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Allright, now I have some delayed musings, and a bit of writing that after I read it through, I realize sucks a**. First the segment, then the musings.

Standing under the false light of hollow bulbs. Void brings forth only lies. A face, held before my mind like a talisman, warding off the encroaching night. Yet the face mourns the loss of another, and lets the night fly through. Sharp pangs of jealousy watching the lovers embrace. Not for them but for what they have. Why am I denied? Should the loneliness appear I would rend it like a maddened beast and wipe the sorrow from the face. But both solutions lie just before my fingers and I am bound by ties of fear and failed memories.

The pounding music helps not to ward away the pain, but makes it more sweet. Unmarked grave, embracing the rose of another, love of dark night. Images bourn on the wings of melody and night.

A hollow bus. A driver, conductor of the beast through the night. The great tragedy. So many potential friends but all sit encased in their own lives. So close and yet so far. So tempting to reach out and cast the threads of friendship through the belly of the beast but the empty air and false light kill the spiders before they can begin to weave.


There. Odly enough, this is the first time I used first person in catharktic musings. Maybe that's why it sucks.


Okay, on to story. It was tuesday night, and after the pagan club meeting, I was getting the bus back alone. The people I normally take it with were getting lifts back, so as usual when it's night and at a bus-stop, melancholy swoops down and sits on my head. Sort of. So I pull out my music (HIM) and start writing. I get to about the second paragraph before a friend of mine from a different club shows up. Well, sort of friend. She's one of those people I know, but really don't know and only see at school so can't really consider that much of a friend.

So I take the bus with her. To late to get rid of melancholy, it's there to stay, or at least be slightly warded off. We get to her stop and I offer to walk her back to her house. I'm not really sure why. No romantic intentions, that's for sure. Maybe I was worried about her (she's really tiny), or maybe I just wanted that much more human company, never mind that catching another bus would give me an extra hour of travelling. So I walked her back to her house and gave her a hug goodbye (I think she was a little surpised that I didn't ask for a hug, and was actually starting to turn away before she offered one) and headed back up the street. At the end was an arena with the usual pile of snow from the ice scrapping (I think). On a random whim, I grabbed a ball of snow and kept it clenched in my palm. At first, it was just cold, then came the burning cold, then the numbness. I don't really know why I clenched the ball of snow? Trying to understand numbness? Trying to find some revelation or metaphor through it? Well, I got something.

No matter how numb and isolated you are, your edges will allways warm up and be sensitive.

Which of course leads to "your inside can remain numb"

Now, I look over my prose and musings, and go "The ********? Since when did I become so self-pitying and melodramatic."

A friend of mine once told me that I was the master of angst in my writing without the teenage bullshit. Maybe this is the angst will the teenage bullshit attached.