Alternate Reality Ramble 41

Intro

The nuances of a relationship of any kind is tied into the intricacies of power dynamics. Everyone knows that, but not many admit it.

I have a friend who had been struggling with this whole power dynamic concept within a relationship dynamic. I figured that I could take apart some of it and try to show a single point view with blame and the other side giving enough to seem blameless but plausible.

Conclusions are yours, my dear readers.

As art is subjective, so is the lesson of any story I present to you as it based on reality, of course.

Story (The Modern Kind)

She texted him while at work, that day.

"How's everything going?"

"I miss you. SO much."

"Check this link out, it's that song OMG like she is so hot here, you'll love it."

"Hey-I love you."

They exchanged the same messages as always. He teased her on text when he found out she was on a conference call.

"I miss you"

"Something else misses you"

"I wish I could kiss you, and hug you and hold you tight"

"You're right, I do love your mouth. As much as you love my tongue"

"I mean, this clip is exactly what we could be doing. Hide me under your desk or wear a long skirt. EZ."

"I like it all, you know that. Mostly, it's you. Everything about you is everything. You're everything."

She brought up how he was getting her all revved up.

"God, do you have to get me like this while I'm at work?"

"You know I don't carry an extra panty around with me, right?"

"Oh, you're having a shower? Maybe I should hop in."

"Hey, I love you."

Eventually, she got home and called him.

He was about to put his shirt on, but she stopped him.

"You look so hot. You should probably take more off. You don't wanna get all sweaty, you know? Just showered not so long ago and all that."

He shook his head and smirked, she was the hot one when she got rare-horny like that.

Sometimes, he tried to get her interest, but it didn't happen often-not like this.

He wasn't in the mood, but when was she ever? He had to take this opportunity.

"Okay, but lemme finish making dinner. I'll undress for you again, maybe do a little dance, huh? You have the heels but maybe I'm the one with the talent!"

She licked her lips, "I'm already wet and you're putting your clothes back on? Fiiiiiine. Leave me like thisssss."

He twitched his hips at her, "I'm all yours, baby. I'll be back to take care of this. Stay wet for me, okay? You know I can't wait. I've missed you so much."

"Okaaaaay. I love you, you know that? You've been getting me pretty hot and bothered during the last few days. Come back fasssst."

He hung up.

Pulling his clothes back on, he looked at his phone one last time.

She always said that.

A lot.

He loved it when she said that.

But then she made a mistake.

A silly mistake.

She'd made up for it, according to so many basic standards of judgement.

But that's not the point, is it?

She hurt him.

She, the only one who could truly know exactly what the damage was going to be and how much it would hurt, went through with it.

She broke him.

She killed his growing heart.

She killed the trust he had allowed to build up only for her.

She killed how much he wanted her to want him.

She killed it all.

Realism.

She did a thing.

But it was more likely that his subconscious mind killed it all.

He had to get over the pain.

He had to get over the mental knife stab to his existence.

He killed it all, because of what she did.

Yes, in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't entirely that terrible.

But that's not how life works.

We don't completely control our perception of people, things, and situations.

We cannot always control our responses.

He remembers how it felt.

His mind broke.

He felt so violated all over again, and he knew that wasn't her-that was his PTSD baggage striking.

He couldn't deal with the feelings and emotional parts of it so he dealt with the physical part.

The feeling of her maybe being with him for his physical self.

The dirtiness.

The feeling of being used up.

It was all rushing back.

He knew she stressed on not wanting, nor caring for things like that.

He was the one pressuring her to let herself feel, and be more open to herself about that sort of thing.

He tried but he couldn't stop feeling like he had been used.

Why else, would she have been with him till that one point?

Even now, when he tried to get her revved up, she didn't really respond.

But she did when she got revved up on a special occasion last month.

And now.

Always on her own terms.

Was it ever truly a win?

How much did she control.

All of it.

That's how he felt.

The only thing he could control right now was whether they were together or not. Officially, anyway.

And he wouldn't have that for very long either.

Honestly though, it didn't make a difference, did it?

She had him for company.

She had him for emotions.

She had him for feelings.

She had him for sharing.

She had him for sex.

She had him for better than a cam girl, at this rate.

She had everything she needed from him.

And he had wanted only one thing from her, ever.

That if he let her be with him, the way she wanted them to be-that she stay. Unless the situation changed drastically, he only wanted that she stand by Them. That's all.

It was too much to ask for.

He realised that anything he asked of her would always be too much to ask for.

He wondered if she ever realised that he only let himself ask her for things that he knew she'd want him to ask for?

The why was easy, he was never going to get anything she didn't want him to want.

Everything was on her terms.

It was always going to be on her own terms.

And so he made a mistake.

He asked her to stay, since she was the one who begged for them to be a They.

And eventually, she decided that she couldn't stay.

And he never asked her for anything ever again.

Dinner was over.

It was time to call her.

He wondered if he would ever ask her for something that was real.

He laughed to himself at the irony.

Nothing was real.

Reality is subjective when it feels like you've been chained up and given a goosebumps book with the first options torn out and only the second options available so you'll never have to guess how the book is going to turn out.

He wondered, did she even love him?

Or had she just convinced herself that she did because she prided herself in the whole facade of monogamy that she was chasing?

He wouldn't have questioned it, at any point. Once.

But that, that was before it happened.

He called her again.

Their call started with him stripping.

It ended with her getting to a climax she needed.

After that, she stayed long enough to let him talk a relatively acceptable amount of time about personal things.

Then she brought up that they'd talk tomorrow, for various reasons. As always.

He got into his bed and smiled.

When he'd finally go to sleep, he knew he'd check his phone a few times.

It was a habit born of a ghost of girlfriends past.

But she'd never text again. Until the next day.

He did, sometimes.

But now he felt like he was intruding.

She called him just when he was in the zone and busy and he dropped it to be with her.

When she was done with him, he was free again but his time and zone was past.

