Over

What we used to be
clearly, plainly
just won't work.

What you said to me
has made me see
You're a jerk.

I wanted a way
to run away,
but I fought.

I wish I could say
that I'm okay,
but I'm not.

Timeout to tell you something weird...

I had a dream last night wherein a person whose opinion matters to me thought I was a man. Like...actually thought I was a man. Secretly. Somehow.

I think my subconscious is trying to say something. I am just not sure what. I'd rather not consider the ramifications of the whole thing, to be quite honest.

I just wanted to say that it happened. It was distressing. I think I dream-slapped the person, but mostly missed, because I don't do stuff like slapping people on a regular basis.

Anyway. Yeah.

I Doubt He Knows

Have you no notion of the damage done

By easy touches and your casual smile?

Do you not know the pain you're causing one

Who cannot bear your kindness but a while?

May anyone request the troubled gift

Of your spent time and your attention, too?

Will every moment shared be cause to lift

Up hopes? Has it no like meaning for you?

Do you deliberate on what you say

Or do you freely spout off gentle things

To everyone? My nerves begin to fray.

I madden me with spiraled wonderings.

We should know better than to firmly pin

Our dreams on a regard so frail, so thin. 

I need to stop doing this.

Good grief . . .

I'm not sure where my head has been at, but it obviously hasn't been on writing of any sort.

Hence my present (ongoing) predicament. Creative Writing Workshop once again looms. Once again I am going to be very late submitting anything. Sorry, professor (in a genuine way, not a sarcastic way, because i know what that looks like).

Aaaaaanyways. I have to write two poems or a longer-ish story, preferably in the next hour. I am kind of gunning for poems, but right now I'm not too topic-rich.

Wish me luck?

Blocked

Sometimes, I think I'll be able to write anything and everything for ages on end.

And sometimes it's not that easy, but I have something to say, at any rate.

And sometimes, I haven't got anything to say, but I say it anyway, and that's enough.

But then there are times when I've written myself out. I'm done.

That's kinda how I feel right now. Or how I felt for several days. Mostly the days following my forced creative binge.

I need to get back into the swing of things.

And stop using so many paragraphs.

Scuba, in which very little is learned

It's dark out, but no moreso than usual beneath the meters of ocean between me and fresh air oh god why am I down here???

I hate scuba. I hate it so much. I swore it was the absolute last thing I would ever ever ever try. I made all of those vows about how someone would have to be paying me a million dollars to get me into a wetsuit. I said only the promise of mouth-to-mouth from Tom Hiddleston could possibly persuade me to strap airtanks to my back and a breathing apparatus to my face because above all my other phobias (including my fear of heights, my horror of the dark, and my aversion to slime) I am most terrified of being unable to breathe. I'll never be an astronaut, because space? No air. Underwater? Also no air. Which is why the question really must be begged . . . what on God's green earth am I doing? And why am I not there, on the green earth of the Lord, instead of here?

Okay, so I know why I am here. It is a reason that seems horrifically inadequate at this moment, but I do have one. I have this really bad habit of deciding to confront things that terrify me, but I never do it in a considered fashion. I make snap judgments with the idea that it'll be fun! and what was I so scared of, anyway? and that usually lasts long enough for me to reach the point of no return, and then I'm in the thick of something I realize I never even wanted to do in the first place, so remind me, someone, please, to never allow myself outside the house without an accountability partner. I should get one of those, and another to remind me not to leave them behind, and also one to remind me to have one, and then another until they can all just sit on me when I have an impulse.

When I was a child, I read Readers' Digest articles. They were interesting, usually. Sensational stuff about serial murderer survivors and mountain climbing escapades; really top-notch journalism for my eight-year-old brain. Of course, the article that left the biggest impression was the one about the scuba diver who went into a cave system and got lost and used her last few minutes of air to carve a loving message to her family on her tank and then died alone in the dark in the water and the tank floated bumped around the ocean until someone picked it up and the only trace of diver ever found was that battered airtank oh no no no that is not the thing to be thinking about right now and hyperventilating into the mouthpiece is doing me no favors either.

A song is running through my head, and let it never be said that my own mind is not without a cruel sense of irony. Tell me how I'm s'posed to breath with no air; can't live, can't breathe with no air . . . no aaaaaiiiiiiiiiirrrrr . . . Thank you for the reminder, Jordin Sparks. I was aware that breathing without air is difficult, but that I can't live is something I'm trying to forget. She isn't done, though. Got me out here in the water so deeeeep . . . 

