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Genderfluid || LGBTTQQIAAP+ Ally || Bi/Pan || Poly || Feminist || PLURAL AF || Actually Creetur Shaped ΘΔ& || Table-top and gaming nerd || 3D Enviro/Asset Modeler and Surfacing Artist || Frequent Writer and Lover of Prose Poetry || May be Skunk Brained || BEWARE my content can be NSFW. 18+ 🔞 || Twitter Migrant

RIP Dogbomb
1963 - 2019


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CERESUltra
@CERESUltra

I do not remember when I started crying.

I remember locking up the shop. I remember driving home, picking up my dinner from the local deli, I remember coming in the front door.

I remember-not-remember walking by loved ones, holing up in the kitchen. I remember-not-remember moving the trash can and softly asking them if they could turn the tv down. I remember-not-remember that they did.

I half-remember dressing on salad. Buttering a roll. Putting on Gnosis by russian circles in a loop as a soft balm, a bedding to lay down on.

I remember noise feeling like a pressure I couldn't escape. I remember hearing my pulse in my ear.

I remember part of me started dreaming. Dreaming of rain in pines, the wetness of stone, patter on roofing, the dampness and the smell of showers creeping into the worn boards of the floors and wall. Dreaming of somewhere real-not-real.

The dressing is rasberry vinaigrette. I only barely remember finishing the salad.

Sometimes the dreaming is a real place. Sometimes it's the house in the park overlooking lake ontario, the house they rent out there, the place we had my father's funeral in a blizzard but in the dream it is summer and it is raining. Sometimes the dreaming is the adirondacks, a dozen lodges, places we stayed or the buildings of the camp we worked at for years. Sometimes it is nowhere real. Sometimes it is real. It is never real. It is nowhere real pulling from the real because I need the real but I cannot have the real I cannot have the real I cannot have the real I cannot have the real I

I remember I dropped the fork I ate my salad with in the sink when I cleaned up the container. I remember I did not mean to do that. I remember grabbing a new fork.

I half remember this happening before. I remember the reasons why this might happen. I remember the gunshots last summer. I remember my father wasting away in hospice years ago. I remember all the violence I suffered. I remember though I wish I didn't all the substance abuse. I remember the overdose. I remember all the self-harm over decades. I remember all the million chisel blows that shape a person not by joy but by trauma. I remember joy. I remember so much joy. I cannot feel it in this moment but I remember joy. I remember life is not shaped by pain alone. I remember joy. I remember trauma. I remember most of it. Not all of it, but most of both.

I remember grabbing the non-alcoholic beer from the fridge. I remember liking blue moon as a beer when I did drink. I remember being delighted to find they have a non-alcoholic version now. I remember that's why I bought it. I remember it pairing nicely with this chicken parm from the local deli. I remember being sad that I finished the chicken before the beer.

I remember the feel of guitar frets and strings beneath my fingers. I remember a time when I didn't know how to play guitar. I can't relate to it, but I remember it. I remember how far I've come. I remember how bad I am, how I can't play with a metronome or with other people all that well. I remember my bad technique. I remember I don't care. I remember that unlike my writing, my music is for me and I remember that while I can share it with others I remember that I do it for myself. I remember music as the shape of my soul. I remember music. I remember how much music I've forgotten. I remember some of it. I remember I will forget more. I will always remember how much music means to me. I remember the song Gnosis by Russian Circles is still playing. I remember putting it on loop. I remember loving that a metal band this cool has an openly gay bassist. I remember that I love music.

I remember why I don't eat spaghetti all that much. I remember that I keep eating it anyway. I remember I do it not just for dietary variety but also as a form of respect to a food place I like very much and miss dearly when I no longer live here. I remember blue moon meshing with spaghetti better than I remember it doing before.

I remember my partners checking on me several times. I barely remember what either said to me. I remember how much they worry about me. I remember how they worry about me most when I am distant, quiet, soft. I remember I do not like making them worry. I remember I don't like feeling empty. I remember I don't like all the ugly parts of mental health, of neurodivergence, of cPTSD and ADHD and whatever other shit. I remember I do not wish I did not have them, because without them I would not be who I am. I remember when I didn't have words for dissociation. I remember not knowing what was wrong with me. I remember in some ways I still don't. I remember that nothing I can tell set this round of empty me off. I remember empty. I remember my partners worry about me. I remember how much I hate making them worry. I remember the emptiness.

I do not remember when I started crying.

I do not remember when I stopped.

I will not remember writing this.



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