I think to write something here, and then it strikes me as a waste of time. When I want to journal something, it generally goes into the "Just Me" filter, assuming I use LJ at all.

I am curious in a feedback-desirous way as to what that's about, though, so my curiosity becomes this post. This happening to others?

I expected this time to be different.

That is all.

At the time, I thought, "The thought of this character fills me with shame. I will erase this shame by erasing all of this character's files. Sure, the character is only idled, not dead, but I will never revisit her for the excellent reason in Sentence 1 above, so deleting every bit of the last six months of hard work on her background, descs, ( Read more... )

Then there are the nighttime hours when it all comes raging back.

There has to be something more to do, something else that I'm missing.  Healthy brains should not fall to bits every time they have a few hours to think by themselves.

I don't know how much of this to attribute to time, a positive change in situation, thyroid medication, anti-depressive medication, a temporary mood, and/or the people around me, but whatever it's owed to, it's very gently wonderful ( Read more... )

The neighborhood plow just banged by outside our apartment.  My husband, sleeping in next room, must have been half-wakened by this and assumed that it was me in the hall: he just made a "kissy" sound at the truck.

I feel it slipping further and further ( Read more... )

Run faster, Alice
Memories will hunt you down
Tear your mind apart

There's a little ice blooming on the leaves.
Morning sun will melt the frost, but 'til then,
it's chilly,
soft and merciless,
choking life.

Find me space inside the leaves:
room to stand while the gray gives way to dawn.
I can bide 'til then.
It's chilly, yes.
It's soft and killing,
and I still don't know what it means.

It doesn't have a face anymore.