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letterblade"There is no bond that can unite the divided but love. All else is a curse. Accursed be it to the Aeons. Hell."
"...soul of infinite space, before whom time is ashamed, the mind bewildered, and the understanding dark, not unto thee may we attain, unless thine image be love."
It's a rather odd position, given how most mainstream institutionalized and negativized (it's a word if I say so, damn it) religion works, to find oneself being dragged, kicking and whining, by one's religion towards happiness. Or at least it's doing its best.
I feel like I should say that I'm trying, but I'm not. I don't even feel like I'm capable of it. Maybe I've forgotten how. Or maybe I'm simply too tired--utterly exhausted and drained, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually, and not knowing how to rest or heal. Stripped of both will and joy. Spending each moment killing time until the next one comes. Every time my heart gets broken, I go out and buy a new one, small and hard and pretty; I meant to toss the little lepidolite one I got when Cyn dumped me into Salem harbor and pick up a new one, but I haven't gotten around to either. I don't carry the old heart. I don't want a new one.
I should start seeing a therapist again, I suppose. I can't rescue myself from this, and I can't in good conscience let anyone else try unless I'm paying them. I'm utter poison when I'm in a bad way, and hurt everyone I touch; most everyone who gets near me winds up hating me, and those who can stand it still tire or lose interest. The other alternative is waiting it out, I suppose.
(Gratuitous Crowley of the day being from Book of the Law and the Gnostic Mass, respectively.)
Also--T.S., H.B., I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.
"...soul of infinite space, before whom time is ashamed, the mind bewildered, and the understanding dark, not unto thee may we attain, unless thine image be love."
It's a rather odd position, given how most mainstream institutionalized and negativized (it's a word if I say so, damn it) religion works, to find oneself being dragged, kicking and whining, by one's religion towards happiness. Or at least it's doing its best.
I feel like I should say that I'm trying, but I'm not. I don't even feel like I'm capable of it. Maybe I've forgotten how. Or maybe I'm simply too tired--utterly exhausted and drained, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually, and not knowing how to rest or heal. Stripped of both will and joy. Spending each moment killing time until the next one comes. Every time my heart gets broken, I go out and buy a new one, small and hard and pretty; I meant to toss the little lepidolite one I got when Cyn dumped me into Salem harbor and pick up a new one, but I haven't gotten around to either. I don't carry the old heart. I don't want a new one.
I should start seeing a therapist again, I suppose. I can't rescue myself from this, and I can't in good conscience let anyone else try unless I'm paying them. I'm utter poison when I'm in a bad way, and hurt everyone I touch; most everyone who gets near me winds up hating me, and those who can stand it still tire or lose interest. The other alternative is waiting it out, I suppose.
(Gratuitous Crowley of the day being from Book of the Law and the Gnostic Mass, respectively.)
Also--T.S., H.B., I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.