I want to tell, yet come from a long line fearful of speaking truth to the fire. What if I say and - And. You were so beautiful and elegant. And composed. The way I hope you are when the next few terrible months come. When anything. When life. See, I was thinking last night of all the day-to-days, the nothings that take up space and seem so unimportant now. But if not concern yourself with this, then what?
You were dressed all in black. Sunday best, funeral-proud. And for a moment, I believed inside the dream you really were getting off at the theatre. Except no tram goes to the National, only to the cemetery. So unspeakably elegant.
And me, with my stuffed toys and my own petty problems of becoming a woman or staying a mouse. Becoming and unbecoming, and all the loneliness reaching for me that I'm finding harder and harder to face. I'm suddenly afraid of the expanse of lonely other people feel, underlying the better part of my dreams.
The will to life, marred by the paralyzing terror of death. In my dreams, I find I lack all my customary brave words, and rather pray, openly small as I am, that tomorrow isn't your last. Please God.
I sense in all of us the trial of pretense, yet despite level-best, the darkness in your Sunday best encroaching on us all. I know it's customary when death draws to bolt, but if we don't, if we stay and we heave, is there a chance to wrench you back from undeserving blackness?
There's still so much for you to see, and despite my dreamscape certainty, I hope when we reach the stop, the door before you gets stuck.
I've been meaning to stop by a long time, but haven't seen an opportunity. I talk more than is healthy for me. I pay great attention to my dreams, since I am of the Jungian opinion that they hold the key to understanding the subconscious. I try to look at them openly. Still, last night's left me speechless upon waking. That doesn't happen often.
Also, I don't know if music is allowed, but I feel desperately the need to infuse some strength into this post, and for me, music has always been an important source of strength:
I'm on the front line, don't worry I'll be fine
The story is just beginning
I say goodbye to my weakness, so long to the regret
And now I know that I'm alive
Hello again! Thank you for finally posting something here!
I have to profess though - I cannot write on things that do not offer parallel lines for guidance - it ends up messy and nonsensical, looking more like a Jackson Pollock painting than a page of prose.
So much of what I hand write is a personal message to myself, and this sort of thoughtful scrawling is really something that I should do more of.
Re: the music - I don't care, you hit the other key parts of what I envisioned this community to be - to bring handwritten stuff (as opposed to handwriting for hand writing's sake (le art pour le art, anyone?) and that is absolutely fine and golden.
Thank you.
I hoped you'd forgive the music, being such an appreciator of it yourself :) I just saw a great play touching on Pollock (John Logan's Red - really good stuff, albeit more about Rothko than Pollock). I can see where you're coming from - bravo for feeling brave enough to post here what you write to yourself, I don't think I could. I do journal in that sense as well, but less than I would like to, and would feel it's way too personal for the chain in some ways. Absurd? Maybe, since I do write personal stuff anyhow. But I love the idea of this community, so who knows - maybe I'll contribute in that way too in the future :)
As for writing about dreams - big big thing, and well worth it, esp. for a writer. The more you look into them, the more the unconscious gives you to work with. I know it might sound cheeky towards an insomniac, but still I dare :)
Dreams? What are those - I have to get to sleep first!
All writing is too personal in one way or another - especially the sort of topics you and I tend to write about - and on top of that - while it is like peeling back a layer of skin on a personal level, and may feel incredibly vulnerable and raw, I think the reality is that many people tend to not care at all, or see it not as a part of ourselves left in this place.
I want to write a poignant quote or statement about that to sum it up in a sentence, but it is 630AM on a Saturday, and poignant academia sentence structure isn't up and running in my brain yet.
Good morning to the future. It's only just midnight here :) I know what you mean, and alas, I think you may be right. Is it a good or bad thing that so few people care what we have to say? I haven't decided yet.
Good, and bad. Good because that vulnerability is a bit more shrouded and modest - bad - because it feels like the writing will never truly be understood.
Very nice! Congratulations. Keep writing, keep experimenting!
Gosh. I just burnt a whole heap of personal hand written writing I could barely read as it WAS so deeply personal. Yet you manage to write so beautifully I hope you never burn it!
The ones that linger are quite delicious, I find!
I burnt three suitcases full of handwritten stuff once upon a time. The flames were great, but I posted most of it to the chain back int the day, before it went up in flame.
I would say you people have a problem with arson :))) Thank you, @riverflows - I find it easy to write (some) personal stuff on Hive.
Wow, I love it. Your writing is beautiful.