09-22-2019, 09:48 PM
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She lives, the sea air breathing life into her lungs with every passing moment. Yet she lives in the group’s shadow, out of the social light. To speak invites questions, and questions are the things Rosemary fears the most. The ocelot spends her days in quiet solitude, lovingly tending to her plants and filling the hours with meditation. Her interactions with the rest of the group are sparse, and even then only brought about when tending to the Necro Mambas’ supplies or meeting another soul on the beach.
The quiet settles her mind, lets her hear the crash of the waves without interruption from anxious thoughts. They always zig-zagged their way through her mind before, crashing into her plans and fouling up an otherwise serene mood. Yet even now, months into her solitude, she feels the tangled web of gunk sticking to the back of her mind, like a cockroach that lurked under the refrigerator awaiting the darkness. This anxiety – no, it ran deeper than general anxiety, she knew, she has always known but never wants to admit – ruled her life.
Everything she did, she did to try and drive this cockroach into its filthy hole. And yet she couldn’t explain the rationality behind her actions, not fully. No more than how she could explain how each molecule moved after her paw sunk into the wet muck of jungle soil. Yet here she was, trying to re-focus on her meditation after her mind wandered into these fears. Wondering, for the thousandth time, whether she meditated because she wanted to or because it drove away the cockroach. And the wondering turned into wretched fear, that old fear that lingered ever since she saw her mother’s mental decline –
Her eyes opened, all four of them. Just like that, she was back on the shores with the heat of her bonfire burning into her back. The sun set a few hours ago, and the night chill from the wet ocean winds came in full force. Usually she left the beach by now (the sand long since infiltrated her tea thermos), but the nettling fear to vacate the open space prodded her less insistently today. Despite the fears that surfaced, broke her meditation, Rosemary wanted to socialize. For once in her life, for once in the long time since she’d returned to the Typhoon after that disastrous stint in the Rosebloods.
The quiet settles her mind, lets her hear the crash of the waves without interruption from anxious thoughts. They always zig-zagged their way through her mind before, crashing into her plans and fouling up an otherwise serene mood. Yet even now, months into her solitude, she feels the tangled web of gunk sticking to the back of her mind, like a cockroach that lurked under the refrigerator awaiting the darkness. This anxiety – no, it ran deeper than general anxiety, she knew, she has always known but never wants to admit – ruled her life.
Everything she did, she did to try and drive this cockroach into its filthy hole. And yet she couldn’t explain the rationality behind her actions, not fully. No more than how she could explain how each molecule moved after her paw sunk into the wet muck of jungle soil. Yet here she was, trying to re-focus on her meditation after her mind wandered into these fears. Wondering, for the thousandth time, whether she meditated because she wanted to or because it drove away the cockroach. And the wondering turned into wretched fear, that old fear that lingered ever since she saw her mother’s mental decline –
Her eyes opened, all four of them. Just like that, she was back on the shores with the heat of her bonfire burning into her back. The sun set a few hours ago, and the night chill from the wet ocean winds came in full force. Usually she left the beach by now (the sand long since infiltrated her tea thermos), but the nettling fear to vacate the open space prodded her less insistently today. Despite the fears that surfaced, broke her meditation, Rosemary wanted to socialize. For once in her life, for once in the long time since she’d returned to the Typhoon after that disastrous stint in the Rosebloods.
waded through the spirits like a flood on the floor
SHE PUSHED THE WATER INSIDE
I FEEL SO HUNGRY —
— Dear diary, I don't know what's going on, but something's up / The dog won't stop barking, and I think my TV is bust / Every channel is the same, it's sending me insane / And earlier somebody bit me, what a fucking day / The sky is falling / It's fucking boring / I'm going braindead, isolated / God is a shithead / And we're his rejects / Traumatized for breakfast / I can't stomach any more survival horror / Dear diary, I feel itchy like there's bugs under my skin / The dog's gone rabid (shut the fuck up) / Doing my head in —— WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?