Thrown Away

The Original: Forgotten


New:

You can’t help but hate her.

She floats through a world on gentle breezes of perfume, always smelling sweet but never too sweet, only just a trace but never too much.  If you look close enough you can see the little strands of hair on the top of her head that are out of place, but only if you look closely enough that you have to admit you are paying attention.  From afar she looks polished, the cliché god-like perfection made reality, hair and make-up all put together, clothes the same ones you buy but somehow different on her.  Everything lines up for her in a way they only can in television shows and really bad country music songs.  She plays for the school volleyball team- preppy, girly, but still a legitimate sport- and gets good grades while struggling just the right amount through math class that no one resents her A.  She makes the world look easy but never too easy, enough personality flaws and awkward moments to make her real and not a living Barbie, and this somehow makes it worse because at least with the doll you can point at it and say “this isn’t right”.  You know she isn’t right, but you can’t point at her without everyone else pointing back at you.

You, on the other hand, are not like her.  You trudge along with the rest, knowing you could do well in school but being simply too lazy to really apply yourself.  You look fine, you have your good days and your bad days, your clothes fit right but they aren’t spectacular.  You walk the middle path, representing everything that is normal, everything that is mediocre.   Decent family, decent grades, decent friends, decent life.  Nothing special.  You aren’t extreme enough or disturbed enough to be one of the outcasts, but neither are you perfect like her and among the exalted.  You are just you; middle road, normal, mediocre.  Unnoticed but not in the tragic way, but in the way that there’s nothing worth noting about you; your sole function is to be a comparison to people like her, so people can point at you and say “normal” and then point at her and say “ideal”.  You dare not complain, even if it would earn you some fleeting attention, because in reality what is there to complain about?

So it just makes it worse when you find her in the bathrooms that day after lunch, and you two meet eyes as she comes out of the stall because you know what she’s doing and she knows you know and it’s awkward because what do you even do in that situation?  Nothing.  She simply ducks her head shyly, not able to say anything, and washes out her mouth and quiet leaves.  And you hate her more, because isn’t it just god-damn-bloody-perfect that Miss Perfect has an eating disorder.  And you hate that you can’t hate her for that, because that’s not how it works and you are supposed to feel sympathy for her and empathize with her girl-to-girl and blame society for the images they force on women.  So either way you are supposed to feel angry, but you aren’t sure who to be angry at and anger is an emotion that needs focus, so you decide to be angry at yourself.

A few weeks pass by in the flurry of high school drama, of homework and stupid teachers, of sitting at home alone at night and wondering where these “awesome parties” you always hear about actually happen because you’ve never witnessed one.  You catch her at it a few more times, and wonder how much she must be doing it that you keep seeing her.  But neither of you say anything, you just go about your business in a tense awkwardness.  What are you supposed to do?  Tell someone?  Hope one of her other perfect friends tells?  Confront her?  And when did it become mandatory that you care?  What happened to the good old days, which never really existed, where you could just leave someone with an eating disorder to their fate and there wasn’t all this pushing to be “aware” and to “care”?

But she, of course, has the answers for you.  One day you are sitting in English class, trying really hard not to glare at the back of her perfect head of golden-red hair, when she reaches back and puts a note on your desk corner.  The movement is totally smooth, well rehearsed, a scene straight out of a prime time teen drama.  And you, ever a slave to the predictability of the universe, snatch it up with a little less grace and shove it in your pocket.  When class is over you read it, and it’s the answer to your dilemma spelled out in broken English; “thnx for not telling any1, i‘m gonna get help.”

So you don’t say anything.  After all, you wouldn’t want to get in the way of her self-empowerment and all that jazz.  And two weeks later she commits suicide, and the entire school is engulfed in grief.  Now what?

There’s guilt, of course.  Sadness, tears.  After all, you are only human; any time someone you know the name of dies, there’s a sense of responsibility and “what if” and “if only”.  That’s what they mean when they say that names have power; you might not be able to cast magic spells with them or use them to force people to love you, but a name can cast a spell over you to force you to care.  Suddenly it’s not Miss Perfect anymore, it’s Ashley and the name tastes like copper pennies on your tongue.  And you just so happen to be the one with some actual responsibility, the one who could have done something but didn’t.  You hear the “what ifs” and “if onlys” from the teachers and students, but you were the only one who actually could have seen the signs and done something.  It’s not teenage angst, it’s not the demons of depression talking; her death is quite literally your fault.

