I love the indescribable emotional bond you get to characters who you’ve loved since you were a kid/teen it’s like damn little dude we’ve really been through it all haven’t we
She drank a lot of merlot. The alcohol and the not-giving-a-fuck freed even the most stubborn words which otherwise clung to self-censorship. But unless she wrote them down, I don’t remember them now.
What of that girl then was me? What of her is still me?
Her closest friends were imaginary. Imaginary is what was accessible to her. She treasured those dears. I do miss them and the fullness of my heart with them inside me. Imaginary isn’t accessible to me now in the same way.
A greater dimensionality of real should be accessible to me now, but I don’t know how or where to access it. The last of the imaginary friends left my heart weeks and months ago. I’m not consciously looking to fill the void, so maybe I’m more okay with it now? I don’t know.
Do I still want to beat the shit out of real people in liminal space? I don’t think so. At least I don’t feel that energy. “Abusers” isn’t even a word I use anymore. Mostly I just want people to be outside of me. Most people anyway.
I might be interested in creating new imaginary friends, but frankly I’ve never been particularly creative. Everyone I’ve created is just different versions of myself and their stories are different versions of my personal stories. I feel like I’ve already spent too much time with myself, but life tells me otherwise. I wouldn’t mind bringing back the merlot if my body hadn’t responded so poorly to it. I can write about alcoholics, but I can’t be one.
I wonder what else I could write about. It feels like the answer now is nothing, but that’s the void talking. It’s strange leaving one’s former muses on the side of the road. I wonder where they’re spending time now. I feel a chasm between me and creation. I lack the know-how and the desire to fill the chasm or bridge the chasm.
The chasm is probably the same old void. And on occasions like this, it fills with nonsense.
