend that he saw why I had such high standards for waltzing.)
And so, nevermind that dancing was long done an hour ago even, and my muscles are cold, and I am wearing sneakers and jeans, I determine that indeed, a final waltz is in order. For want of a proper partner, I select myself, and for want of a band, I polite request that Miss Vera Serenfreude volunteer. She complies, and so a song is played.
And some nights, it helps to wash the pain away with good cheer, and I applaud those nights with a full heart when they arise. But others, it is recognized useless to even try, and truly, the best way to fight some moods is to let them win.
Freedom is being alone. I fear liberation.
Which is not quite appropriate, but the pain in the words is there, and even if it is not my exact pain, it helps. I howl along in points, and sob at others, and more important than any and all else, I dance. It is not a pretty dance, or organized, or well thought out, but it is perfectly honest, and when it comes down to it, honesty is more important than aesthetics when one's partner is themselves.
And so I leave this message for you, Sorceress Katarina R. Ruth de D. de Whimsy de A. de MOOP! den Boston den Earth den MOOP! ged Athe ged Gaea (because such messages sent to the future must have all the appropriate names and titles listed, lest they arrive in the wrong hands.)
Dance. Give your pain to movement, and nevermind that you are cold and ache and have vision blurred by tears. There has not been better therapy devised by mortals or gods for you than this, and you would be ill advised by your self to attempt a faulty substitute. Shut the doors and pull the shades and just fucking dance.
It helps.
~Me.
MOOP!
((And to those who wonder and worry, the dancing was preceded by writing, for if dance is my therapy, writing is my sanity. The words are harsh and made in pain, but the messages are there to be sorted on the morrow. More stable responses will be made, Conversations will be had, and everything will be better tomorrow, simply by nature of the fact that I will have traveled through time until I reach such a day, and the sheer idea is a delight all by itself. Think of tonight not as a problem, rather the first step of a solution. Good day and good night.))
(I sat, very specifically out, and was told by a friend that he saw why I had such high standards for waltzing.)
And so, nevermind that dancing was long done an hour ago even, and my muscles are cold, and I am wearing sneakers and jeans, I determine that indeed, a final waltz is in order. For want of a proper partner, I select myself, and for want of a band, I polite request that Miss Vera Serenfreude volunteer. She complies, and so a song is played.
And some nights, it helps to wash the pain away with good cheer, and I applaud those nights with a full heart when they arise. But others, it is recognized useless to even try, and truly, the best way to fight some moods is to let them win.
Freedom is being alone. I fear liberation.
Which is not quite appropriate, but the pain in the words is there, and even if it is not my exact pain, it helps. I howl along in points, and sob at others, and more important than any and all else, I dance. It is not a pretty dance, or organized, or well thought out, but it is perfectly honest, and when it comes down to it, honesty is more important than aesthetics when one's partner is themselves.
And so I leave this message for you, Sorceress Katarina R. Ruth de D. de Whimsy de A. de MOOP! den Boston den Earth den MOOP! ged Athe ged Gaea (because such messages sent to the future must have all the appropriate names and titles listed, lest they arrive in the wrong hands.)
Dance. Give your pain to movement, and nevermind that you are cold and ache and have vision blurred by tears. There has not been better therapy devised by mortals or gods for you than this, and you would be ill advised by your self to attempt a faulty substitute. Shut the doors and pull the shades and just fucking dance.
It helps.
~Me.
MOOP!
((And to those who wonder and worry, the dancing was preceded by writing, for if dance is my therapy, writing is my sanity. The words are harsh and made in pain, but the messages are there to be sorted on the morrow. More stable responses will be made, Conversations will be had, and everything will be better tomorrow, simply by nature of the fact that I will have traveled through time until I reach such a day, and the sheer idea is a delight all by itself. Think of tonight not as a problem, rather the first step of a solution. Good day and good night.))