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Excuse me while I ramble crazytalk about my writing
Sometimes it hurts. Like, physically head-throbbing jittery hungry but too nauseated to snack want to walk or run or do something but too exhausted and unfocused HURTS. Shoving at the inside of my head, jammed against each other like bodies that will be found piled against the only fire exit after the flames have run out of things to consume. Knotting my fingers and drowning out each other’s claims in their own and all of them worthy and yes, I promised this one and oh, but I love that one and this one’s been waiting forever but I can’t do any because I can’t do all and it’s late, so late, with work tomorrow and I should be in bed.
But they’re still there. Always. Every moment of every day. Needing. Needing. Needing. Even at the expense of the “real”, or of myself.
Eighty-odd DA. Plus their parents, siblings, ancestors, children. Human stories, so intertwined and independent, so real, truthful, deserving. They need to be told, seen, heard.
Never enough time. Not if I did nothing but write and draw for the next ten years, twenty. Things would have to be left out, even still, and I hate that I’ve already had to make so many omissions.
It’s why I constantly bubble over with information on my own fandom. I want to overshare. Let me tell you. Let me tell you. Let me tell you. Give me an inch and I’ll give you everything. I know only a tiny tiny number of people even care or listening to anything beyond DAYD, but it wouldn’t matter if I were the last person on earth.
Apocalypse? End of the internet? No problem. I’d tell the burned buildings about Colin. Draw a picture of Rachel in the ashes. Graffiti Renny’s name into the dust. Feed Tommy’s recipes to the shadows and sing Stewart’s music into the wind and dance in the barren streets for Li because I’d need to. It drives me.
So don’t you ever, ever apologize for asking or think you’re being obnoxious for wanting to know or see or wonder about, and don’t you ever assume that it’s a stupid detail I wouldn’t know. I know what color underwear their mothers were wearing the night they were conceived. Not being able to talk about them to most people is so strange for me that it feels like closeting and is the biggest barrier to me having “normal” friends, a “normal” life. I feel like I’m stealing from them. I feel guilty. AP and the rest of it burn like untreated wounds.
It guarantees that no matter how much life gets in the way, I’ll always come back to this until every story is told.
As long as there is breath in my body.
Posted 2 years ago 9 notes Tagged: Daydverse, writing, nucking futs and know it.
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DAYD insanity from tumblr
(Anonymous) 2015-04-11 01:19 am (UTC)(link)Excuse me while I ramble crazytalk about my writing
Sometimes it hurts. Like, physically head-throbbing jittery hungry but too nauseated to snack want to walk or run or do something but too exhausted and unfocused HURTS. Shoving at the inside of my head, jammed against each other like bodies that will be found piled against the only fire exit after the flames have run out of things to consume. Knotting my fingers and drowning out each other’s claims in their own and all of them worthy and yes, I promised this one and oh, but I love that one and this one’s been waiting forever but I can’t do any because I can’t do all and it’s late, so late, with work tomorrow and I should be in bed.
But they’re still there. Always. Every moment of every day. Needing. Needing. Needing. Even at the expense of the “real”, or of myself.
Eighty-odd DA. Plus their parents, siblings, ancestors, children. Human stories, so intertwined and independent, so real, truthful, deserving. They need to be told, seen, heard.
Never enough time. Not if I did nothing but write and draw for the next ten years, twenty. Things would have to be left out, even still, and I hate that I’ve already had to make so many omissions.
It’s why I constantly bubble over with information on my own fandom. I want to overshare. Let me tell you. Let me tell you. Let me tell you. Give me an inch and I’ll give you everything. I know only a tiny tiny number of people even care or listening to anything beyond DAYD, but it wouldn’t matter if I were the last person on earth.
Apocalypse? End of the internet? No problem. I’d tell the burned buildings about Colin. Draw a picture of Rachel in the ashes. Graffiti Renny’s name into the dust. Feed Tommy’s recipes to the shadows and sing Stewart’s music into the wind and dance in the barren streets for Li because I’d need to. It drives me.
So don’t you ever, ever apologize for asking or think you’re being obnoxious for wanting to know or see or wonder about, and don’t you ever assume that it’s a stupid detail I wouldn’t know. I know what color underwear their mothers were wearing the night they were conceived. Not being able to talk about them to most people is so strange for me that it feels like closeting and is the biggest barrier to me having “normal” friends, a “normal” life. I feel like I’m stealing from them. I feel guilty. AP and the rest of it burn like untreated wounds.
It guarantees that no matter how much life gets in the way, I’ll always come back to this until every story is told.
As long as there is breath in my body.
Posted 2 years ago
9 notes
Tagged: Daydverse, writing, nucking futs and know it.
Re: DAYD insanity from tumblr
(Anonymous) 2015-04-18 08:06 pm (UTC)(link)For the record, this was posted August 16, 2012.