He had someone once, who would fall asleep much before him. To make up for it, she always texted him a good morning message with cute and adorable things in it in the morning. She ALWAYS managed to send it before he woke up, so he would smile when he read it, knowing she was thinking of him. And when she was about to sleep, regardless of whether they were fighting or far away, or happy, or whatever, she would always send a goodnight message and then go to sleep.

He could have gone days without talking to her-as long as they remembered each other in the morning and at night, in a way that he could believe was somewhat legitimate, in his book.

He used to believe he'd find someone who would do that, again.

It's funny, he says to himself, sighing.

It's funny that you loved talking to me because you wanted to fall asleep on the phone with me when we couldn't be together.

It's funny that you loved knowing I was on the phone while you were going to sleep, knowing that I would cut the phone call after you were dead to the world so that our batteries would stay alive, and I would let them die on days that you insisted you couldn't sleep without me even though we had spent very little time in actual proximity at that point.

I'm sorry, he thinks to himself.

I should have loved you better.

I should have appreciated the little things more.

I'm sorry that the little things were what I've been desperately searching for.

Proof of feelings and emotions.

Proof of intentions.

Proof.

He shook his head and the ghosts shimmered into nothingness.

He didn't want to go back, ever.

He didn't need the past back.

He just wanted to remember the lessons that he had learnt.

She loved him, so she said.

Then why did he feel like he was convenient.

And used.

And tossed.

And mattered only when required?

Silly, he mumbled to himself.

Must be my baggage.

Setting the alarm, and checking for messages that would never come because she was awake and occupied with her time and he didn't have a place in her life when he wasn't actively helping her with it, he got into bed.

Sleep was better than waiting for something that he was teaching himself to live without.

Some people, he thought to himself before drifting off, they are not meant to be for themselves. There is no themselves.

They hope for something, and it pales in comparison because reality treats them like starving artists who dare to dream. They have to pretend the ugly can be their beautiful. They have to believe it.

And he will, too.

Tomorrow.

Alternate Reality Ramble 40

INTRO

So, I've been watching The Originals, FINAAAAALLY. And I'm at the whole, Rebecca being completely manipulated, destroyed, hurt, so on and so forth repeatedly thing. I'm feeling her so bad right now. All she wants is to love, trust and believe. And for someone, ANYONE, to choose her. And it's such a basic desire but to have the ability to have this desire after centuries of having it ripped away from you repeatedly and watching everyone destroy you for it-I can't imagine how it feels to have that.

The Marcel does THAT?!?!?!?!

So anyyyyway. This is my dedication to an open letter Rebecca writes to another Love of Her Life who betrays her.

She is us, and we are her, so this is my dedication to the Casket Girls of New Orleans, especially. May you all rest in peace xx

--x--

 The Casket Girl Letter That Could Have Been

Dearest of All,

For every moment that I had with you, I have a hole in my memory.

It isn’t something that was going to happen, had our story died the normal way that it was expected to- no, it died because of our sins. The holes started as little fading pinpricks that were stabbing at my memories. Slowly, but surely, it began to widen itself like the virus that it was.

The pins became needles, and the needles turned into carefully constructed carving knives.

I cried the day that I realized I was going to have to leave you.

I thought I knew how our story would end because of that reason, but it turns out that I got exactly what I wanted. I cried into my cushions because I wanted our story to be the one with a different ending, and guess what? We got a different ending.

Stories, as I’m sure everyone knows, have hundreds of endings.

This was one that I expected much earlier on, during ours, but it was surprisingly shocking that it happened. What wasn’t shocking, however, is the fact that it happened around the time that I made the decision to believe in you, and our story, right before it happened.

Honestly, it’s rather predictable-the patterns in my life-that this would all happen, this way.

It’s ironic that I can forgive you, knowing I made the same mistake that you just made, and having spent years wishing I could have taken it back. I had tried, of course, but I had failed.

It still burns within me.

That failure.

I understand I, though. The person I hurt should never have forgiven, nor understood what I had done to us. Just like I should never forgive or understand what you’ve done to us. But because of that exact reason, I could never not forgive your sins.

It’s silly, but I would forgive you for a thousand heinous crimes, as long as you came home to me at night and whispered the truth of our love into my starved ears.

I hoped that you wouldn’t understand it.

I never want anyone to see me that clearly because to be seen like that would spell disaster. This is the sort of thing that I’ve spent my life being taken advantage of for. I cannot hate myself for it anymore. Instead, I hate the world for being an unsafe place for the naivety that I cannot get rid of. It is the sort of thing that should live in the hearts of many more people. Yet, it is the exact thing that people find themselves ripping out of their hearts in order to survive.

What is humanity, pray tell me, I’ve asked the sun, moon and stars again and again and again, until my throat is hoarse and all that is left for me to do is to scream at the unjustness of the world that I find myself stranded in.

But I digress.

You didn’t come see me that weekend. You don’t even know what I have had to sacrifice, just to get that little time with you. And you threw it all away.

It didn’t matter to you.

Not really.

Because, as we all know, we’re human. And humanity fights for what they want the most, regardless of everything else that comes with that fight-be it negative, or positive.

I threw it all away, to get even just another half-day with the person that I wish I could steal more moments with. And all I got was a week of nothingness, pain, regret and failure. Then it was the weekend and the week that was so filled with hope and the longing for one last weekend fell apart.

Even hope needs a few drops of water to survive.

But my hope was in a desert, and it survived that long because of the mirage it fed on.

I spent that weekend alternating between hope and fear.

You weren’t there at all-physically, or mentally.

That last night was the most painful night I’ve had in a very long time.

It was the night I had dreaded for at least a decade.

I had hoped that that night would never happen because I never believed that my dreams would so cruelly tumble down as I watched myself walk on the shattered pieces and ignore the bleeding trail I was leaving behind as I attempted to move forward somehow.

But that night did happen.

And I was alone.

It’s interesting, I find, to think about the only solace I can find in times like this.