More weeks go by and the pain begins to fade.  Things go back to a strange sort of normal, people wanting to move on but feelings like it’s too soon to act happy.  The school sponsors the usual memorial, a little plaque in the front hall and a tree planted out by the football field.  The volleyball team frames her jersey and hangs it in the hallway between the locker rooms.  The other Ashleys have to deal with everyone looking away from them whenever their names are called, but they take the unease with a gracious air of empathy.  There are fewer “what would Ashley think if…” and more “what do you think of this…”, fewer tears and more smiles.  Wounds heal.  Some carry scars, others only healing scratches.  The world realigns itself when they swore it would never be right again.  And in a few years, when everyone is getting drunk in college and crying over boyfriends, she’ll only be a passing thought.

And if this were one of those stupid made-for-TV movies or horribly bad country songs, you would have saved the note.  You would keep it in a box under your bed, or shoved into your wallet, and you would pull it out in quiet moments and contemplate what the world would be like if Ashley was still in it.  This would be the defining moment in your life, the one that would either change you into a living saint or into a cruel bitch, and you could blame all your future behaviors on.  The girl you sort of knew in high school that you caught puking in the bathrooms would be the reason for your loveless marriage, your issues with your mother, you dissatisfaction with your job, your need to finally write that novel, the reason for everything.

But this isn’t a made-for-TV movie, it’s reality.  And in reality, you found the note about a year later while cleaning out your room for college.  You look at it briefly, remembering who it was from only after a few moments of stumped confusion.  But you remember, and frown a little.  Then, with a movement that is so smooth and so well rehearsed it could have been straight out of a TV show, you throw it away.

Talk about way different...
Eve 

Flame

The original was a submission for an English class...

The whole affair began with just that- an affair.

Air and Match were deeply in love.  Air, the mother of many things, had existed since Match's creation, had even helped raise Wood, Match's mother, but he did not care.  Match was so in love with the beautiful Air, with her gentleness and passivity, that he could not imagine a life without her.  But Flint, the tiny ugly thing that lived nearby Match, could not stand it.  Flint loved Match just as deeply as Air did, and it tore her apart that he love Air so deeply but did not seem to even notice her.

"Air!" Flint would whisper to herself angrily, for Air was always nearby.  "Who does she think she is seducing Match like that?  Harlot!  And she's already got a child, Wind, too!"

Always angry for the love she did not possess, Flint hatched a plan.  One day she called for Match to come by her, and without warning leapt upon him.  Match loved Air and not Flint, but he was young and naive in the world where Air and Flint were ancient, and he could not resist even ugly Flint's advances.  Between the two they conceived a spark, a tiny little babe they called Flame, and so ashamed that he made a child with another woman, Match grabbed Flame and ran from Flint.  And Air, always gentle and passive, agreed to help Match nurture the little spark into a roaring fire, although she did not know it would eventually kill Match.

And kill Match it did.  As the tiny spark grew into Flame, the cannibalistic child began to consume his father.  As his last dying act, Match went to the lantern that sat in the distance.  Protected from the world by the great dome of glass, the lantern would safely hold Flame as he grew and grew, and perhaps protect the rest of the world from this temperamental child.  When Match was consumed completely by Flame, he died, leaving Flame alone in the lantern.  Air was always there for him, of course, and from time to time Wind would sneak into the lantern to play with Flame, but it pained Air to see her son play with this illegitimate child of her lover, so she forbade it.  For a long time Flame was alone.

That was, of course, until the lantern fell and shattered on the ground.

It was the first time since conception that Flame had ever been out of the glass cage that had defined his life; the first time had had left the boundaries of the little soot-covered world that constricted his freedom.  For the entirety of his life, Flame had only played while within the glass walls, occasionally daring to touch the sooty surfaces to make sure they had not vanished when he wasn't paying attention.  But the glass had always been there, a limit on how far Flame could go.  And thus Flame was surrounded by the glass lantern globe, an inescapable prison but also a secure home.

When the lantern fell from the table, the tumble frightened Flame.  He had never known movement outside of his own little dance, never experienced anything outside of the glass save for the dim image of a rough table and the sparse company of Air and Wind.  The table was Wood, who was almost as old as Air but not quite, and who Flame watched from afar but was never able to approach.  When the lantern fell, taking Flame away from Wood, the only thing outside of his cage he had ever known, Flame was scared.  He did not know what would happen, did not know what he would find, especially when the lantern finally hit the floor.  Flame was released from his prison in a flurry of sparks and silver-glass confetti.