Water resistance makes it very difficult to give oneself a satisfying facepalm, or to effectively knock aggravating lyrics from the forefront of one's brain, but my efforts in that direction distract me enough from my panic to calm me down just a little. The space of water I'm in isn't actually all that dark or clouded, and at least I can see the bottom. Something else I'm horribly afraid of is open spaces. I mean, anything could be down there, if you can't see it, you know? Anything at all with teeth or baleen or whatever it is whales use to eat unsuspecting trespassers. Of course, my instructor would probably tell me that occurrences of whales eating scuba divers is more rare than alien invasion, or something equally ridiculous and even less reassuring. I rather wish he was around to tell me anything at all, though, because he's not. He's left me here, probably mistakenly assuming I would follow him like a good, normal student without a backlog of intense phobias to combat.

I think I've done rather well for myself, getting this far. I'm kind of stuck between two levels of confidence, though, and that's what has landed me in this predicament. I was ready enough to follow my leader away from the rope, but . . . he was going toward caves and deeper water. I couldn't do that. I saw the cavernous opening in the distance, and I knew it was full of things with tentacles (another phobia) and it was dark and sure to be slimy and definitely too small for me to avoid touching everything, so I froze, and then when I saw that he was gone, I unfroze enough to panic. It doesn't help that I froze up too far from the rope for me to find it again alone, but far enough back that he vanished rather quickly behind a rocky pile on the sandy bed. So now I'm stuck here. I don't know when he'll be back.

I can just sit here, I guess. He should be back soon. I think. I mean, he should realize that I'm gone, and he's supposed to be looking after me. . . . What if something goes wrong? What if my panic attack used up more oxygen than I have to spare? What if he gets stuck in the cave, and no one will ever know because I got stuck here waiting, and then I'll die because I waited too long for him to come back and I can't find the rope either? No air, no aaaaaiiiiiirrrr . . . I can just sit here, right? He's coming back . . .

I still can't hit myself very well, so it takes me about three cycles of this thought progression to realize that I need to either do something or go scuba-crazy.

Do I go back? I could, I guess. I'd really, really rather not get any closer to sea-caves than I need to. Just trying scuba out this far seems like enough to put that check on my bucket list. The ocean is a lot of space to find a rope in, though . . . and if I get lost, I'm not where my instructor left me, and he might not even find me.

On the other hand, going forward takes me closer to where I last saw my instructor . . . and a lot closer to the cave. It's darker down there. There is more seaweed . . . a lot more. Anything could be hiding in it. Anything with tentacles or teeth. I shudder and start to kick back, towards the rope, but . . . I could just wait for him at the farther end of the gully I'm in. He wouldn't miss me, that way . . . and I'd not be lost. Besides . . . I'm here, aren't I?

Even though I say I hate this, no one is making me try this new thing. No one is forcing me to confront this nightmare-inducing intersection of all my deepest fears. I left the house without my crowd of imaginary accountability partners, so this is all on me, and I paid money. If I don't go forward, the entire point of this exercise in lack of impulse-control and carpe-ing the diem will have been for nothing.

I take a careful breath, then two, and then I head for the end of the gulch. The end with the cave.

Oh. He's already coming back.

I follow him back the way we came . . . he finds the rope with no difficulty. We begin our ascent.

That wasn't so bad, after all. I mean, sure, there was a rough minute there, but this has been a new experience. I love those. Scuba is great. I don't know what I was so scared of. In fact, I want to go again. Maybe find a cave or five to explore. I am on top of this. I am the scuba queeeeeee jellyfish get it away get it away get it away I don't want to diiiiiiiiiiiiiieeee---

Status report

Lehah!

I found my notebook with a bunch more stuff in it. I now need approximately six pages. Progress!

Which is faster, do you think? Poetry or prose?

Because poetry takes up more space, but it has to be more carefully considered. Hmm. Perhaps some of both is in order. Not feeling inspired, though.

Ugh, and I have a test today that I haven't looked at yet. This shall be a partyyyyy. :P

I Won't Need Much

She sits in her shop with her tea and a book
And she waits for a patron to step in and look
At the friends she's collected and bound up and kept,
Undoing the damage done by the inept.

Each day is the same; her shop opens at eight.
She takes dinner at five, and she never stays late.
Her cat sheds all over her one beaten chair.
As she watches her programs he bats at her hair.

This gentle life was not all that she wanted
When the world was her oyster and she was not haunted
By mere ghosts of dreams she has long since laid by,
Bold desires for her fame to be writ on the sky.