A lot of the time, I can honestly say that I truly do hate myself. I have no sense of proper reality, so I never really trust myself but at a time like this, for that one tiny shining moment, I gain that shining hope and belief in myself for a second. For that one tiny time period of my life, the only thing I have to hold onto is myself. I cling on to the raw data of my situation- that regardless of the apparent family, friends and people who are supposedly in it for the long haul with me, the only person there for me during that moment is me.

The fact is, that I can only ever really depend on myself to be there for me.

I will always truly and utterly simplistically enough have one inconsolably obstinate truth: the absolute certainty of having only myself.

It’s tyranny, this truth, though.

To another, it may feel like a haven.

But to me, it is entirely a different story.

My heart almost always betrays me.

My mind is never to be trusted.

My instincts have led me down the darkest paths of my life experiences, so far.

And my body? It has continued to betray me since I can remember.

It is this body that ruins me.

It is this mind that tricks me.

It is this heart that stands up every time because it enjoys breaking apart once in a while.

And it is this soul that I leave behind, with every person who picks up the Raggedy Anne doll that I am, because they need to throw me away like the trash that I am when they’re done with me.

Again, I digress.

I can remember faintly now.

Ever since the day you broke me, the little pinpricks started up in my memories.

I think that it is my mind’s way of trying to patch together some form of sanity to preserve my tenuous existence in this world.

The feeling of when you looked at me like I was something.

It made me so very uncomfortable.

Because I did not know how to feel like I was worth anything. Like I mattered. I could not even comprehend the concept of being wanted for who I am. For being needed. For being loved for everything that I couldn’t help but be.

And after what you did, that memory is now false.

It is the memory of you looking at me like you know what you can get from me.

The look a person gives to a piece of property that he/she is appraising to calculate the expenditure vs. usage, in order to decide whether it’s a sensible purchase or not, and for how long one must keep it before moving on.

On the upside, it is a memory I am now losing.

I used to love seeing the tenderness in your eyes.

It scared me that anyone could feel something like that when they looked at me.

I expect to have someone look at me with love in his or her eyes right before they take my body against my will, and then fill me up with mental and physical agonies. But you, you looked at me like you could never hurt me that, in turn, made me feel safe. Safe, like I’ve never felt before. Not the kind of safe where I know I’ll be hurt and I feel a sense of comfort in the familiarity of the situation. It was the kind of safe where I actually believed that you would never raise your body to physically violate or hurt me. That you would never knowingly carve your words to take my sanity away. That you would try to genuinely love me the way that I believed people could love, when I read silly Victorian novels during my childhood years while listening to even sillier songs by the Backstreet Boys.

It’s not tenderness I see anymore.

I see the contempt in your eyes from knowing that you have me so completely, as did they all. The look that you give me because you have me so completely fooled that I would throw it all away to do your bidding. 

Tell me how to please you, Master, so that you may never leave me, I cry out at that look.

It’s pointless, though, because people wouldn’t stick around for the likes of me.

You didn’t, now, did you?

I loved remembering how you would touch me. Sometimes you touched me almost reverently, as if you couldn’t believe you were allowed to. It made me feel like a goddess being worshipped. Like the Petrarchan sonnets that I used to love reading. Was I the Laura that floated among the stars, and shined with the light of the sun? You made me feel supernaturally beautiful, and strong, and holy.

I’d never felt worth touching before.

Truth be told, I hate that my skin touches my skin. It seems paradoxical but it is how I feel, unfortunately.

Too many people have soiled my body and my mind.

My body is not a temple.

My body is not even the kind of trash that turns into a compost heap and at least benefits plantkind.

Do compost heaps benefit anything? Or is it recycling that actually helps. I forget.

Anyway, the point is, I can now see the moments when you touched me much more clearly now.

I can see your thinly veiled disgust for my body, your snide compliments for my mind. The moments you said you wanted to touch me and feel me and be with me that I feared were not real, were moments you had to force yourself to do and say those things to further whatever cause you needed to.

To touch vermin, one must feel unholy.

I made you feel lesser, I’m sure.

I will not go on, my memory becomes sharper if I keep writing.

I suppose it is for the best that this hole becomes bigger.

I need to forget all those moments with you, because you never wanted another moment with me.

I convince myself that it doesn’t hurt. 

I convince myself that your honey-glazed words are real.

That if you could physically be here, you would.

But you could have been there then.

And you weren’t.

You never want to be here again.

I wish I could let myself remember how it felt to kiss you, or to hug you. To hold you like I’d never have to let you go.

I wish I could feel you sleeping in my arms, or hear you breathing into my hair. I wish I could just touch you one last time and feel the pride that this is mine, and I am yours. I loved being with your skin because I felt closer to your spirit in those moments.

But I never got that one last chance to be with you.

And now, I imagine, if you tried to kiss me, that you could not hide the repulsion.

You’d recoil, and everything I loved would crumble into dust.

You’d try to pull me in, while you trembled at the horror.

You’d shudder in bed at night, unable to sleep with the thought of a human eternity with me.

No, perhaps it is better that we didn’t get the goodbye I threw so much away to make sure that we’d get.

I don’t deserve much, but I know I didn’t deserve any of my original false memories. I didn’t deserve the moments that I thought were pure and stolen because the gods were busy and didn’t notice I had a pocket of happiness sometimes.

I’m sorry that I was there.

I’m sorry that my existence existed.

I wanted to write out accusations, and scream hows and whys at you, but instead, I just feel that you did the right thing.

My only regret is that I don’t think you tortured me enough, but I suppose you did, in certain ways, because by sticking around, I’ll never know until the moment of your final betrayal, the level of torture that you created was real and truly exquisite.

You are very good.

I’m glad that I was a part of your weaving; I do so love being used and thrown away. I feel like I’ve gotten rather good at it, honestly.

I’m sorry that the memories are tainted, but I’m losing them anyway so I suppose they won’t remain a problem. I’m glad we had a story at all; there’s comfort in knowing that I never will feel a moment of true happiness or love. Such is my fate, and I gladly accept it because I got stolen fake memories with you for a while.

