The inconvenience of dreaming.

I’m not crying anymore. Or at least… not crying over what I was in the last entry. Last entry’s cry was brought about my my malignant imagination.

I’m calling out my imagination now! I’ll count this as progress.

Not thinking is helpful. Removing myself from things that stimulate my destructive thought loops has been even more helpful (Social media).

Some of my thought loops are so pure and so beautiful that they shouldn’t exist.

The dreaming. The endings. The silky white ribbons that tie up my endings. “See? You’re safe. And you ended your life with love. Not because of love. See? You’re heard. You’re in a world. A family. You made it.” Hah! Family.

Day to day grime. Selfishness. Boredom. Taking out the trash. Sitting in front of the TV cutting your toenails. The lackluster parts of love and life. I had that. I’ve had it all, but not for a long time.

I ricochet between the idea of being untouchable and unreachable - damn, how I wish I could be. And pure. Unwanted but unaffected. Laughing at it all - at THEM all. Not in mockery, and not in some self-aggrandizing way. Just laughing at my own secrets. My pretty good jokes. My special little pearls.

And… here I fucking am, blogging once again. Revealing my secret world. And for what? Well, it’s not just for praise. I’m a good writer, but still evolving. Hopefully evolving forever.

I have always been pathologically honest. Pathological is the right word. My life has had some strangeness. There have been… secret lives and false pretenses in my family. Lies and betrayals.

I’ve been feared. I’ve been a golden, hopeful, show pony child, and also a scary angry broken failure. “Something Went Wrong.”

But now? I’m a half survivor. A survivor who doesn’t save her money, who lacks an interest in cooking and cleaning and some of the things you’d typically associate with someone Nice and Normal.

Not a shining recovery story, but strong in the end. Kind too.

I want to be known and loved and touched. But I don’t want the ugly scary risks that come with that. Says me, says every middle school girl, says your friendly gay neighborhood gas station cashier, says everyone, their mom, and most likely even a few nuns.

(Why else would they have become nuns?)

I just want to read, write, and shut the rest of myself off. And that’s the truth of the matter. Yet I can’t seem to.

But for now I’m safe. I also have the luxury of being slightly bored. And in writing all of this, I feel better already.