She aspired, long ago, to be one of the few
Whose offerings to art were acclaimed as true,
To be known by the learned as one of their best,
To become the unchallenged, the measure, the test

By which all who someday would follow could prove
Their worth. But now she just needs her cat to move
Off the chair where she rests from a quiet shop day
And rubs fingers on temples beginning to gray.

Her dreams came to little. It bothers her less.
More than fame or great fortune, she found happiness
In a cup of hot tea, with a book in her hands,
In her corner with everything she understands.

this is going swimmingly

CRUMBS CRUD CRAP CRYING WHYYYYYY

so while i have been making the token attempt to continue to write on a regular basis, apparently i have not been nearly diligent enough.

i may or may not be short a good fifteen pages out of twenty-five due tuesday. decide whether or not 'tis true according to how well you know me.

and, as always during this sort of crisis, the muse has left me entirely.

help me

I just want to not be.

I hate everything.
Everything hates me.

It has been a good day.

Yes indeed.

I'd tell you if I did.

I
do
not
know
what is happening.

So you can stop asking.

Please.

If I had a plan, I'd be doing it.
If I knew what I was doing, I'd be going for it.
If I was going somewhere, I'd be packing.

Rephrasing the question
Doesn't make it easier
For me to appease your
Curiosity.

I
really
honestly
actually
do
not
know
what is happening.

So please stop asking.

22, and how much has changed?

Today is my 22nd birthday. I thought I should post something. I was all full up of feelings and overflowing with bits of profundity earlier, but now I am just tired.


I celebrated by doing basically nothing productive at all. It was nice.

I am just sort of...underwhelmed by all of it, if you catch my drift. I am drained and blank and kind of upset. With myself, or so I tell myself, because myself is the only one that really deserves my ire.

See, my least favorite thing in any relationship, friendly or otherwise, is someone who won't speak their mind, someone who expects you to read theirs and gets upset when you miss some cue they were evidently projecting. I am terrible at reading people. Unless I am told that something upsets you, I will continue to do that thing. Unless you tell me you want something, I will not be giving it to you. It's not for lack of trying, but I pretty much pick up on nothing nonverbal. If you are waiting for me to answer needs you haven't vocalized, you will be waiting forever, and you will be getting upset and blaming me, and I will not know what to do to fix it. I realize that some of this will be a problem with me. I do my best to ask regularly, to check on people to make sure I am not being terrible, and maybe I should be more understanding, but it just hits my rage trigger if you are upset about something I did retroactively, and you had the opportunity to stop me in the first place.

If you can't tell, this works my nerves something fierce.

And that's why it's me that I'm pissed at. I did this today. I've done it before. I've been trying not to do it again.

I was down. Tired. Feeling small, and some days . . . some days I just can't take that feeling anymore. It's probably pathetic, but once in a while, I need to know that I matter. I need to know that someone noticed when I left the room, that someone cared when I wasn't around for that thing everyone else did.

Okay, it is pathetic. But that's how I felt, and I sat in a room with people I could probably have trusted, and I didn't say anything. I worked myself into a roiling mass of anger and sadness instead. I did precisely what I can't stand.

That I recognized it for what it is at all is a measure of progress, I guess . . . ?

Or so I am going to tell myself.

It is my birthday, after all.

Nope.

My room is a mess.

My room is always a mess, but right now, I care.

My room is always a huge mess, but right now, I care, and I should clean it, but I'm not going to.


I'm going to bed.

Pit

She cracks me up. She really does. She thinks she has this in the bag. She's over there on the table's edge chortling to herself and fingering her cards knowingly, in a world of her own making where the spoils of victory pile up around her wooden chair, become a throne of champions in her mind.

We're just watching her, waiting for it to dawn on her that the room has gone silent. The trading floor is closed, kiddo, and you are spoonless.

Immensely long and self-indulgent reminiscence

A few summers ago, I lived in a room with my sisters. We made this work by setting up triple bunk beds, which made getting into and out of bed interesting. The youngest had to climb up a veritable jacob's ladder every time she wanted to sleep. The middle child had the bottom, where she couldn't bring her knees up without scarring them on the undersprings of mine. My bed was just high enough that I couldn't climb in gracefully; it was a sort of half-hop roll thing that left me sprawling like a beached whale. What I'm saying is, once we got into our beds, we weren't going anywhere very quickly.