One gold coin means everything when you’re a filthy pauper on the streets, after all.

C'est la vie, c'est la guerre, c'est la pomme de terre; conqueror of my heart and soul.

I’ll see you again.

Love,

Yours Truly.

Alternate Reality Ramble 39

Intro

Yeah, I'm in a lot of physical pain right now xD I'm very sick and the healthcare system in the country Ic currently reside in is absolute garbage so I'm suffering quite a bit. It's been impossible to sleep so I wrote a thing about two people, inspired, as always, by a mixture of things I heard from people. Enjoy the only solace I get from my current level of physical agony: more mental agony xDDD

Yeeeeah, I'm not gonna read any therapy into that correlation. I KNOW I'm insane. And sleep deprived. Back to trying to sleep, wish me luck y'all xx

Story Thing:

She leaned in to kiss him, as if she did it everyday.

He smiled, just about waking up to see her next to him. It felt like home, the kind of home he'd always wanted and never quite gotten close enough to to complete him.

"Good morning," he said to her, almost tenderly.

She shivered. not with sexual desire, but with a sudden rush of bittersweet pain, love and hatred. Above all, there was angst. Old angst never really goes away, people just learn to push it aside and function like it isn't there. However, when those people are confronted by the angst, it tears them apart until they win the fight and push it all the way back into a corner of their mind in order to function again.

Looking at him made her want to laugh, then cry, then laugh again.

Some people would say, enjoy the moment. Think later. There will be plenty of time.

She knew she would pay for this tiny, stolen moment. And she would pay forever.

Or whatever forever meant for a human being with a finite lifespan, anyway.

She caught herself trying to turn away and forced herself to speak, "Come on. We're late. You have to get ready and shower and get to the station, remember?"

"Mhmm, I know I knowww," he pulled her in and kissed her again. She felt herself pulling away again, would she ever learn?

"Come on," she nudged him, "The train isn't going to wait for you!"

The thing is, she was worried.

The moment he got up, he'd be his normal self again.

He'd be stoic. He'd be reserved. Quiet. So so careful to not even be in her personal space when they'd be walking side by side.

All she needed was for me to reach over and grab her tight. Kiss her lips lightly once in a while. Hold her waist gently, to navigate her. Brush against her as if she was his centre and not gravity.

SO many things.

It hurt.

She could already feel what she was going to feel.

Out of the predictions she had made, based on their calculated actions according to the stimuli and data introduced, she knew this was the most likely outcome.

She had always known.

Yet, she let it happen anyway. She steered it into being, she helped carve it into a reality instead of avoiding it. Gryffindors, they say, were never stupid. The problem with them was always that they would always choose to ignore the fact that they were smart. Daring, nerve and chivalry may set them apart; but it's what made them so flawed when it came to their own selves.

She knew he'd be manoeuvring her into this exact scenario and she knew there were two possible outcomes. Unfortunately, the one she'd prefer had been more unlikely. And she was, as always, right to a fault. Her fault being that she assumed she could take the hit. She'd been battered so many times, did it even matter anymore?

She looked at him, asleep.

She wished they could stay this way.

But he'd wake up.

And he'd be a Mr. Darcy again, but she wasn't Elizabeth Bennet. She was Estella, torn between the truth and the iciness that surrounded the denial of her own truths. She needed a Pip, but she'd done exactly what she had been taught to do, she had pushed Pip away.

They say that you get more than one love in a life.

She'd had two.

And yet, this was the one that really hurt the most.

Why did he feel like home when they had spent years hurting each other?

Why did she never want to leave his arms, when she hadn't spent more than a very recent few hours in them only?

Why did she want to get lost in his words, considering his inability to ever talk to her unless they were in the same physical space. Even then, he barely spoke. She tried.

But she failed.

She, who used words the way an artist uses his watercolours.
She, who used situations the way a tailor wove his skilfully precious weaves.
She, who used herself as the light at the end of the tunnel, had failed to be his light.

Hearing his voice, made everything bearable.

hearing hers probably just annoyed him, she thought.

She shook her head, no assumptions, she promised. Never any assumptions.

She'd never know because he'd never bring himself to truly talk.

What was he afraid of? She could guess, but she wouldn't dare. They had already lost 5 years as a result of miscommunication and assumptions spanning more years than that.

She wouldn't do it again, not when her Pip taught her better.

She walked back to the bed and slipped under the duvet.

She let herself lie next to him, feeling his warm body that meant more than he'd understand.

She heard his heartbeat and realised how strange it was that she had been able to go to sleep in his arms.

It normally took a lot of tossing and turning and so many hours of insomnia.

She wouldn't think about it, she told herself.

She couldn't afford to.

Half asleep, he pulled her closer and she almost sighed happily.

And was immediately terrified.

Happiness scared her. Especially when she KNEW it wasn't real, or permanent, at any rate.

Maybe it was real, how was she to know?

It didn't matter because she'd never know.

She'd just be yet another girl he bagged.

Just a number.

A body to comfort him as he travelled alone in an empty hotel room with a successful career.

She was easy, she had never been able to say no to him. It was her favourite word to say to everyone else, but never him.

He'd probably count this as a win.

She'd let him, because he'd be able to shut the book on them permanently now that he knew. Or thought he knew, anyway.

It was time for her to shut it.

They could only ever be friends; if he felt more, wouldn't he talk about it?

If he couldn't talk about it, could they ever have worked?

She knew better.

The problem is, when she looked at him, she still saw that adorable little boy.

Sitting in the classroom, exchanging email addresses with her.

The first person to email her.

She fell in love with him the day she walked into that stupid classroom.

It took her a decade to admit it, but she finally had.

You can't undo love, but you can learn to move on.

Sometimes, she reminded herself, you have to move on.

Maybe they would never have worked, because they'd always see those kids when they looked at each other.