Flame curled back into himself, taking refuge in the embers of his core, dimming and not daring to glow too brightly.  A variety of sensations assaulted him, and for the first time he could feel the complete world around him.  He felt Wind again, the gentle tugging that could be encouraging but also dangerous.  Wind was like Flame, no more than a child when compared to older things in the world, and Wind had the temper of a child too.  Sometimes Wind was gentle, a treasured friend, but other times Wind could become violent, threatening to blow Flame out with a single gust.  Along with Wind, Flame felt Air, who birthed Wind and fed Flame, Air who was calm and could not be violent.  Air was the mother, watching Wind and Flame and giving her violent children everything they needed to grow, but only interceding when they fought.  Air was the mother of many things, the one keeping all alive, so she would never allow a fight between her children, even if Flame was not her own.

And, to his amazement, Flame also felt Wood!  Wood was there too, not just part of the table but part of the floor as well.  In fact, Wood was all around.  Flame was happy, for he worried he would never see Wood again once he fell from the table.  But Wood was here, and Flame could finally touch Wood, the grandmother and silent friend he had never known!

Flame reached out, growing bigger and brighter, to touch Wood.  Wood crackled beneath Flame's touch, shrinking back from the beast that killed her son, and turned dark.  Flame drew back too, not knowing why Wood would crackle at him.

"Can I touch you?" Flame asked, tentatively.  Wood merely crackled.

"Please?" Flame asked again, glowing even brighter.  Wood only crackled.

"But now we can play together!" Flame cried, growing frustrated.  "We've never been able to play together because of the glass, but now you don't want to play!  Why can't we play?"

Wood crackled.

Flame was furious.  All his life all Flame had known outside of his glass globe was Wood, Air and Wind.  And now that Flame was free, all Flame wanted to feel was Wood, that silent friend.  Yet Wood...Wood dared to just crackle at Flame!  To laugh at and mock Flame!  Finally Flame was free and all this feeble old woman would do was crackle?

Well, Flame was going to touch Wood whether Wood liked it or not!  With that in mind, Flame used Wind to move him and Air to feed him.  Wind didn't want to play this game, and Air had no desire to be used, but Flame grabbed at them greedily.  Flame spread, touching Wood wherever his many orange dingers could reach, making Wood brightened and glow before finally becoming black and ugly.  This encouraged the angry Flame, who now just wanted to hurt Wood, so Flame continued, touching Wood wherever he could reach and growing bigger and brighter with each touch.

Wood crackled, until there was no more Wood to crackle.  All at once Flame was out in the open, the charred black remains of his grandmother the only unsteady place for Flame to perch.  But Grass, who had surrounded the house of Wood, had become allies with Flame's most hated enemy, Rain, so Flame could not touch Grass and thus had nowhere to go.  Wind, angry for being forced into a game he didn't want to play, turned against Flame.  Air, for once, did not interfere; she was sad Flame turned out this way, but she mourned the death of her good friend Wood.  She loved the child of her lover, but it was obvious that Flame was too much like his real mother.  Flame tried to take refuge in the remains of Wood, but Wood was nothing more than ash now.  Ash didn't crackle, but Ash could not protect Flame.  Flame, now frightened, tried to get smaller and smaller, to curl up in a ball against Wind.  But all it took was one good gust, and Flame was gone.

Feeling the burn, are you?
Eve

Internet dating

Click click click
The way we write a sound
a sound we know
a sound we know too well
click
scroll
click
forever an icy glow
unnatural light turning us pale
click click click
and the photos show no evidence
we waste
We want to touch
but we wouldn't dare
So click click click
on little pixels we can't hold
Bodies that we seek to satisfy
growing numb
because we won't touch
only click
Sometimes we're brave
and we'll tap tap tap
instead of click click click
And if we're really daring
we'll click and then speak
But most of us just click
click click click
until our bodies are too numb to click
and we feel
if only the lonely tears on our cheeks

Something New

Write, she tells me
Like it's ever that easy
Like a command
Or a suggestion
Or a gentle push
Could ever bring back
everything.

She even throws in please
Please...really?
Do you know the harm
in your words?
Can't you see that's why?
Please is a dangerous word
And there's danger enough
between us

But beyond my understanding
my fingers are already moving
keystroke
after keystroke
click click click
And the word come flying out
Damn your command
You knew how to make me move
So I write.

