TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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04.20.03, almost midnight
So yes, we stress and make each other cry or worry, twittering like birds that are very very cold and cannot foresee the end of winter and it is hard, you see, for me, remembering how it felt as a child to see love wilt, to see two young people age and mourn for their youth and why, just why didn't they choose something else when they had the chance? Why commit when the choice you make may be the one you regret for the rest of your life?
But you see, darling, a part of me died when I met you. I died a little and something new began in the place of what had died. The ne'er-do-well - and I miss her blitheness very much - has departed.
She might resurface in a story, pressed by my own hand through ink unto paper, thriving in a place that would better serve her lack of aspirations. The ne'er-do-well existed because she had little faith in anything but the pleasure that could be gleaned from the moment. (And yes, she was very stressed and tended to avoid the source of her stress when no pleasure was to be gleaned).
But you, you happened. And my faith grew. It was coupled with the pleasure I gleaned from the moments I shared with you; my work could grow, in proximity to you. I was no longer the ne'er-do-well, her pleasure the only reason for her existence. For there were the stories clamoring within me and, yes, it's true, how I could inspire you. The romance only for one was over. And in its wake, the new creature, scared, close to her own braveness, close to the shape her stories will take, wanting to sustain faith where there was once none.
Be brave as I will try to be brave for you.