They'd changed so much since then.

But isn't that what we crave, at the end of the day?

Someone who knows who we were, and is willing to be with whoever we become?
Someone that can anchor us to what we lost and push us to move forward as well?

She could be so happy with him.

She felt that the first time he sent her a message on Yahoo! messenger. The first time he emailed her.

The first time she heard his voice on her dial up phone and asked her mom to drop the other line so she could talk in privacy.

It's the same voice that said, "Hi you" and rolled over her right now.

It maybe have sounded different, boys voices usually do when they grow up, but to her it sounded the same.

It wasn't the voice she had heard, it was the person the voice belonged to.

And she loved him uncompromisingly, unwillingly, unhappily, and it undid her completely that she would never be with him. That they could have been but they hadn't been ready then, and they never would be again.

She started kissing him, and she poured all he pain into the kiss. It was passionate and painful. She needed him to feel what she felt inside.

"Come on, time to get ready," she said, reluctantly and he heard a voice that was eager to get rid of him.

Would she regret this?

Did she already?

Was she ashamed.

Was she done with him.

He got up and asked her to come shower with him.

She would've said yes because she understood what that meant but her past had been difficult, and showering with him would have triggered an unfortunately unpleasant moment of PTSD. She didn't want to taint her memories with him.

Instead of explaining, she made up some excuse.

He gave up.

He went for a shower, and when he came back, she was already dressed.

They spoke to each other as if the last nights hadn't happened.

And they parted as if strangers, neither knowing what the other was truly thinking or feeling. Neither having enough courage to be honest to themselves, much less to each other.

Another series of senseless but utterly human mistakes.

It was just an insignificant amount of time, enough to ruin one of their lives for a very long time.

The question was, which one of them would it be?

-x-

Alternate Reality Ramble 37

Intro

So, this one's a bit wonky. It's got two separate love or as the participants would put it, unrequited love stories put together as one.

I was out with two lovely people, and at 6 am, came the stories that were consuming them. He spoke about a story that spanned five years and the other spoke about one that spanned longer than that. His only progressed to cuddling which was the point at which it had broken. The other progressed further with no real conclusion either.

So, here's to the broken.
Here is to the ones who deserve closure.
Here, is to the people who deserve so much more.

I don't know you all, but I know some of you. And we try to deal with things the way we know best but sometimes we still screw ourselves over. Don't worry, we're more than you think. We are but one of the many. And we will survive. Regardless of what the other person does to us.

Dearest readers, he/she/they might not love you the way you deserve, but I do. And I always will :)

Story

"When can you meet me?" He texted her.

"Anytime, you tell me," she ceded control.

"Tomorrow after 6 pm when I'm done with work?"

"Yeah," she paused, worried about the implications, "Okay, I'll be there."

The next day was worrisome.

She reached.

She saw him before he saw her.

The butterflies she remembered were just as potent as they were when she was fifteen, just a lot more intense than she seemed to remember.

They didn't hug. They stood there awkwardly, both wondering what to say, or do, and not being able to reach out. Never being able to reach out.

Later, he asked her, "You can crash at my place, no point in going all the way home early."

She knew what that could mean, and she did it anyway.

Nostalgia trips can hurt, but they do help the healing process.

Or so she told herself.

She was watching everything she said or did, with an almost clinical detachment.

When she told him, "I loved you. I didn't know how to handle it and I've spent my entire life trying to deal with being in love with you. There's never been any space for someone else, no matter how hard they or I tried."

He seemed uncomfortable, she wondered if she was oversharing.

If she was, he deserved the discomfort. The fact that she was here meant that he'd win as he always did.

They talked, they sang, they danced.

And later, they got intimate.

In the beginning, she shivered with the thought of validation burning into her soul.

This is it, I'll finally get closure.

Her heart cried at her to stop.

You're too fragile, you aren't ready for this.

Her mind shouted back, I'm a survivor, aren't I? I've been through Hell and back. If I could live through everything I already have then what is he to someone on my path? Just a boy. Not even a man, because a man would have more courage. Just a stupid little boy, unable to deal with confrontation and the consuming passion of a woman like me. My love has survived everything that has been thrown at it. I have wavered but I stood strong. I will love fiercely and independently as I always have. A boy who cares nothing for me can't touch it.

Her heart recognised that her mind was at fault but there was no convincing herself. Her heart did what it was programmed to do- it gave up.

When he kissed her, she smirked because she had finally won. The long con. But the question was, could she truly pull it off or would she be sucked in?

The greater the risk, the better the reward, she whispered to herself.

It was always worth it.

She didn't live with regrets.

If it happened, it was essential to her plans.

Everything tragic served a purpose in moulding who she meant to be and this was a big one.

When she kissed him back, a stray thought entered her consciousness that she couldn't shake.

This should've been my first kiss. And I want it to be my last.

Trying to shake it away she began to half heartedly seduce him. To complete the long con, it couldn't be what she'd have done with a man or woman that she'd have loved. He didn't deserve that. It had to be different. Disappointing, in a way. But, as a wise woman had once told her, some people have great chemistry but absolutely shit timing.

Her sexuality had never been her friend before but suddenly, it decided to be useful. It gave her boundaries, perspectives, breathing space.

As he told her all the kind of sweet things that men tend to blurt out when they want to get a woman into bed, her sexuality reminded her of the truth. She was but another notch he itched to put on his belt.

If she gave him half a notch, she'd know the truth.

It was the ultimate test.

Does he want me

Or

Does he only want me?

Two days of memories. Two days of giving in to things she wished she'd been asked to give into when they were younger, more nice, stupider and filled with dreams of how the future could have been. Only two days. Could a girl ask for more?

When you've spent a lifetime trying to fill the void in you that your sexuality has left, it gets difficult to give it up.

Love and nostalgia, and what ifs are the double edged knife she hadn't accounted for.

The day after, she went out and another idiot happened.

The problem was different this time.

This time, the problem was that it

Wasn't

Him.

