Saturday, October 4, 2014


i'm the only one awake at this hour.
the moon is quiet.  the lake, too.
i don't know where the stars have gone, but they're out out out..
apparently done for the day, without a WE'RE CLOSED sign hanging like a droopy eye on the door knob.

today someone asked why i write such dark things.  they said they were worried for me.  they didn't recommend therapy, as others have, but they looked at their ankles and said, "I just don't know how anyone could write stuff like that.  it's really, like, dark, you know?"

it made me feel as if i was dirty.
in a way it did.
and in a way, maybe i am dirty.
maybe that's the point with all the dark writing i spew.

perhaps in time i'll figure it all out ,or perhaps i won't and i'll continue along, same as any other habitual person, going through the same motions because that is what's familiar and that's what i know.
seems funny though it's not.

but i sure as hell don't want anyone to feel sorry for me.

we land where we land and then we do what we have to do to survive.  right?

the bigger question is: do you have the patience?

or: is this too great a burden?

or: does it it hurt you in some way that makes your reading impossible?

one story i got rejected was, admittedly, very violent.
in the end it was.
a twin--twins again--avenged her sister's death by luring the killer into bed while proceeding to drug him and then carve her dead sister's name into his chest with a knife.

the editor said there was no way such a story could be published.  the editor was kind in the refusal to print the story, and also very apologetic in the rejection.

it might have bothered me more than i knew at the time.

at least i'm revisiting the whole thing tonight.

anyway, i'm heading to bed.

i feel like writing, but it'll just be more dark stuff.

but doesn't someone need to tell the truth?

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