MOOP!

Hey, I'm home!

***

Ow, muscles. Fucking things and the carrying thereof. Ow ow ow.

I maintain that this is the downside of being a biblophile. You are incapable of just bringing one book anywhere, even if you're going on vacation to a library. Rar.

***

I mentioned that I needed some professionalish clothes eventually to mum and she threw these beautifully eighties clothing things at me called "Units". They are *hella* comfy. Also, *HELLA* eighties.

***

My bed is far too low to be at all reasonable. I can't even touch the ceiling when I'm standing on it. Apparently, this is what college does to you, make your furniture change shape.

***

Off shopping and the like. Yay, I have a mommy. <3

~Sor
MOOP!

And I read thoughtstreams from a year and two and three ago.
And I read BehindtheWalls, the first one, the one that coined the term.
And I read secret journals, that I was never meant to find in the first place.
And I read letters that were never meant to be sent
And I read notes that were left on my keyboard

And I talk, to you and you and you. And it doesn't really help. Not right now.

I just feel empty.
I just feel so
frigging
empty.

And I'm doing things off Al's radar. She pays such careful attention, should I cut-scratch-bite-hit myself, she swoops and grabs me and stops me.

But there are more ways to hurt yourself then with knives. There are ways to hurt yourself that don't hurt at all, that shouldn't hurt at all, that only burn because you're a freak.
(Other people are not the only ones who are not to touch my neck. I don't even like it when I touch it myself)

You pull strings tight round your wrist, and cause your hand to tingle from the loss of blood. And then you stop, you release the cord, the chain, whatever it is you have, and let your hand return to normal. Maybe you caused slight indents on your wrist, that fade within moments. Maybe you didn't. You didn't actually hurt yourself, just caused the world to feel different for a little bit.

You're all about making the world feel different for a little bit.

...

And in the middle of the empty and the hate and the lost and alone, she says one beautiful perfect priceless thing, without reason, without warning.

And the stretched thin emptyness, keeping you from doing anything stupid snaps away, and the saltwater starts running down your face. Fucking tears, you've been here before. How long since the last time you cried? Perhaps a week?

Fucking tears.

Maybe it's time to go away for a little while. Take all of who and what you are and bundle it up in a shirt and a robe and a hoodie and a coat and go walk. Walk the paths that you've made familiar, familiar because you hurt sometimes, and when you hurt, you need to leave. You need to go somewhere new.

Were I in Maryland, I would go to my playground. The one I don't bring other people to. Because other people taint memories, and I need a place where all the memories are mine and mine exclusively.

It's interesting to see how hard I have to work to find any given reference to any given thing. It's interesting to see whether I choose to use the reference when I do. For the last paragraph, end it "My 'Das Nonstop-Programm'." A reference that one and only one person will get. Good for him, then.

From Dar Williams* to Clam Chowder* to Dresden Dolls* to Marillion* All the words, all the lyrics are different, all the tones are different, all the moods are exactly the same. Sad and quiet and beautiful and melencholy.

Where to next. They Might be Giants? Where do they make balloons? I suppose.

It's time for me to wrap myself up and leave. May you find happiness where you need it. May I find happiness before I sleep.

BehindtheWalls

*The Christians and the Pagans, Windmills, Sing, Lavender.