She hated herself with more passion than she would've loved him, had he wanted her to.

She would've given him the sun, moon and stars. He would've felt a love that couldn't burn out. She would've had unwavering faith and loyalty. She would've given him the kind of love that authors spent years trying to write books about.

But he didn't want that, she suspected.

He didn't want the kind of love that people died for. He wanted a normal life. He wanted flawed loves, endless heartbreaks and tragically unsatisfied endings.

And everyone that wanted her could feel the love she had inside her, but they withered because she'd never have given it to them.

So she took that love, and she turned it into hate.

She hated herself enough to never be capable of hating anyone else again.

Love and hate, they're just two sides of the same coin.

Then came Monday.

She had given him a chance, to talk about stuff.

He hadn't taken it. She let him see the sides of herself she usually kept him safe for.

He didn't want them.

He didn't want her.

She had her answer, didn't she?

Somehow, she had always had her answer.

She turned her back to her past, because she was the girl with no regrets.

She burned with a flame nobody could extinguish, and by the gods, they had tried.

It would take a while, she mused, to completely bury this love she knew belonged to him.

But she'd do it.

Tomorrow is another day, and she wasn't wasting another second of it. She had already wasted 12 years. It was time to fly.

-x-

Alternate Reality Ramble 36

Intro:

So, I went on a date recently and I have another one set up for next week. I was talking to a friend of mine and discussing how weird dating is now. He's broken up with his longest and only ex but they still meet as friends and the break up was a few years ago. 

We discussed some things and I suppose this story is a result of me going on that date, mixed with his feelings and experiences since then? Or maybe mine, who knows ;)

Anyway, without further ado, I present to you,

The Story:

A Letter From A Twisted Rainbow to Pot of Gold That's the Myth We All Believe

I met a guy today, you know that?

I went on an actual date. I mean, I pretended it wasn't one but who am I kidding. It was a date. He said all the right things. He even tried to get me to admit it wasn't a date.

Remember how hard you tried to get me to admit we were dating?

Remember how you insisted those counted as dates.

Remember how hard I fought it?

Why had I fought it?

If only I had known, we had limited time. I should have just enjoyed it...enjoyed you. Enjoyed, US.

He was cute, but not as cute as you.

It's funny, I remember you and I meeting at that lounge/club/bar that first time, and me being nervous about whether you looked good or not because I thought you were cute but I was already half in love with who you were so I was biased...that's how it works for me. I asked a girl if she thought you were good looking, she said, he's hella fiiiiiine. I asked if she wanted me to set you guys up, she said yes, please.

I did...but that's another story for another day.

And you played me back exactly when I played you and I think I couldn't have stopped myself from falling for you, because of that.

It's funny, he played me just like that but in a less long term way.

He was good, but predictable. I let him play me, because it felt like you.

He likes broadway, do you remember when you played my all time favourite jazz song when I said we needed mood music?

You don't know this, but that moment, well. That moment, was when I fell for you so hard that it terrified me.

Life is all about these little moments, aren't they?

I keep saying, oh yeah this moment, this was the one where I fell for you. Seems to be a common trait and I keep saying it for every moment, don't I?

The thing is

I don't think I fell for you just once.

I remember, you'd ask me sometimes, when was it that you fell for me regardless of the fact that you won't admit this is love and I'm not pressuring you to say it back, okay, it's alllll chill so calm down.

I'd glare at you and pretend to be coy but the truth is, I didn't fall in love with you at a certain time. I fell in love with you over and over again. It's funny because it's been so many years, and it's hella scary, but I'm still falling in love with you even though we don't have any new moments and I'm sure, we never will again. I'm not complaining, I know what happened. I don't blame you. I don't blame me. I don't blame us, I love us. I mean, loved. Yes, loved.

We watched a movie, and it wasn't innocent.

I protested but gave in.

Do you think I was being naive to think it would really be innocent?

I didn't believe you when you said it would be.

And yet, every single bone in my body remembers aching for you to move closer. Even cell in my body remembers crying because your skin wasn't touching mine. My lips remember drying up because they were dying to taste yours.

But you did nothing.

We just watched a movie, in the most perfect naive, innocent and achingly painful way.

And it's always been my personal favourite moment, but shh don't tell anybody. It's my secret, okay? Since, I suppose, I never told you.

I was young and stupid, and didn't know how to.

You and me, sitting all alone in our apartment watching a horror movie which I found out, much later, was something you can't put yourself through, but you did. For a random girl you had just met, who you weren't even trying to date or touch.

Gods, but how can hindsight not make me love everything about you even more?

It's funny but if I asked you now, if we ever talked, what you thought, I suppose maybe your answer would be that, we broke up because it wasn't working and the love was gone and all that stuff.

Baby, I may have been irrational and crazy and hurt and resentful and all those horrible things I was being and you, were all those things you were being as well, but I never. Never, ever, EVER, not even for a moment, nay, a second, stopped loving you.

I wouldn't have acted that way if I hadn't felt for you what they write great epic poems about.

Because I loved you so much, I knew what was happening was going to kill me and it did and I did it anyway and that's what I do, don't I?

I'm terrified of being happy and I'm terrified of losing and I need the pain.

Guess who's alone and sad in a corner, listening to your Koop (Island Blues) song on repeat after watching Serendipity and getting triggered by it and can't stop saying "I hate you so much I hate everything about you I hate that I can't hate you and I hate hate H A T E that I love you and never could stop loving you. Gods, but I hate how I can't not love you. After all this time. After all this time, I'm that blasted man. Stupid little Severus Snape. I'm always that little asshole."

He's smart, you know.

I may be biased, but he's not as smart as you.

He can hold me still and have his way with me, while giving me the option of opting out and you know how much I love that. You know how much I needed that, and yet, when you couldn't bear to risk hurting me to do those things, I've never loved you more and hated everyone who can give me what I need even more.

