CERESUltra

Music Nerd, Author, Yote!

  • She/they/it

30s/white/tired/coyote/&
Words are my favorite stim toy


There's an itch running the edges of my skull and a fevered longing in my heart because I have not devoted myself completely to art. A river like lethe's inverse runs over a lip into my brain, seeping down through the folds like rain into dirt, forcing me to remember stories. When the floodwaters come a story like Shadow of a Doubt overwhelms my poor head and dumps down spillways to my mouth and hands. I am old enough to understand that one cannot devote oneself to something sun up to sun down, that we are creatures of many things, and that time for myself to enjoy life is necessary. I'm glad I have reached that point in my life. It still feels like every waking moment I should be writing, that I am wasting my one true talent of wordsmithing, that is my use to this world. If I could write for a living, I would. I cannot look back across the garden of forking paths and truly perceive anythimg beyond the route that lead me to this moment, but I fantasize about the trails that branch and diverge. I am wasting my life working on machines I hate, 40ish hours a week, and the itch and the fire could be tamed in those 40 hours if given back to me to create. Sat here at this table, high enough I can't sit still totally, I feel for once incredibly verbiose and mature, lacking my usual impulsiveness and vulgarity. I am cognizant enough to know I have said these words in combination before, and will again. The Decemberist sang how he was meant for the stage, but I was meant for the page. Maybe one day instead of writing weird little Snippets like this, I will actually improve my situation, or resign myself to the fact that I am eternally wasted potential. Not likely tonight. It is late. Lady Nocturne beckons me again.


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