October In The Chair

Logged into my Angelfire email account just now, to clear it out of any trash which may have been lurking. I don't use this account very often, but keep it around anyway.

Everything which I had been storing in there: various old and important emails which had been sent to me years ago, codes to webrings, other things, etc. They're all gone. Every single one of them.

This is kind of distressing. Some of the things I had in there were the only reminder I had of long dead friendships. Like of the crazy, drug addled neurologist that I used to speak to (even though I'd kick him if I saw him on the street, I still liked to keep his emails. They were a bit of security I had. Blackmail, if you will. heh.) I also lost the few emails I had left from the Antichrist. These were ones from the mid-point of our relationship, right before I switched ISPs.

*sighs*

I also had emails from current friends, things that I would have wished to keep. For posterity. For memories. I had a lovely poem that Ghoulie had written for an ex-boyfriend of hers.

grrr.

The Engineer, the Priest They Called Him, Stefanie, and her husband Justin were all heading to Scotland, Glasgow to be specific, for reasons unremembered by the dreamer, which is me.

Looking out the window, I almost always demand a window seat, out into the sky. The sensation of my stomach dropping and the sun warm on my face. And I think about how much I love to fly. I also think about Scotland and the people who I know there. The stomach dropping feeling isn't entirely because I'm thousands of miles off the ground. It's also because I dread seeing any of these people because of what condition my heart will be in afterward.

Touchdown in Glasgow. This airport is as familiar to me as my own hands. I know its in's and out's. There is the spot by the window where I held back tears and paranoia of no one showing to pick me up. There is where we hugged goodbye, both times I did this. I point these out to the Priest They Called Him. He smiles sadly at me and calls me his gothic little kitten, as he is wont to give me strange and silly pet names.

Blurring, blurring. We are by the sea. Justin and Stef are off doing their own things. And there is a storm. At the edge of the water, everything is so enormous. I feel tiny and threatened by the sheer size of it. Wind and waves, the roar of the ocean in my ears. It mirrors back to the time when I stood here in a Turkish coffee night and could experience nothing but air in my face and the water's sounds. Dread, primordial fear of the deep, fills my limbs. I want to leave, but I can't.

There is an underground cafe by the ocean. The booth we sit in has a view of the water, which my eyes can not stray from. I keep watch over it, vigilant because I know that it could, at any time, break through the thin barrier and kill us all.

More blurring. Faces and voices run together. I decide to visit the Antichrist's family, who in this dream, live in Glasgow. They both remember me, which is surprising as they each only met me once and I look vastly different now. Nervousness makes me tap my fingers against the table. I'm afraid of running into him, of our pasts crossing.

I had meant to type "paths" instead of "pasts", but I like it better that way. More suitable, in my own eyes.

Back to the dream. I am alone, the Engineer and TPTCH aren't with me anymore. They're off on their own, somewhere. And I'm wandering the streets outside of the Antichrist's parents' house with a sick feeling in my breast. I've had this dream before, I realise. Standing on a street corner, with my hand on the pole of a stop light, I see him. And before I turn my face away, he sees me as well.

He looks good. Not completely bald, there is a small amount of brownish hair growing on his head. A huge difference from the Bic smoothness that I remember. I know that it would feel cat soft if I were to brush my fingers over it. It would feel like Emperor Nympho's nose.

He calls my name, half incredulous that I'm there. That I'm existing in his space. It's no secret that I'm not allowed to step foot in the UK anymore due to immigration woes. Surprise at him recognising the fact that I'm there, I'd half expected him to turn away. To ignore me.

Blurring. He's with a friend, who's name is escaping me. It's not any of his friends whom I met before. We speak of small things, safe things. We speak of things which don't hurt either of us. I tell him of the lover I had after him, the one who also lives nearby and who I don't wish to run into. I leave out the part of how I had been wishing I didn't see him, either. To tell him would be hateful, and I harbour no such feelings towards him.

He smiles uncomfortably and ducks his head, in the same fashion that I remember so well. We walk together and talk about small, insignifacant things. The entire time, the knowledge of I'm soon to miss my plane is in the back of my head. Clock hands sweep past and I ignore them. If I miss it, I'll just get another flight. Carrie did it, on her return trip from NYC, why can't I? I try to forget the fact that I have very little money in my purse. I hope against all hope that it won't cost that much.

