~I'm not all together sure why the idea of posting in here is suddenly so attractive to me. Is it because everyone's moved on and I feel I can say whatever I want? Am I hiding something from people I love? Am I that afraid of what people think?
~It worries me a little. I don't want people pouring down and saying "Oh GOD! That's AWFUL, I'm so SORRY" to whatever I post...and alternatly, I don't want them not to pour out cookie cutter sympathy. Everyone's been abused. Everyone's had bad relationships. Everyone is a little emo inside.
~Here, it's safe. There's no one watching, so I can rehash the thing that keep bubbling up. No one will say anything about it because...there's no one there.
~This also leads me to believe that there is a fundemental breakdown in what passes for communication in my relationships. Why don't I feel I can say these things what amounts to in front of them instead of coming here and whispering them into my empty closet?
~As with everything else, I'm sure this has to do with myself moreso than the people I call friends. I feel as if I've said everything so many times that it's now a scripted play:
Kitty: I am sad.
World: OMG I'M SO SORRY
Kitty: My feelings are bruised.
World: OMG I'M SO SORRY
Kitty: I think I'm depressed and am worried that my suicidal tendancies might start to resurface.
World: OMG I'M SO SORRY
Kitty: I fucked your dog.
World: OMG I'M SO SORRY
~There's an Alkaline Trio song that starts out "This house is full of ears, but I can't talk to anyone--they've heard this one a thousand times."
~I don't have much new pain. It's all the old stuff bubling out like heartburn after chili. Everyone's seen most of my dirty laundry. It's there. It's well known. Everyone's heard about it. So why can't I move on from it?
~Somedays, I feel very shallow. Like I'm a painted picture--there's only as much depth to me as there are layers of paint. And yet...beneath that, I have feelings and hurts and puzzlements...and I don't feel like I have anyone to talk to about them.
~This is cycling back around to the therepy idea, but I'm going to try to avoid it studiously. I'm far too practiced in the art of avoidance.
~My Livejournal is full of trite phrases, paragraphs about work that no one understands or cares about, and the sudious avoidance of any big issues. I don't need or want sympathy any more. It's beyond that. What I want--and prehaps need--is someone to talk to. Someone I can sit down with in person and cry if need be. I want someone to know everything because I am tired of being the only one.
~I'm glad no one lives here any more and the Diaryland is full of empty houses with chipped paint fences and gates that swing open in the wind because no one is around to lock them anymore. It makes me feel safe in the same way that desolation road makes a good destination when you've nowhere else to go.
~That's a Bob Dylan reference--my favourite song of his.
Cinderella, she seems so easy
"It takes one to know one," she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he's moaning
"You Belong to Me I Believe"
And someone says," You're in the wrong place, my friend
You better leave"
And the only sound that's left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row
~Ahhh, I supose the title is Desolation Row. I've always heard 'road' and I like it better that way.
~There are three of me. There is diaryland-pantherchild who is honest and afraid. There is livejournal-pantherchild who is bouncy and in love. There is supportbitch who is technical and bitter.
~Together, we combine to form...
~...well, just me, I guess. I don't have superpowers anymore. I don't think I ever really did.~