GirlChat #730749
replaced by the whimsical laughter of two little girls
For decades, most of my daydreams were something like this. In reality, of course, it could never happen. I may or may not have shoved the chaperone's hand up the older one to fulfill her explicit request, but if I had, I most certainly would have had to send her running after them. We were never, ever alone. It's a good part of why I cry every time I see the name. I remember who hurt me and who didn't, and I remember it with remarkable precision and sensitivity. And just because my tears stopped showing on the outside when I was very, very young, doesn't mean they aren't there... pretty much always. Just about everything else falls under the same story. Our words and deeds are not our own. We live under occupation, and are allowed to speak and do what others want to use us as puppets for. Now, my life is over. Functionally, it was probably over before I met them, but in either case, such daydreams are mostly long-lasting denial against all rational sense. That people will stop being evil, or at least enough for a mixed society. It's not even remotely real. Hope, daydreams, those things are the desperate attempts of a child, long overgrown, unwilling to accept what is. My last remaining hope is that some of the people who hurt me when I was a very, very small child come up dead. It's probably not the exact same people at this point, but then again, I don't really care. It cheapens the soul to have this as the entire scope of their hopes, but it's either that or have literally nothing at all. And even if it did happen, entirely, it wouldn't help a single thing. There is still the slightly more subtle, all-pervasive forms of mild narcissistic evil. An absence of malice just means they wait just a little longer, realizing their life was thrown away just a little later. I wonder if anyone researching my past would discover, say, where I completely redefined the habitat of a known species about a half-decade before I met them. They should; it's definitely in the records, but people focus on their myths, and this can blind them to everything else. Before I was taken to the place where I got to tell my fellow youth the difference between "tendon" and "cartilage" on the basis of things the staff did to my body for amusement, those used to be my dreams and happiness. Later - before I met them, actually - I used to dream about what it would be like to kiss someone I was close to (nope), to get a hug from someone I cared about (once, actually - a decade later and on the other side of the block), to do any of the wonderful things she suggested ("my vuvla is strong!" nope, by the way), or for that matter, to have any reason to believe the world isn't divided into long-haired and short-haired boys (umm, nope). I used to envision a world of a small number of people who actually cared about each other, and could speak and act on their own behalf, rather than as puppets of the masters who constantly supervise us, and want everyone else to perform to direction in their imaginary play. Nope. Not even for a few minutes, let alone hours at a time as the days go by. I used to daydream... both of normal human things, and of natural disasters with just one or two friends surviving. Eventually, I stopped. There didn't seem to be a whole lot of point, and it just hurt to try to pretend that any sort of human life was possible no matter how absurd the fiction. And now, it's too late; things break, and a severely-delayed healthy development isn't feasible at all. There's no point in wondering what it would have been like to kiss someone, once, or hold someone's hand, because that's not what's real here. And now it's too late anyway; all the time of a severely delayed what-might-have-been is.... over. As is my ability to connect with any other person or even have a conversation without wanting to cut them, nonlethally, over and over, for a very long time - until the pain goes away, which it won't. ...and since there's a business around here run by someone with the same last name, every now and then, I get to be flash-reminded of the subtle hells which only dawn on you later. And cry dry tears with a calm face in silence, the same as it's been since they dried up long, long ago. I'm glad everyone else had a good time. They're the ones that really matter, and that's what it is - some people matter, some people don't, and that's an acceptable price for those who matter to make others the puppets and substrate of their fun. I know exactly who I look like with this top on, and not quite the one I'm wearing, just close, and had that conversation... oh, starting several years before GC opened. That's the level I have these conversations on. A liiitle bit of what is between... is rot, much as these conversations tend to be played out using the flesh of the severely hellbound as tools. Wierd that the lost villages of places like africa and asia and north and south america or wherever I'm standing really aren't some modern european slave enterprise, no? It hurts to go below where devas repair things with me, choosing whether a fallen leaf falls one way or another for the purpouses of help and making holy. It hurts when humans are around. And I remember who hurt me, and who didn't, blood by blood. My time with the one I could seriously have resembled if I dressed like this, before I got really fucking old, and yes that's how everyone takes me, and yes, that conversation involved multiple people across a long time... was for one moment. That's all. I'll stick around to watch a few people die. Mostly on the miniscule chance that I'm not completely fucking useless, which I probably am. But I'll also be a useless sport object with nothing in life for as long as my flesh remains here. Because... that's what you've built as a great society, and "good" parenting at its best is like morphine for a broken leg, just to keep walking until even that breaks down. It's a little pathetic how cheaply people are thrown away. And as much as I say that I'm glad everyone else had a good time... I actually know that they didn't, either. I look forward to going home... but I am home, and have never been more than a hundred feet from the forest I walked out of for my birth, ever. What I really look forward to is not being here. Having abandoned a hope that can never be, perhaps I shall eventually abandon the thought that I can be anything but useless to changing the way things are. the whimsical laughter of two little girls chasing me I kind of hope they're doing better than me, that they somehow escaped the brunt of hell that so cheerfully discarded the people around them as waste. But... to be honest, if confronted with the thought, I also couldn't do anything but run away and cry. Possibly self-injure in a breakdown. So, I'll quit wondering. Great place we've built here. I'm sure there couldn't be anything wrong with it at all. I'm glad you all had a great time. |