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_littlewing_ (1239284)

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There is no such thing as love,
Only proofs of love.

Name:

Caitlin

Location:

Washington, Dist. of Columbia, United States

Birthdate:

1983-02-23

LJ Talk:

_littlewing_

livejournal.com (Jabber)

Bio:

Despite the very real possibilities for vast and irreperable damage, there is something to be said for staring into the sun, for fisting the wound, for tracing the cracks back to their point of eruption and then chipping away further and deeper into the cavernous dark.

In fact, I have never known any other way.

Disclaimer?
I've realised that when I write, it's usually for one of two reasons: The first is an actual need for release after too much has been absorbed. After writing for a while in this state, I usually end up feeling satisfactorily purged and somewhat lighter than before. The second, however, is an unshakeable desperation not to be adrift alone in the torrents of my own mind, mainly out of pure terror. Under this influence, I will pound out streams of haphazard judgments and observations on any of my recent experiences or surroundings, regardless of their insignificance or value. Feelings of satisfaction are rarely to never gained from this exercise, in fact, I usually end up looking at its results with complete disgust. I do suppose, however, that this is what a journal is for, as it is always wise to have an outlet in which to empty these baseless and mercurial tirades so as not to subject them to other people. On the other hand, if this is true, it brings us to the very relevant question as to why there are over fifty names listed below my own, of those with access to these most inner and impulsive musings. And the only answer I have is that I have not actually been able to come up with an adequate (to my own mind) justification as to why I’m doing this. While I do often absorb things-- intangible things to be more specific-- with an alarmingly unfortunate rapidity, most of the writing that is located here falls under the latter of the two categories I have just described. It’s just the way things work; the prior will come in necessary intervals, but the second acts as a constant flotation device, and if I let go, I am not sure what will happen. So I suppose this is a disclaimer of sorts. While I do think it is somewhat ridiculous to delete a journal in its entirety (if we’re going to look at it comparatively, I do occasionally shred several pages over the trash can out of frustration, but I very rarely burn a whole notebook—deletion just makes it too easy) there have been many times when I considered boarding this one up, complete with signs reading ABANDONED in slapdash red paint. But for whatever reason, I keep finding reasons to surge forward, just like with most things that I don’t end up abandoning on the wayside. It really is uncanny how many times I have considering giving this up, and how many timely, new reasons have developed for me to stay on. I’m sure one day, I will be overcome with the temptation to delete or let languish, and will not be able to come up with a reason to prevent me from doing so. But for now, I still have my reasons, be they very inadequate considering all this has wrought, and so I am here…

BUT WAIT, major transformations are in progress. THE PURPOSE IS NO LONGER TO ESCAPE, BUT TO EXPLORE. If you feel the urge to escape, resist and eat a fruit cup (and if that doesn't work, at least take the destruction out on yourself as opposed to these helpless words in which we will eventually lose all faith if we allow ourselves to treat them as just another sedative, EVEN FOR ONE MORE SENTENCE.) We are now equipped with oars and a snorkel; there is NO LONGER ANY EXCUSE IF WE HIDE. We are HEADED FOR SOMEWHERE now, and disclaiming will serve very little purpose. No, no euphemistic, convoluted disclaimer necessary; if you ever find yourself the least bit hindered, simply state, "PARDON ME, BUT THERE IS A DESTINATION I AM ATTEMPTING TO REACH AND YOU ARE IN MY WAY."

***

I do delete and tamper with old entries freely and recklessly, so the remaining evidence is definitely not a full or accurate representation of all that has happened. Of course, even if if I did write an entry here every day, and never altered anything, this would still not be a full or accurate representation of all that has happened. It's important to remember that it never is.

Most of my entries are friends only, but you could probably still get a taste without being added. I do plan to make most of them public again one day in the near future, once I stop being so paranoid...
No need to ask to add me, feel free.

***

The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: "I have just spat out my heart."

There is an instrument called the quena made of human bones. It owes its origin to the worship of an Indian for his mistress. When she died he made a flute out of her bones. The quena has a more penetrating, more haunting sound than any other flute.

Those who write know the process. I thought of it as I was spitting out my heart.

Only I do not wait for my love to die.

~ Anais Nin, House of Incest

Memories:

5 entries

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