He's respectful, but not as respectful as the man who actually let me stop him from kissing me again and again, until I did it myself. Until I finally gave in. Until I cried and kissed him and asked him why he didn't just grab me and kiss me, because that would have just solved everything and he looked at me and said, I would never. Do that. Unless you asked me to.

I love you.

I love everything about you.

They said I'd get over it, they say I'm still hanging on to the past, what's wrong with me they ask?

It's you.

I'm missing a piece of myself because that piece is you. And if it isn't, then I'm sorry because I guess I gave that piece to you and never really got it back.

I don't want it.

It's yours.

I'm yours.

You'll never know that, haha. Funny, isn't it?

You'll never ever EVER know that I'm yours.

No terms or conditions, I'd marry you today, right here, right now, I don't care but you don't know.

Why

Am

I

Like

This?

*deep breaths*

*uncontrollable shaking*

*refusal to sob anymore*

I love you.

And that's okay.

I'll be okay.

I'll

be

ok
ay.

Oooh, look.

He sent me a text.

It was nice that he said I smell nice.

It was nice when he told me I'm cuter than I could ever look in my pictures.

It's nice that he likes my butt.

It's nice that I smell like him after saying goodbye.

It's...

...nice.

That I can't

ever

forget

how

I

still

want

to

smell

like

you.

Wow.

Whew.

Okay.

Apparently, I'll never get used to not smelling like you. Who knew? Haha. LOL.

I was easy to everyone but you, huh?

I remember you yelling that at me in fits of jealousy and rage.

I remember it hurting that you thought of me as a slut, after all we'd been through.

Darling, my sweet darling, I was never easy for you, simply because unlike them?

You

M

...ma

......mattered.

There, I said it.

Because you mattered. And no one else ever did.

Life's a bitch, isn't it?

Crap, I should text him back.

Time to get back to real life.

You're a ghost in my life that I'll never be able to deal with because I can't not love you.

Or maybe I'm not trying hard enough.

Maybe I just don't want to.

I

No.

It doesn't matter.

Good night, darling.

Hello, new stranger.

Let's Netflix and chill :)

-x-

Alternate Reality Ramble 35

Intro

Super random post. It's a sort of Waiting for Godot like piece, really. I wouldn't want to spoil it, so just go ahead.

It's not a great piece, I think. But I was in the mood and this flew out of my fingers, on to the screen. So different from what I was thinking of writing, but who am I to question my Muse?

Fair warning, it could be mildly depressing or hopeful. But which one, my dear reader, is completely up to you :)

Story

She walked into the empty kitchen and looked around for something to do.

The dishes were washed, she had had dinner outside so there was nothing to clean up. She stuffed her unfinished post midnight "snack" back into the fridge. Food was clearly incapable of filling up the giant hole of emptiness that acted like a black hole to her internal existence.

She should know, it had been years and she still kept on trying.

Trying and trying, on and on. Forward, to the fire, as did the Light Brigade.

Theirs was not to question, but to do or die.

Some trashy paranormal romance book author once wrote, "life sucks and then you die. Yeah, I should be so lucky."

Or something along those lines, anyway.

Very apropos.

Sometimes, you spend years not being suicidal, just simple wishing existence would cease to be.

That the infinite darkness insides you would swallow you up and you'd be brave enough to let yourself be taken in completely, but you never are.

They say that you're brave to keep fighting, to keep on living. George Washington says that the hardest thing to do is to keep living and fighting instead of dying in the glory of battle, to Alexander Hamilton who was still young, naive and looking to satisfy himself and raise his orphan status to something more than the vast emptiness of a dying fight inside of him.

She mused on thoughts of a musical, pretending to herself that they were historically accurate enough to be able to correctly represent the emotional state of the figures presented in the narrative.

Why was Ed Sheeran such a wonderful human being who kept making cheerful songs that depressed the living hell out of her?

Silly thoughts, she shook them out of her mind.

As she opened the door to her room, her breath caught in her throat- she was suddenly assailed by an inevitable shower of memories that were entwined with feelings she could never really shake.

They say heartbreak is cruel, but Time is a mistress that heals everything, especially that.

There are so many people, including her, who had gone through so much worse. Yet, it was something as simple and ridiculous as a failed love affair that haunted her forever.

It's worse when you're the reason it ended, even if it was for a legitimate reason and you still think you served the greater good for the one you loved. And still do.

It's nothing, she tells herself.

It's nothing, she physically wills herself to forget. Shaking her body, as if to shake the awful thoughts out of her mental prison, she pushes the door harder and walks in as if nothing happened.

She switches the main light off, and walks to her bed.

The empty bed feels as comfortable as always- nice and welcoming in the most hollow way of all.

She tucks herself into the quilt, it's not cold enough to put the radiator on yet.

She wills herself to be warm and happy.

The mental ice frosting her from the inside can't reach her toasty body. It can, however, almost convince her she's still freezing.

She's always freezing.

Ever since that last fateful week.


She switches her fairy lights on, marvelling at the beauty of such a simple, silly thing.


She'll never stop being a child.





Even though her innocence was destroyed so many times over, by so many men, women, boys and girls. They all tried and they'll keep trying.

She's a silly little girl though, they can't touch her inside.

Little ice princess, she's too cold to defrost.

The only person who shattered her could but that person never will.

She will never believe in anything besides fairytales.

She hates perfection, but her perfection always lay in her flaws. She saw the world for what it was- something beautiful and broken, something difficult and painful, something to destroy and preserve.

She loved like they did in the 16th century books she used to read at night with a torch, under the covers, secretly. She loves like the 18th century books she now reads openly, as part of the irrelevant but beloved work she indulges in.

She loves, like people wish they could love but can't.

But if they knew, they would destroy it.

Silly girl, she thinks she knows how to protect herself.

But she hurts because she will never stop love.

Never stop believing,

and therefore never stop hurting.

Love hurts, nobody knows that better than human beings.

They hurt her, but they can't break her.

She was broken too long ago.

Not by someone else.