The Engineer is there, suddenly. Hair on his head, I suppose there can be only one bald man in my dreams at a time, eh? I invite him to come along with us, but he's hesitating. I don't blame him for this, I would do the same if in his shoes. But, the flight's been missed and we have no choices left to us. Stef and Justin apparently made the plane, so did TPTCH. We go back to the Antichrist's friend's apartment to wait until the next departure.

Blurring.

I wake up.

Another cigarette.
With my hood pulled over my face, I am the blind girl. I can sit here and dream of things that never were. Even if I do sincerely remember.

Psuedo-existence.

I remember dancing through the streets of London, singing accompianment to him and the passerby amusement. The night sky of Piccadilly Circus was like nothing I'd ever seen before, though at the same time, it remained heartbreakingly familar.

I remember London. It exists, if only inside my head. I echo our words, soft and under breath, from that night.
Oh, give me a home...




London, the bitch queen of cities. Carrie may have her New York City, but my home has always been in London. As much as I hate it now, it still reverberates throughout my skin.

I'd like to think that one day, I'll return to it. See the ravens and the watchtowers. I'd like to think that. But, I doubt it will ever come to pass.

I remember his face, cold and pale. It rose above the collar of his King Mob coat like the waxing moon on a November night. I remember his smile, though I haven't seen it since.

Flash backwards, to a younger girl. A younger time. Everything is green and I sit on a swingset, dragging my feet. He sits by me, whispering little songs that only
my ears can decipher. 'You are written on the underside of my skin', I say to him. Jump frog, jump.

I know somehow that he does not remember this night. No memory of how I sighed and continually turned my face away, so he wouldn't be able to read the desire imprinted upon it. He holds my hand, sometimes. I remember his smile, though I haven't seen it in quite some time.

Flash forward a small bit, one or maybe even two years. We stand on a sand dune, quietly alone with a blanket wrapped round our shoulders. Struck dumb by his senseless beauty and the utterly foreign concept that someone of his stature would be enamoured with small, stunted me.

He speaks of rollarcoasters and butterflies. My stomach ties itself in knots, as his kiss unties my mouth. The sky swirls heady all around me and I want nothing more than for him to devour me.

I remember his smile, though only when I look at his photograph. I'll never see that again, however. He is as lost to me as London and my heart.

The three. My trinity of hopebreakers.

I can only take comfort in the fact that they each, in turn, allowed me to warm my hands and face by their fires.

Even if they didn't know it, they kept me warm. However brief it was. I give them up to the passing of time, the ticking of clocks. And turn myself towards the future. Whatever that may bring.

The Wee One (do you like that, didja? didja?)
came over for a visit today, as I am (alledgely)
on my death bed. Swoon. Mope. Swan about the
house looking pale and consumptive.

We had an interesting discussion, as we are
prone to doing when you get the two of us to
be serious for more than five seconds. The
conversation, due to our mutual problems,
involved love.

She asked me that if I ever found out in some
way that Darren had changed his mind and truly
wanted me in his life, as his heart, would I
go back to him? I pondered for a few seconds,
because this is something valid that I've
tortured myself with in past late night musings.

The answer being: no.

The reasons being: I lost myself in him. To such
a degree that it terrified me. My happiness rode
solely on his own. My sun rose and set on
whether or not he smiled. I debased myself for
him. I cowered and wheedled and begged. I
was not me. I became a doormat, a dish rag.
I poured every ounce of myself into him, knowing
I would get barely anything in return.

I don't want to be that person ever again. It
wasn't me, only a pale shadow of the person
that I am.

And I believe that's why I behave in the manner
that I do now. Why I hold myself back so much,
afraid to give in completely to any one person.
I don't want to lose myself again.

I catch myself doing it, every so often. Repeating
the same dance steps as before. I send little-
girl-voice emails to Orphan, sidling up for
his affections. I throw myself at Richard's feet,
in a bid for attention.

And in the same vein, sometimes even in the same
breath-I pull away. I hide. I cover my face and
become someone else.

I don't know where I'm trying to go with this,
really. I suppose I'm tired of being such a
fragmented person. Personality wise, I'm highly
independant. I want to make my own rules and
abide by no one else. Sexually and relationship
wise, I'm tremendously submissive. I want to
be taken care of. I want to be held down and
told, in no uncertain terms, what to do.

I'm such a mess.