This was the summer I tried to get in shape, and while I do that every summer, it almost seemed like it was going to stick that year. I rolled (quite literally) out of bed to a horrifyingly cheery alarm every morning at 6:15 and dragged my sisters with me, and we blearily leapt around the living room for about 40 minutes to the smooth sounds of nineties work-out videos. We had a short worship together after that, and then there was usually time to watch an episode of something before I left for work.

Of course, three girls in proximity of that sort has always been a recipe for disaster, particularly when two of them are just far enough apart that they will never agree on anything. My middle sister and I got into so many pointless arguments. The two younger ones got into so many irritating fights. The youngest and I knew better than to start anything with each other. Peace and harmony did not reign more often than chaos and discord, but we did manage to stay alive, and so did all of our belongings. I suppose that counts for something.

My most distinct memories of those few months, however, weren't the ridiculous fights, or the 6:15 work-outs (though my sisters profess psychological scarring from my phone alarm to this day), but the times we spent in our triple bunk bed, going nowhere fast because no one wanted to get up, but not sleepy yet either, because it was the middle of the summer, and the sun refused to set.

It was on one of these occasions that we decided to write a story, each telling one piece at a time. We started off having no idea where it was supposed to go, but it rapidly devolved into my vision versus my middle sister's, and the youngest just listened and nearly cried laughing.

Our story was about a princess on her wedding day, and her dress (said my sister) was hot pink, accessorized by shining silver shoes. Hideous (I said) said the princess, and discarded it out of the window, where it landed (said my sister) on a stable boy who looked longingly up at the window. He was the princess's riding instructor, and the two of them were madly in love. Unfortunately (I said), the princess was to be married to someone else in just a few hours' time. The stable lad was mooning under the window for nothing. Their plan (said my sister) was to run away together. She sent her lady-in-waiting (I said) to tell the boy they could never be together, because if she didn't marry her afianced, her family would be destitute. He sent the lady back, saying (said my sister) that their love would find a way to come through. He would come for her.  The lady-in-waiting (I said) told the princess what he said, but she also told the princess that the two of them should probably just accept their lots. She thought the two of them were empty-headed idiots, and she was tired listening to them and carrying ridiculous messages. Nevertheless (said my sister), the princess had faith that her love would save her from a loveless marriage.
It was finally time for the wedding. The ceremony went through (I said) without a hitch, and soon the new bride was packed up into a carriage with her husband and sent away. (To this news, my sister reacted rather badly.)

(Resultingly, we never did get much farther with our story.)

I wonder, sometimes, where our princess would have ended up if we had finished it. Probably with her stable boy. I had given up on her as a character already, anyway. I was more interested in her lady-in-waiting, who I had in mind for the nefarious husband. He was really just a cursed prince who needed to inherit the princess's property to free himself from an eternity alone. Much more fun than a sappy stupid stable boy, I thought. I was probably wrong.

We haven't written any stories together since. After that summer, I went back to school, and when I came home the next year, I had my room back, and my sisters and I got along much better. Most of the time.

I don't know why I'm telling you all of this. I think it's probably just to preserve it somewhere, and maybe a little bit to prove that in spite of the impression I may have given, my sisters are pretty great.

All the time in the world

he spent months.
years.
maybe decades?
it could have been centuries.

He honestly has no idea how long it took.

and he spent every day
every single one
looking for his friend.

Night, all. For now.

I need to go to sleep.

Just wanted to say that today has been pretty okay, actually. I am glad that today was a day that happened.

I hope tomorrow is as nice.

Thoughts of no sense

I don't know what to write today. I haven't got the urge, if you know what I mean. Nothing is springing forth fully formed, like Athena from my forehead. Of course, I'm not Zeus.

I need to go to a concert, but I don't particularly want to go. I need to do an assignment at the library, but I don't want to put on outside clothes.

It's cold outside today, and it's cold inside my room. My room is always precisely the temperature it should not be; too hot if I'm hot, too cold if I'm cold, and always stifling. 

Some gray days are good days, and some are not. I prefer the sort of fall that makes the sky bluer than seems natural, crispy winds tossing around red-orange leaves with a noisy gust. If it's not going to rain, give me blue skies, please. 

I didn't know what to write, but I tried, I guess.

Posting

I used to post only fandom things. 

Then I posted only boring life things.

Now I post creative attempt things.

And also other stuff. It's more of a blend, I suppose.

I tried writing a villanelle today. I didn't get as far as I would have liked. It is a much more difficult endeavor than I would have supposed. Haven't discarded it, though. I will let all know how it goes.

