novella
Active Member
It’s impossible to go back. The past can’t be changed, everyone knows that. We are put on this earth to endure our own blunders, the immutable legacy of regrets we haul around until we die. And, damn, that’s a heavy load, sucking your feet into the mud so deep you feel it shoot up your spine like a wire.
Take yesterday. I want it to go away, but it never will. It’s imprinted on the cosmos like a scar, it’s tattooed on my brain, blue and grey and that gross yellow-bruise color, where it will hopefully fade into the fabric of memory as I accumulate newer, fresher stains.
The problem lies in the disconnect between what I want when I am in my head, traveling through space and time, working out what might make the old synapses tingle, and what happens when those little plans and ideas intersect with the big world out there. That’s the beginning of the problem. And then I make the bigger mistake of defending my own pathetic machinations, hacking down anyone who doesn’t get it, like whacking through the jungle with a machete. It’s ugly. But you know that.
Then afterward, I’m like WHY did I do that, WHAT purpose did it serve? WHY am I such an asshole?
In short, I did not mean to say that you are ruining my life. And can I take back the bit about how I am an auxiliary person, just a pair of shoes up from slave girl? I KNOW there’s more to it than shoes. That was just an example. I was making a more general point. (Is this hole getting deeper?, I ask myself.)
You misheard me. I did not actually say that you are self-righteous. You are reading that in. What I said was something like, I bow to your righteous will. That’s different. I’m not sure I’m expressing myself properly.
Can we just forget it? No? You know as well as I do that reality is slippery, that words don’t do it justice, and that mood swings account for more than half the accidental deaths in girls my age. I can’t change that, it’s just a fact. I’m a statistic here. Sure I’m responsible for what comes out of my mouth, but I can also revise, can’t I?
No, I am definitely not from Venus. I resent that. It belies a fetish with pop psychology. I mean, you are better than that. I would never say that you are from another planet. Not when you are so clearly comfortable and in control on THIS planet. That came out wrong.
Can I just be clear on this for a moment? I love you. We were meant to be together. Misunderstandings will ruin the world someday. Trust me.
(edited for dumb typos)
Take yesterday. I want it to go away, but it never will. It’s imprinted on the cosmos like a scar, it’s tattooed on my brain, blue and grey and that gross yellow-bruise color, where it will hopefully fade into the fabric of memory as I accumulate newer, fresher stains.
The problem lies in the disconnect between what I want when I am in my head, traveling through space and time, working out what might make the old synapses tingle, and what happens when those little plans and ideas intersect with the big world out there. That’s the beginning of the problem. And then I make the bigger mistake of defending my own pathetic machinations, hacking down anyone who doesn’t get it, like whacking through the jungle with a machete. It’s ugly. But you know that.
Then afterward, I’m like WHY did I do that, WHAT purpose did it serve? WHY am I such an asshole?
In short, I did not mean to say that you are ruining my life. And can I take back the bit about how I am an auxiliary person, just a pair of shoes up from slave girl? I KNOW there’s more to it than shoes. That was just an example. I was making a more general point. (Is this hole getting deeper?, I ask myself.)
You misheard me. I did not actually say that you are self-righteous. You are reading that in. What I said was something like, I bow to your righteous will. That’s different. I’m not sure I’m expressing myself properly.
Can we just forget it? No? You know as well as I do that reality is slippery, that words don’t do it justice, and that mood swings account for more than half the accidental deaths in girls my age. I can’t change that, it’s just a fact. I’m a statistic here. Sure I’m responsible for what comes out of my mouth, but I can also revise, can’t I?
No, I am definitely not from Venus. I resent that. It belies a fetish with pop psychology. I mean, you are better than that. I would never say that you are from another planet. Not when you are so clearly comfortable and in control on THIS planet. That came out wrong.
Can I just be clear on this for a moment? I love you. We were meant to be together. Misunderstandings will ruin the world someday. Trust me.
(edited for dumb typos)
would be a wonderful life to live with a talented girl/woman!