For someone who asked for it...and perhaps there will be more tonight,
Eve

Ill

I feel awful.

So this is an entry saying that I owe an extra entry sometime before next week.  It's really bad that so soon into my resolution I am skipping a day, but I'm so sick I can't think.  Ugh.

Eve

2- Death

The original: Death

New:

You twist in agony, trying to find a position where the pain doesn't radiate through you like the pulse of a heartbeat.  But every movement jerks something out of place, fractures another bone, pierces another muscle.  You squirm under the pounding rain, each drop pure torture and flinch away from the water only to cause yourself more pain.  It's like a never ending cycle, trying to escape the fire racing through your body but every attempt to escape only piling more and more on you.

You draw a breath, ragged in your mouth and nothing but ice in your lungs.  Unfortunately though, the cool air does nothing to sooth you.  You gasp and pant and squirm and hiss out and try to will your insides back into your body but you know...know...

You're dying.

You had crawled out of your home, escaping the rushing rain waters and stretching toward the heavens.  You had no idea of the cruelty of man, you just didn't want to drown as your home filled with mud.  So you reached for the concrete sidewalks, attempting to find a dark little corner to curl up in until the rain stopped.  But then like an angry Thunder God those legs came down, those plastic soles crushing your body, and you felt all at once everything break.  Rib after rib snapped, giving in under the pressure and cutting into the soft tissue they were meant to support and protect.  You were turned from an agile little hunter to nothing more than a ruin in one swift stroke, life horribly unfair in shortness.

Another gasped breath, but you can feel the pain begin to lift away as the cold leeches in.  You know what's coming, it happens to all.  But you never thought it would happen to you, or you would have simply chose to go the other way, take the other path today.  Breathing is harder now.  Feeling is still far too easy, but even that is fading.  If you could close your eyes you would, but things are getting dark anyway...

And you pass on from this world.  A defenseless little garden snake, just looking to escape the rain, and crushed under the sole of someone without a soul.  Beyond recognition, you mangled body will be carried away and gently set out of view, but you won't be there to experience it.  You are already gone.  You are already dead.

But at least two humans will cry for you today.

~Eve

1- Wandering

Original:

Wandering
Wandering past your door
Wandering past your soul
Wandering past your heart

Halting
Halting my hurried steps
Halting my speeding pulse
Halting my maniac thoughts

Seeing
Seeing you with her
Seeing your happiness
Seeing what I once had

Believing
Believing in Love
Believing in Hate
Believing in Revenge

Wandering
Wandering past your tattered body
Wandering past her shattered dreams
Wandering past my fading sanity



New:

Wandering
Wandering past memories that cling like spider webs
Wandering past my own sense of self entitlement
Wandering past the what ifs, and if I's, and if you's
Wandering past regret and shame and embarrassment
Wandering past the 'how could you's and the 'how could I's
Wandering beyond a relationship that finally begins to fade

But Halting
Halting my memories and regrets and shame and what ifs
Halting my defeated acceptance of everything that has changed
Halting my 'I can forget you and everything you did'
Halting my eyes as I...I...

See
Seeing this new girl flirt with you
Seeing this long hair, and perfect skin and fun personality
Seeing this new you for the first time since
Seeing this perfect body and healthy palour
Seeing this new attraction between you two
Seeing this bubbling of jealousy in my once stilled heart

But once more...

Wandering
Wandering past my will, tossed like a rag doll to the ground
Wandering past my self esteem, nothing more than ashes
Wandering past sanity, long gone, completely forgotten
Wandering past YOU
Finally.
Wander on.


~Eve

Intro to 364 PMs

I didn't even realize I called the blog PMs until after I started writing this.

So, a brief introduction before I begin.

The idea behind 364 Primordial musings is to everyday of this year (excluding Jan. 1st, 2011, because I already missed it!) to take something I had written before and rewrite it.  It's mostly to see if I have improved, to improve some more, and to get back into the swing of writing everyday.

There will only be one post per day on here.  I may, however, rant and complain about things from PMs on my primary blog, LL&DQ (Love, Life and Dating Queer).  But I warn people against reading that, because it's a dirty little section of my brain.

Hm...in fact, you probably shouldn't read this then.

Comments are more than welcome, I am trying to improve my writing.  A lot of things are things I have pulled off my old Allpoetry.com and Storywrite.com pages, others are things floating around my computer.  We'll see what happens.

Well...welcome to PMs, and thanks for reading!
Eve.