I do wonder why fandom has played less of a role of late. I think it has something to do with the fact that I've picked up so many new fandoms that I'm not as emotionally involved with, and I have little to nothing to say about them. Hmm.

I'm just enjoying writing whatever, to be quite honest.

Watching

She wanders away alone, waiting for no one to follow, hoping that someone will. No one ever does, though. She's gotten used to it. Not the pied piper type.

That type and entourage are still inside, over there, and she walks until she is at a safe distance from which to watch. Their progress is slow, she has learned, because everyone wants to grab even a piece of the piper's attention. Hangers-on like her, they come and go quickly as they please.

From where she stands, they are dark figures against the bright window, a mass of moving shapes that swells and diminishes at random, indistinguishable as individuals. She rubs her arms in the chilly night and glances up at the sky. One star winks through the orange-black cloud cover. It's alone, too, she thinks.

As she looks back at the door, one shadow breaks away from the others and lingers next to the glass. She squints, and then snorts out a laugh. It's him.

The pack of bodies hasn't gotten any farther, but the single separate form waits by the door. And waits. He opens it for passers-through, and he waits a bit longer. No one has followed him, either. No one ever does. He's not the pied piper type.

He probably doesn't get it, but she does. And she gets him. Not that it matters.

She's still in the dark, and it's time for her to leave. She walks to her car, sparing the stars another momentary glance.

Now, there are two.

This is my confession

IIIIIIIIIIIIIII did not watch the debate. I was actually catching up on The Daily Show at the time. I found it a much more satisfying waste of an evening.

Probably less educational.

Definitely less frustrating.

Doing it differently

"Hey, Mina, I need you to set the table."

She turns around very slowly on the piano bench and eyes me coolly. "Umm . . . you're not my mother." She swivels back to the keys and starts plunking out a tune.

I'm suddenly so angry that I'm shaking. All I did was suggest that she set the stupid table. Was I ordering her around? No. Why the flip did I get the "not my mother" evil eye? I can't stand her.

She's too old to be awed by me anymore. It's been years since those halcyon days, in fact, but I'm several years older, is the point, and that still gives me seniority, dang it. I shouldn't have to tiptoe around her blasted independence; she's still my little sister and I can still call her out when she's not helping out; I can still tell her to stop playing the bleeding piano and set the table for lunch when everyone else is working in the kitchen. No, she doesn't get to ask why I don't do it myself, because she doesn't get to question me; I'm the oldest. I'm not her mother, she says. I've been the one left responsible for her and the rest of us when the parents are gone since I was 10, so, no, I'm not her mother, but I'm not someone she can just ignore, either.

I've slammed into the kitchen and am leaning on the counter, fuming to myself and a bit to my mother, who is chopping lettuce. The water is running in the sink for the juice I was supposed to mix up, so I pull out a pitcher and fill it, muttering to myself about how at least I'm doing something instead of being lazy.

Stirring juice concentrate is cathartic, I find. It helps that the piano goes quiet fairly quickly. Mina's probably clearing up the dining room. Once my beverage concoction in the fridge to cool, I've cooled off a bit myself, and I ask if there is anything else I can do.

"Gravy?" Mum suggests, so I put a pan on the burner and start scraping flour and butter around.

Mum has been half-listening and murmuring things like "just let her be" while I vent my righteous rage, but when I stop talking, she brings up another topic.

"You know that your grandfather has been staying with Aunt Louise in Washington."

"Oh, really? I didn't know she still had him," I reply, pouring water into the rue and whisking it carefully. I didn't know that, really. I lose track of my extended family, for the most part. We never talk to them.

"Yes, he's been there for a while now. Maybe . . . 2 years?" Mum takes a bowl out of the cupboard for the salad. "But apparently, she's got to move out of her house, so she can't keep him for much longer."

I know where this is going. "Pop wants Grandpa to come here, doesn't he?" Mum is nodding, and I spill garlic as I gesture in dismay. "No one is ever home! How are we supposed to take care of him?" I swipe the spicy mess into the trashcan, trying not to sneeze. Grandpa has multiple sclerosis; he's been confined to a wheelchair for as long as I can remember. Also since I can remember, he's been shuttled around between my dad and his siblings, landing with one or the other as long as it takes for another of the seven to pick a fight and cause a problem. I've never thought it was very fair to him, but nothing my dad's family does is very reasonable.

