Christopher (hospitius) wrote,

  • Mood:

back here again. Huh.

I've always sworn that every once in a while I'm capable of dreaming whole musical numbers, complete with never before heard songs and lyrics and choreography, but I could never remember any specifics when I woke up. Not that I tried that hard; the musical-theater gene is one that is happily missing from my gay DNA. But this morning something did pursue me into waking consciousness; a Fantasia winter wonderland extravaganza, in it someone was singing "White Christmas" and pixies climbed up ice crystals formed by the singer's breath in time to the lyric:

"tiny prismatics/
exhaled by asthmatics/
keep you dancing on air"

I'm fairly certain that this is not found in the Bing Crosby version.

There's the Kate Bush song on Radio Paradise now "Running Up That Hill" reminding me suddenly and strongly of Miguel, and that makes me feel so sad and lonely; lonelier even than I've been. I suppose I'm in a better place than Mex, who, after all, is dead these ten years. But what do I know? Maybe he's smiling at me right now. Maybe he's a rich kid somewhere, soon to be young and handsome again. I like to think so, I do.

I am so very very sad. My whole being aches like an open wound. I won't take an Ativan. I won't take a drink. I won't surf porn. I want, no, I need to feel this, to deeply and truly feel something. I need to face my fear and walk through it with my head held up. It's time.

Another fragment of my dreams last night. A woman was quarelling with a shopkeeper about her ill-fitting leather outfit. The boots, for one thing, fit her badly. The shopkeeper helpfully suggested that certain doctors could break her legs and reset them in a way that would make the boots fit more snugly. She stormed out. I met up with her on the street, at the same time as Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie came rolling by in their limo. The woman's leather costume bulged at her hips. I consoled her by observing that only custom made leatherware ever really fits perfectly. Paris and Nicole sympathetically agreed, then giggled at her anyway. I continued walking down the street and the limo drew alongside. I was wearing oversized purple sunglasses and a very 70's very pimp cap. Paris asked Nicole if they didn't know me, then they giggled some more and drove on. I strutted on down the street, very proud of being recognized.

My vagina hurts :)

If I stay in the moment, if I don't look ahead and especially if I don't look back, it's alright, I can breathe. I feel I can live. Maybe even sleep.

This is good this is right, this engagement with my own self. I need to start writing here again every day. Every morning.
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