~~how soon is now~
Aug. 10th, 2002 11:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
reenkayou wouldn't know it, but i'm actually suffering from an attack of fatalism. yea. i'm not nearly as idealistically bubbly as i think i am, sometimes. actually, secretly, i don't expect things to work out. so i seek out stories where they do work out, exactly as i want them to, since really, i can't seem to write those. i mean, i suppose i can pull a happy ending out of my ass, but that seems-- well-- like admitting defeat. the problem is, i can't really write angst, where there's actually sad, tragic things going on. nope, all i can write is confused, pathetic wibbling. i guess they say, "write what you know", heh. i want to be convincing, but i can't. i want to reassure myself, but i can't. i mean, i believe it's -possible-, and -needed- and beautiful, if it happened. but how does it happen?? i have like, no idea. how to you get from point a) misunderstandings and hang-ups and depression and angst and fear to point b) resolution and openness and lots of shagging and being true to yourself and.... how does anyone actually -do- that whole couple thing, anyway? i mean, i know -i- can't do it very well. i don't know anyone personally (very well) who's a whiz at it, either. most couples i know of in real life are pathetic. no, not tragic. not painfully sad. pathetic.
i think there's a major conflict between emotion and reason, when it comes to these things. emotionally, i can just "have faith". i don't need to -explain- how it works. it just works! woo! chemistry! "meant-to-be"ness, at work! you don't need to have a treatise as to why (say) buffy and spike will actually fit like a glove, if they bother to put it on. they just will! you know they will! i mean, no it's not because they work at it, and figure things out. i mean, you have this feeling that they need each other, and so they just instinctually take what they need, and give back and boom! relationship. yea. i know. doesn't work that way.
in my experience, things could have so much promise, so much possibility within them. and they fail for these minute, `stupid asshole' reasons. i try to think, ok, we all know in the buffy/spike pairing, spike is way pathetic-- but hey, buffy isn't as pathetic, maybe... maybe she can help him! and like, yea, draco's way pathetic, but harry isn't, and....
except he is, isn't he? well he is, when i begin to write him. i can't seem to help it. sucks, really. hey, like, it'd be so cool if people were actually like the way draco is in "draco veritas" (to pick an example off the top of my head). there are a lot of people, of course, so some of them must be like that. damn, i wanna meet them. would they look down at me? --no of course not, that'd reflect negatively on them.
so, i write what i know. it's a bit sickening, really. or maybe it's just gotten to be this way, ever since my actual life experience started beating me over the head again, saying, "reena, you didn't actually think you were -home free- did you? noooo, there's much more patheticness waiting for you, around the corner. yum, patheticness!"
just recently i was writing self-deprecating-but-not-quite-pathetic stories. i still didn't know where i was going, but at least... at least...that seemed like a good thing. sort of like, i could write the beginnings and leave the endings for someone else. good trick, huh? i don't have to get pathetic, because i refuse to go beyond the first stage. then i started my other hp story, set "after" a relationship fizzled. ick. it's fun to write but it's really sapping me, it seems, in the "true romance" vibe dept. i dunno if this means i should -stop-. hm.
well...
The words that remain tumble from my lips like poison. Hurried and frantic, trying to catch up to you, but I can never touch you, not like this. The roses are blooming again, and I am faint with their scent, stealing cruelly through every corner.
When you pass me, I smell it strongest, overpowering, intoxicating. You carry the true poison of your roses within you. And all I want is to bury my face, and breathe, as deeply as I can. Your hair against my eyelids, your hands against my cheeks, your chest against mine. I just want you to let me drown. But I can't ask. You won't hear me.
You'd spoken of miracles and the dream, that keeps me here, touching your shadows, as you run, as the music keeps you-- running-- through the castle of your heart-- tell me, what do you see, there, around the corner?
The silence seething, in slow sips, and I dance for you each day, I wish so much and I-- became this way-- just like you-- I just wish you'd see you.
And all the mirrors lie. And all the mirrors are inside. You rush past, you can't see why I'd follow, why I'm crying. All the mirrors sparkling like windows, along every wall. They frighten but comfort me-- they see me. They're there, saying I'm still looking.
We danced that one night, slowly you'd looked into my eyes and a low rumble passed your chest.
"Be with me," you'd said, simply.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't ask you that. You can't. I can't...."
"Why, why? My god, why?" I was crying, clutching your arms, my fingernails digging into your skin, but of course you didn't notice.
"Never... I can never... love another... cursed...."
I stood on my tiptoes, and pulled your head down, and you didn't resist, and I forgot about telling you I loved you, and I forgot about reassuring you that you're beautiful, and I just thrust my tongue into your mouth, and I just closed my eyes, and we were still dancing. Your lips were beautiful-- and soft-- and human. You were the furthest thing from a beast. Your skin was delicate, and there was a tinge of wildflowers secretly about you, and of course the deep, hopeless rush of roses.
I swayed against you and the lights swam behind my eyes. I was running my fingers up and down your arms, and all I could feel was petal-soft skin, smooth, unbroken skin. I licked your mouth, and kissed all around it, your face, your chin, your jaw, your neck. I was rushing, fumbling at you, tumbling inside you. "Yes, yes, yes, yes," I was whispering, over and over again. "Yes...."
