messages to realmlore:
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from ostracismo :
I clicked on you randomly while happy after a gig, and full of wine. I didn't know it would be you, but I knew I had been writing because of you, and to you. I had given myself an entire week here, but now I wonder if it will be less than that, because I did not think that you would appear so soon. But it was too strange to close my eyes while wishing for a reader, and to find you unawares. I know this must disgust you, because it suggests I do not care about you, except insofar as you might feed my creative fury. But still, it must mean something, though what it means might not be good. Does it matter to you that I stopped the behavior that repulsed you, that I stopped blaming God, that I found a place to live, among rational men, that I do my work diligently, and that I've saved up money? Does it matter to you that I could fly to Georgia tonight if I wanted to? These are practical things, and they never mattered to me in the first place. Are they supposed to? I've been doing these things for you, and for you only, but is it what I ought to do? Maybe you've forgiven me, but I don't know if you should. You are the fire into which I have jumped, and the flames that have engulfed me are the breath of your inspiration. Or do you hate me for having let myself become so unaware? For taking my love of Art into a place of mindlessness, to altered states, and drunkenness beyond belief? Was it the drugs that irked you? Will it matter to you that I feel myself to have reached the place where I can write again without them, and write to you without having to hide behind them? Will it mean something to you if I told you that the part of me that you were able to awaken is a part of me that no one else has ever awakened? This is the part of me that doesn't fear dying, and that therefore is free. This is the part of me that was given me through you, because you yourself do not fear death, and you were somehow able to transmit that fearlessless to me, through the ether that is of the air, and through the miracles that are in the Earth, our origin, and our destiny, dust to dust, the end of life, and the newness of heart that is death. I only wish I hadn't taken you the way I did. I wish I had valued you then the way I do now, even as it may be far too late. Or is it? What would it take to regain your confidence? After all this time, only now do I write - words or music - because in all these months I have shunned all that, because all of it was associated with you, you who have no longer fueled the fierceness of that fire - I could not take it, Rana Kane. I could not deny myself forever. But now, as I write again, words and music, is it so audacious that I might dare approach you once again? Is it not enough that I have shown myself that I can write without you? I would much rather write, and give what I have to give, and seek its enhancement and its expansion, whether or not you care, and whether or not my person is deploarable to you. Bus is that possible? Or is all the writing, even know, affixed to the impression of your person? If you come at me with practicalities, and recomnendations, and not with artistry, it will kill me all the sooner. Don't do it, Raven. I don't want to go through the last four months, or worse, again. I'm yours. I truly am. I only wish you knew.
from xxholding-on :
hi i saw you were online and i really wanted the vote from diaryland towards a contest i joined. It's a coach marketing contest and i need as many votes as i can get, please help!
from dragontaylz :
*grin* You really think so????? *blush*

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