That someone else was only a tool.

As with Icarus, the only person bringing about her destruction was herself.

But how can one stop themselves from flying too close to the sun?

To destruction?

It is the penultimate of human desire, to reach that which undoes.

That destroys.

It is that which one strives to, just so it can destroy so it can create anew.

With that thought, she lets herself drift off to sleep and switches off the fire hazardous fairy lights.

When she wakes up, it'll be a brand new Scarlet O'Hara kind of day.

Today will be gone, and tomorrow will be another day anew.

C'est la vie, ma cherie.

Sweet dreams, silly girl.

Doris Day will sing to you, Que Sera Sera, as always while Morpheus watches over you.

-x-

Alternate Reality Ramble 34

Intro

I've been doing a Gilmore Girls rewatch marathon because I wanted to see the revival with context and it's been a while, so I'm going through Rory's break up with Dean and subsequent getting together with Jess and it suddenly occurred to me that I've never addressed this sort of thing. Getting over people you don't get over, what happens in the process of a break up that should never (maybe) have happened? The time heals all thing is garbage for that kind of relationship, the one that never ends for one person involved, if not both. So how does it work exactly? You still love them, they're still your Christopher and he decides to have a baby with Miss Perfect and marry her and you're still Lorelei with his first kid, secretly wishing and waiting for the moment you get Chris back because you deserve this, you've always deserved this and somehow, somewhere, something deep down inside told you it would happen eventually.

But you didn't have his kid so he doesn't talk to you, Chris isn't in your life at all. You hear some things, maybe you see an update of some kind, and it hurts that he can't Dean up to you and initiate a coffee and be friends like he promised you would be if you ever broke up. Losing Chris the boyfriend is bad, but Chris the best friend? Heartbreaking.

It's funny but I think there's always this moment for everyone where you think you're over him/her and this "moment" happens a LOT. But each of these "moments" do kinda teach you something, you lose a little something and you gain a little something. It's not really getting over a Dean, but it's kinda like begrudgingly moving on like you desperately prayed you would.

ANYYYYWAY, I could go on, but here's the story.

Story

I can't remember your voice

Is it weird?

Today is the first day I woke up and didn't reach for my phone, like my sleepy body FINALLY accepted that you don't text me good morning messages anymore.

I woke up and something about my dream made me remember a few intimate moments in my life and I thought of the last person, and the person before that and then I made myself think about you and that's when it hit me.

I can't remember your voice.

The week it was over, you wouldn't pick up the call. Or FaceTime. I never did get that closure, but if I had heard you or seen you, I know I never would've gone through with it.

You were the Max Medina to my Lorelei Gilmore in most ways.

I can't remember your voice.

It's so scary

I can visualise your eyes, they were always my favourite thing about you. You hated that, because everyone made fun of that apparently but I could never understand why. It's funny, that out of everything, it's still your eyes that I remember. And the feeling of your hair (before your haircuts which ruined it even though I always refused to tell you if I wanted it cut or not). Going to sleep next to you, holding you and waking up to you is the most painful memory I have. Because it's one of my only happy space feelings.

I can't

remember

your voice.

I'm in the new country I told you I was moving to eventually.

You said you'd go to the other, I said we'd do both and you said we could pick one in between.

I couldn't make myself go for years because of what we lost. You went, though, after we were over.

I finally did it, baby.

I'm here.

And you're not right here with me.

I love you.

I'm sorry I never said it back

I'm sorry I can't here your voice telling me that anymore, it's driving me crazy

I need you

I want you

Gods, but I love you

Maybe this is what moving on is about

Maybe I'm F I N A L L Y moving on

Or is this not moving on, but something much worse

Are you being Eternal Sunshine-d out of me but we are in different cities AND countries so it'll never work out like the movie?

I really did think we needed to be apart for our lives to fall back into place. Yours seems to have, and mine took longer...so much longer, because the aftermath almost killed me. But mine is getting back on track now.

I never meant for it to be impossible for us to be together after it all worked out.

I read too many stories when I was a kid, you know?

I watched too many shows, too many movies and sang too much broadway.

You knew that, about me. You're the only one who really tried to absorb that part of me and I loved you for it.

You're my impossible standards, everyone after you can blame you for us not working out. I hold them up to your standards, and I can't possibly stay when they fall so low. Not when the only person I've ever loved set the bar so high up.

I hate you

I hate that I can't hate you

I hate that I'm 10 Things About You-ing this but you aren't Heath Ledger, you didn't even try when I sent you that one crazy text on a lonely holiday a year later when I was miserable and I missed you

You didn't even try, the year after, when I sent you a we're-adults-and-can-be-civilised type "happy birthday" message.

You certainly didn't try to wish me.

I hate you

I hate you so much

I hate that you're still making me cry

You hated that I never cried, you wanted me without walls, you wanted the emotions and all that came with it but when it started, you let it win. I showed it all because you promised you could handle it but you let it win, didn't you? You said you didn't want to fight for me anymore, even though I warned you before I accepted you the first time that it was going to be like this and told you you didn't wanna be with someone like me.

I cry all the time now, babe.

The thought of you has me randomly welling up literally anywhere and everywhere.

I don't know how you would feel with this information.

Makes me happy if it makes you happy.

Please be happy, otherwise, whats the point?

I've tried so hard, to fall in love.

I can't because you won't get out of my heart.

I can't rememberyourvoice

W h y

c a n ' t

I

r e m e m b e r

Y O U R

F U C K I N G

V O I C E

IcantrememberhowyousoundhowyoutastehowyoulookIcantrememberIcantrememberIcantrememberIcantrememberhuiwfhfkwguvfgvmbffhwjdjhvfwdihajwfmahw

Okay

I just woke up.

It doesn't matter.

I don't care.

I'm gong to take a shower and try to wash you out of my existence just like all the other times.

It's impossible, but one shower can't hurt, can it?

Goodbye, and I still can't remember your voice and it's scary but I think I really am ready now.