(no subject)

I got kidnapped by a hippy and forced to watch the solstice sunrise with a mug of tea, up a tree.

I think it could've been a worse night.



Help?

Pootling around with paintshop. Fear my complete lack of skillz!

or or ?

[Poll #517109]

Opinions would be greatly appreciated. ;)

(no subject)

I don't really believe tarot cards tap into anything, particularly. I think they provide a useful way of looking at things, and that the interpretations that you yourself place on them is what's of importance. I think they're a pretty way of tapping into the subconscious and making you think about things.

My friend gave me a reading the other day, and what seemed to be coming out of it was that I needed to take a step back and look at situations logically. And that there was something or someone that I was putting on a pedestal that didn't need or want to be there.

Which... hit pretty close to home, really.

I think... the way I interact with people I want is very much a kind of worship. That sounds really odd, so an attempt to clarify: I don't feel like they're quite on the same level as me. I see people I crush on as being higher than me, more important in some way, and I see myself as being beneath their notice.

And then I wonder why I'm constantly single.

Just recently I've been getting a huge boost in confidence, and I think it's the result of a lot of little changes that have combined into a slightly better state of being. Things're improving, a little. Nothing dramatic has happened, save that I've finished uni, but I'm feeling good about myself. And about my writing, too. I think I'm not good enough by a long shot, not yet, but I'm practising and working at it and I genuinely think I'm improving.

Sometimes it's hard to see yourself as ever improving. It's hard to imagine a time where you will be better at something, but then I look at my RPing, and I look at stories I wrote even just a year ago and I think that there is a visible difference there.

I think I'm coping better with things, right now. I have had a couple of knocks, but I can deal with them far better than I have been before.

And there's Circusboy. Who's cute, and funny, and intelligent, and makes hideous puns, and I really like him. And it's easy talking to him, even when he smiles at me and my stomach melts slightly. So I'm going to try to hang out with him more, and try to just be friendly, and see if anything develops.

There is a possibility that I'm in a stage where I could believe that he liked me, if he did. (if that makes sense).

Anyway, I hope it lasts.

No guarantees.

Getting my results in a week or so...

(no subject)

He was on a beach.

The storm had abated a long time ago, hours maybe, and the sun was bright. If you looked close enough, you could see steam rising from the sand; it was beautiful, almost too good to be real. His hair was drier but his trousers still damp in places, salt stiffened and falling inelegantly against his legs, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. His tweed jacket was draped over the face of the dead girl.

"I wasn't in time."

"I know."

That was the thing about him. Time was the only thing that still frustrated him because fast as he was he wasn't fast enough. He couldn't do everything.

In heaven, time moved slower. An hour lasted years and seven days (six days and change) lasted an eternity. Himself was still resting. But here there was never quite enough time to do everything, and doing what he could was never quite enough. Dinners at the Ritz and fixing old books was a measure taken against insanity, a style of meditation, perhaps. Clearing the mind of anything but the moment. Tao principles, which was almost ironic, which almost made him laugh. Any other day, maybe.

Looking at him through sunglasses you could pretend the tortured expression was from squinting at the sun.

"Maybe it was her time."

Yeah, he got angry, sometimes.

"Why? Why now? How could you possibly know? How can I?"

A shrug.

"Wrong person to ask."

He settled back against the sand, and stared back out to sea.

"Ineffable."

In his mouth, it was a curse.

"Come on."

He didn't move, didn't say anything, just looked sidelong, not quite at the body that lay next to him.

"Come on, I said. I'll take care of it."

His mouth twisted a little, but to his credit it looked like he tried to stop it.

"Not - you - you have to take care."

His eyes were worried, and the implied lack of trust stung.

"I know. I'll take care of it."

Eventually he stood, and allowed himself to be led away. And it's taken care of, the jacket burned. A promise means more than he knows.