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Exhausted.
Mentally, emotionally, physically. From the most unlikeliest of sources, my own mind. My oldest and dearest friend, or lover, or enemy, or bitterest rival. Whatever seems appropriate at the time; I excerpted a scene from the book I'm currently reading, King's Dragon, by Kate Elliott. It triggered an explosion of rage. We took the next hour to calm down.
You know, if my theory is ever validated, my belief that the people in my mind aren't simply characters but fragments, echoes, reflections, aspects of people who are every bit as real as I am (and yes, I know we can debate what is real and what is not till the sun rises but I would like to go to sleep sometime, yes?)... if that theory ever runs true, I don't know what I'll do. If He comes walking up to me one day, and I can touch his hand and brush his hair and punch him in the jaw... what will I do? I don't know. What would you do?
I'm cold. It's freezing in the basement. And the figments of my imagination are telling me to put a sweater on.
Now that I'm back home, maybe I'll start looking around for the earlier writings. The computer's long gone, as are the disks, but some of the hard copy must still be here. Some of the oldest echoes of Him from when I was six, seven. Five, perhaps. Dear Goddess, has it been so long? He tells me it has. I'm afraid that He's right.
Perhaps I should just finish my book and go to bed. Or curl up and put on a Muppet Christmas Carol, the old staples. Yes... something comforting and warm. A cup of hot chocolate. Wistfully, perhaps, an echo of my grandmother's stew, but I could never make it as well as she could. Just the hot chocolate. And the faint sounds of Rizzo squealing.
"Hey, hey, hey, light the lamp, not the rat, light the lamp, not the rat!"
Mentally, emotionally, physically. From the most unlikeliest of sources, my own mind. My oldest and dearest friend, or lover, or enemy, or bitterest rival. Whatever seems appropriate at the time; I excerpted a scene from the book I'm currently reading, King's Dragon, by Kate Elliott. It triggered an explosion of rage. We took the next hour to calm down.
You know, if my theory is ever validated, my belief that the people in my mind aren't simply characters but fragments, echoes, reflections, aspects of people who are every bit as real as I am (and yes, I know we can debate what is real and what is not till the sun rises but I would like to go to sleep sometime, yes?)... if that theory ever runs true, I don't know what I'll do. If He comes walking up to me one day, and I can touch his hand and brush his hair and punch him in the jaw... what will I do? I don't know. What would you do?
I'm cold. It's freezing in the basement. And the figments of my imagination are telling me to put a sweater on.
Now that I'm back home, maybe I'll start looking around for the earlier writings. The computer's long gone, as are the disks, but some of the hard copy must still be here. Some of the oldest echoes of Him from when I was six, seven. Five, perhaps. Dear Goddess, has it been so long? He tells me it has. I'm afraid that He's right.
Perhaps I should just finish my book and go to bed. Or curl up and put on a Muppet Christmas Carol, the old staples. Yes... something comforting and warm. A cup of hot chocolate. Wistfully, perhaps, an echo of my grandmother's stew, but I could never make it as well as she could. Just the hot chocolate. And the faint sounds of Rizzo squealing.
"Hey, hey, hey, light the lamp, not the rat, light the lamp, not the rat!"