"This is who you are," I tried to tell you, without words. As my palms spread against your smooth back, I traced patterns of purity and desire and yearning as well I knew how. We were spinning, spinning and dancing out of control. I could no longer remember who I was, who you were. All I knew was this rush of knowledge that you were mine. "This is destiny," I whispered against your lips. "And this is love. And this is me, this is me touching you, because I want to. Because I want you."
"Beauty...."
"Yes."
"I don't know my name," you said, at last, in confusion. "I only know what I am. A beast. Is that enough for you? Can that ever be enough?"
"Look at me. Look at me. This is enough," I whispered. "This is enough."
i think there's a major conflict between emotion and reason, when it comes to these things. emotionally, i can just "have faith". i don't need to -explain- how it works. it just works! woo! chemistry! "meant-to-be"ness, at work! you don't need to have a treatise as to why (say) buffy and spike will actually fit like a glove, if they bother to put it on. they just will! you know they will! i mean, no it's not because they work at it, and figure things out. i mean, you have this feeling that they need each other, and so they just instinctually take what they need, and give back and boom! relationship. yea. i know. doesn't work that way.
in my experience, things could have so much promise, so much possibility within them. and they fail for these minute, `stupid asshole' reasons. i try to think, ok, we all know in the buffy/spike pairing, spike is way pathetic-- but hey, buffy isn't as pathetic, maybe... maybe she can help him! and like, yea, draco's way pathetic, but harry isn't, and....
except he is, isn't he? well he is, when i begin to write him. i can't seem to help it. sucks, really. hey, like, it'd be so cool if people were actually like the way draco is in "draco veritas" (to pick an example off the top of my head). there are a lot of people, of course, so some of them must be like that. damn, i wanna meet them. would they look down at me? --no of course not, that'd reflect negatively on them.
so, i write what i know. it's a bit sickening, really. or maybe it's just gotten to be this way, ever since my actual life experience started beating me over the head again, saying, "reena, you didn't actually think you were -home free- did you? noooo, there's much more patheticness waiting for you, around the corner. yum, patheticness!"
just recently i was writing self-deprecating-but-not-quite-pathetic stories. i still didn't know where i was going, but at least... at least...that seemed like a good thing. sort of like, i could write the beginnings and leave the endings for someone else. good trick, huh? i don't have to get pathetic, because i refuse to go beyond the first stage. then i started my other hp story, set "after" a relationship fizzled. ick. it's fun to write but it's really sapping me, it seems, in the "true romance" vibe dept. i dunno if this means i should -stop-. hm.
well...
The words that remain tumble from my lips like poison. Hurried and frantic, trying to catch up to you, but I can never touch you, not like this. The roses are blooming again, and I am faint with their scent, stealing cruelly through every corner.
When you pass me, I smell it strongest, overpowering, intoxicating. You carry the true poison of your roses within you. And all I want is to bury my face, and breathe, as deeply as I can. Your hair against my eyelids, your hands against my cheeks, your chest against mine. I just want you to let me drown. But I can't ask. You won't hear me.
You'd spoken of miracles and the dream, that keeps me here, touching your shadows, as you run, as the music keeps you-- running-- through the castle of your heart-- tell me, what do you see, there, around the corner?
The silence seething, in slow sips, and I dance for you each day, I wish so much and I-- became this way-- just like you-- I just wish you'd see you.
And all the mirrors lie. And all the mirrors are inside. You rush past, you can't see why I'd follow, why I'm crying. All the mirrors sparkling like windows, along every wall. They frighten but comfort me-- they see me. They're there, saying I'm still looking.
We danced that one night, slowly you'd looked into my eyes and a low rumble passed your chest.
"Be with me," you'd said, simply.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't ask you that. You can't. I can't...."
"Why, why? My god, why?" I was crying, clutching your arms, my fingernails digging into your skin, but of course you didn't notice.
"Never... I can never... love another... cursed...."
I stood on my tiptoes, and pulled your head down, and you didn't resist, and I forgot about telling you I loved you, and I forgot about reassuring you that you're beautiful, and I just thrust my tongue into your mouth, and I just closed my eyes, and we were still dancing. Your lips were beautiful-- and soft-- and human. You were the furthest thing from a beast. Your skin was delicate, and there was a tinge of wildflowers secretly about you, and of course the deep, hopeless rush of roses.
I swayed against you and the lights swam behind my eyes. I was running my fingers up and down your arms, and all I could feel was petal-soft skin, smooth, unbroken skin. I licked your mouth, and kissed all around it, your face, your chin, your jaw, your neck. I was rushing, fumbling at you, tumbling inside you. "Yes, yes, yes, yes," I was whispering, over and over again. "Yes...."
"This is who you are," I tried to tell you, without words. As my palms spread against your smooth back, I traced patterns of purity and desire and yearning as well I knew how. We were spinning, spinning and dancing out of control. I could no longer remember who I was, who you were. All I knew was this rush of knowledge that you were mine. "This is destiny," I whispered against your lips. "And this is love. And this is me, this is me touching you, because I want to. Because I want you."
"Beauty...."
"Yes."
"I don't know my name," you said, at last, in confusion. "I only know what I am. A beast. Is that enough for you? Can that ever be enough?"
"Look at me. Look at me. This is enough," I whispered. "This is enough."