"It's not for certain that he's coming here," Mum says, breaking into my reverie. "Not right away, at least." She disappears through the dining room door with the salad, only to return moments later sans salad and trailed by my sister. Another one, younger than the one I'm mad at. She's getting things to set the table. I'm instantly furious.

"I told Mina to do that," I growl, yanking soy sauce from the fridge. Sophie just shrugs and says she doesn't mind. I slam the bottle down by the stove, sloshing its black-brown contents. I'm about to storm off in search of my nemesis, but the gravy starts to bubble. I have to keep stirring, or it'll burn.

Mum just looks at me, but she picks up where she left off speaking, wringing out a rag to wipe the counter down. "He might be going to your aunt's in Georgia, but I guess she and Louise are on the outs right now."

"When are any of them ever on the ins?" I ask, blowing on a spoonful of brown sauce. I taste it. It needs more salt, which I add.

Sophie is back in the kitchen. "Who are we talking about?"

"Pop and his family," I reply, sailing out with a dish for the table. When I get back, she's laughing.

"I remember how last time we were at Aunt Cathy's, Pop was ready to go after like an hour. He never wants to be around his sisters."

"When we were little," I add, "we always left the family Christmas gatherings two days early, even though we drove ten hours to get there. My proudest moment was telling our awful cousins I was glad to leave." My mouth is twisted in a wry smirk, while my sister still laughs. Thinking on it now, that's the last time I can remember my dad's entire family getting together, and that was probably 15 years ago. I don't know why he and his siblings can't bear to be in the same room for more than an hour or two. It's kind of sad to think about, actually.

Mum is finishing up three different things, and we each take one out to the table. Lunch is ready.

"Your father's family never has gotten along, not since they were young, I'm quite sure," Mum says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Sophie, go call the boys for dinner."

"I'll get Mina," I hear myself saying, a bit to my surprise. As I tread down the hallway to stand by her door, though, I know why I'm here.

I'm still the oldest. She's my little sister, true enough, and what's also true is that she can be mightily annoying.

What's most true of all, though, is that I know where I don't want us to be in twenty years. I knock on the door, apology at the ready.

this is a post about posting to follow.

It's that time again...and by 'that' I mean 'class submission'.

'Nother piece due. I am trying to suss out what it is I want to do. Got a couple of ideas, but I don't know if I can do them justice. Perfectionist is me. When it matters.

Anywho.

Here goes.

Circadian rhythms and how not to have them

It's past time for her to be asleep if she actually wants to correct her sleeping habits, and she's sick of being exhausted come 9 in the morning, but right now, she's not tired at all. This time is hers, when no one is going to interrupt her or invade her space, and everything is so quiet. It's perfect, really. Why would anyone sleep through the night hours?

Or so she thinks right now. She is going to be cursing her stupidity in about 5 hours.

Pox.

What with him being who he is, and her being who she is, it's all extremely unfair.

This situation, right here, this one that she is in right now, is precisely the one she was very much trying to avoid. All of her efforts to the contrary up to this point have just been proven entirely futile, and the heck of it all is that there is really nothing she could have done differently. 

It's been an accidental honeytrap, laid unwittingly and obliviously successful. She's caught, and struggling only makes it worse. 

With him being who he is, and her being who she is, she has no intention of drowning. 

But she's stuck. And it's all extremely unfair.

Not twelve anymore

Three years is a long time to wait.

Stranded alone on a rock with salamanders and slime-sister and ghost-bro for company, he is exhausted. Their games have been great, sure. He's okay with the movie collection, too, even if he can't appreciate what he used to as much as he used to, much as he wants to.

See, he hasn't just been waiting, is the problem. He's been learning to wait, to try, to fight, to cry. To live. He's been growing up, stranded on the flying rock with salamanders and slime-sis and ghost-bro for company. Now it's time to do something, and after all that waiting...

he is definitely ready.

what. a homestuck query.

When reading a hugely enormous thing, one starts to get fuzzy on earlier details.

I am reading an enormously huge thing
and i am so confused.

WHY IS HE ALIVE, THO?
HOW IS HE FIGHTING THIS WORLD-DESTROYING ENTITY WITHOUT INSTA-DEATH?
WASN'T HE JUST ELSEWHERE?
THIS ISN'T A DREAM BUBBLE SITUATION HERE GUYS
WHATTTTT

the thing is homestuck.
I heard not long ago that AH is winding the series down, which makes me intensely sad, but also I am elated, because maybe he will explain some of his screwery?
I am wise enough to his ways to not expect that outcome, though.