xesands (joined over 8 years ago)
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Audiobook narrator, voice and visual artist.

Stories


I carry you with me.
I carry you with me here.
Right here, in this tender spot
in this hollow space.
I carry you with me.
I carry you on the tip of my tongue
Just on the tip, so that I can
carry you with me here,
in my words, in my sounds
There. That word, that sound -
Said just as you would, just as you have
Because I carry you with me,
I carry you with me here.
Right here, in the downturn of these lips,
In that expression you wore had that carried with it a...

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Goodnight sweetheart, well it's time to go...
Goodnight sweetheart, well it's time to go...

There's a contentment there. I find myself humming that, especially when everything has gone to hell and the day is a loss, and yet there is still the final evening bits to get through.

It's Sha-NA-NA in my head. A sense of contentment settles over me, a sense of belonging - to another time, a younger time - a time before pain. Well. A time before this particular kind of pain, or even the pain of what was coming a few years after that song stopped...

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Light.

Fuck light, right? Right.

Light just shows what I don't want to share, it takes away my CHOICE. Isn't that abusive or some such touchy-feely bullshit?

"Teacher? Light is taking away my choice!"

Yeah well, "teacher" would just tell me to STFU so...

Thing is...think is I, well, I crave it, yk? I crave it. I crave the light like I crave sugar or coffee (not caffeine - there's a difference).

Damn thing. Always seems to fling a little clarity at exactly what I've hidden so carefully away. I take care with my secrets hide them good. Keep them...

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I...

I...I'm not sure what to say.

Lola.

God. Just the name. Just reading the name - a word, really and I'm gone. Just gone.

Do I actually remember her anymore? Sometimes, I wonder about that. Sometimes I think that what takes me away, what takes all ability to think or feel anything beyond the word, the name - LOLA...isn't really her at all.

There's this insidious thought that it's not her at all, but just what I always wanted her to be. And wouldn't that be the final victory? That I'm tormented by what I tried to make her...

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It wasn't entirely fair. It wasn't.

You knew it wasn't.

See that one in the back? She's yours, right?

The one barely visible?

The safe one.

That one is yours.

The one in front? Not yours, not really. Not the same way.

Polka dots. Something Sandra bought her the last time you...well, the last time.

Sandra. She's not your either, not anymore. In the end, she wasn't safe. Not really.

It's the eyes, isn't it? The eyes that get you. Maybe the sun - the way it seems to be an answering presence, a judging presence. Judging...her? You? But not...

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