Tue, Sep. 27th, 2005, 01:57 pm
Beads of rain
On spider's web,
On flower petals,
Down steeple sides,
On my face.
And faerie laughter
Fill the woods
On rain soaked nights.
Loose yourself in thier joy,
Find yourself in thier games,
Faeries, flowers, and streaming rain;
From all these things
Are magic made.
...are the ones, it seems, we can know least...help least. Every time I see a friend...a lover...in trouble...hurting...I want to reach out, cup my hands around them, and hold them until the storm in their lives passes over...sheltering them. I reach out, I talk, I try to get them to see the truth...drop the illusions...but they are usually incapable of pulling themselves out of these self-destructive habits. It hurts to care so much, for people who care about themselves so litle. I hurt when those I love hurt...but I cannot force them to see what they are worth...cannot open their eyes, and make them see what they are worth.
I am tormented, by night, with images of the dead. Sometimes I hear them cry to me to join them, sometimes, I hear them crying in pain or fear. I know how they died, each of them, and I see them in their final moments, and wonder what they were thinking. I know it's morbid, to remember them in this way, but it is not something I am capable of controlling without drugs that I do not want to take. Sometimes it happens even when I am awake. Every time, it stabs through me like a Viking spear, pointed, jagged, barbed, so that when I take out the spear, my blood flows out with it.
I tried, for a long time, to pretend that this was not happening. When I was a child, I wore the colors of summer, and pretended to myself that I was not tortured by night. I laughed, joked, and always had a smile ready for whoever encountered me. As I grew, though, the dreams grew. As I matured, the dreams turned more terrible. So now, I give in to it. I wear the night-colors, and I listen to music that entrances my adult mind, and I...I revel in my darkness.
I once told a woman who accosted me because of what I wore, that I did not need her hell, that I carried my own around with me. How would you feel, I asked, if you saw the mangled corpses of those you loved reaching out for you from their graves, body parts strewn bloody across the floor? Yes, I carry my own personal hell around with me. I don't need yours. Mine is far, far worse than you could ever imagine. And I walked away, while she stared at me in horror. Yes, I left that woman standing there, in the frozen foods section of H.E.B., wondering how her god could allow me to live with the things crawling around in my mind...I left her doubting.
Whenever you see me, walking around on the streets, or those who look like I do, goths, punks, gravers...remember; they have their reasons for their outward appearance. And it might just be to externalise the way they feel. So, when you see the freaks that the night births...do not run, do not scoff...they might just be carrying their own hell around with them.
Though they rarely caused mankind any serious harm,
these Japanese fox spirits known as kitsune
were well known for playing tricks on people
and could be a real nuisance. They possessed
the ability to transform into any creature,
though they would often retain their fox tail.
One could easily determine the age and level of
maturity of a kitsune by counting it's tails;
An immature, rambunctious kitsune would have
very few tails, while a wise and powerful one
would have as many as nine.
As a kitsune, you are clever, sensual, beautiful,
mysterious and effeminate (even if you are a
guy). You are also somewhat sneaky and like to
pull pranks on people, but otherwise you are
very pleasurable to be around. Who is your inner Shapeshifter? brought to you by Quizilla
Mon, Sep. 26th, 2005, 05:29 pm
On cat-feet it creeps in unseen
It slides between buildings
Silently stalking the trees.
Over waters still, it hovers
Like an owl, it flies softly
Through city streets, it walks boldly.
It blots out visions of things nearby
It smudges edges of things once crisp
It wreaths the world in dark fantasy.
The Captive Within
She rails and claws,
Screeches and wails
She climbs the walls of her cage
She hurls herself against all boundaries
She is pain
She is rage
She is terror in the night
She would consume what binds her
She would destroy it, utterly, and run rampant ... wreaking havok
She is the beast within
The beast we all must keep chained.
But might it not be nice...
To let her loose?