Gone to Lay in the Corner.

Here's something for you.

Why do I wish some people were mind readers? I guess it's really that hard for me to admit to things.

The downside to me getting depressed is that after I fall below a certain point, I don't care to sugarcoat and be nice any more. After a certain point, I'm a little sarcastic but extremely honest. But often times I find myself wishing I could take back a lot of what I reveal while I'm in this state.

I feel like somewhere in my mind, I'm reaching a bit of a breaking point. Today had me feeling frustrated and neglected. It turned to an avoidant anger, which then turned to near self-destructive depression. Finally, my cord just snapped, and I found that I had "disconnected." I remained this way most of the evening. I fought off a slight panic episode, though, and while I'm tired, I have too much on my mind, I guess.

I don't like to think of myself as pushy. In fact, I don't really think I am. But maybe I should be. I feel like a couple of my needs, no matter how silly or stupid they may be, have been seriously neglected, and it's left me feeling mildly discontent. And while they have been neglected, I don't feel like being direct because I'm afraid of sounding controlling, or pushy, or selfish and demanding. All of the things I try so hard not to be. And sometimes when I do get direct and push, I get pushed aside. And since I fear rejection, what's the point?

I'm a self-admitted attention whore. I like attention. I often act out in order to get it. But what good does it do to act out in efforts to get attention from somebody who probably has ten other things going on at the same time? Have I really become the proverbial dog who sits at her master's side and paws at his leg every now and again as if to say, "Hellooo, I'm still here. Notice me?" It sounds so harsh to say, and I know I'm going to feel bad for it later... but... that's just how I've felt. And recently this proverbial dog has felt like giving up trying, hanging her head, and laying down alone in her corner.

I feel like a toy or something. Something to be played with at somebody else's convenience, to be left alone when unwanted. I'm supposed to be here, undivided attention, willing to do whatever whenever... and if I don't, I'm accused of being angry. But when will it be the other way around? When will it be on my time for once? When will I ever know the pleasure of undivided attention... of total willingness to be open to doing whatever (even if it's just listening to each other breathe)? Whereas I get accused of being angry... I see it as said person is just not interested in me. Maybe I am uninteresting, who knows.

So from now on, I'll be less in-the-way. I'll be quieter, and I'll stop begging for so much attention, as I seem to be asking for too much of it. I'll stay in my little corner, laying down and waiting to be beckoned.

I wish people were mind readers. Then I wouldn't have to sit here and post lengthy babbling entries about myself. I'm so uninteresting and unimportant.

Maybe I'll never be beckoned. Then I can lay in my little corner forever.

An Actual Musing.

I've had a lot brewing on my mind since the weekend. I've ridden up and down various thought trains and emotional roller coasters. I feel like I've been dropped into a maze and been stripped of my sight. Analogies aside, I want help. I need somebody brave enough to jump into the depths of my mind. I want somebody to go into the depths of my thoughts and help me through them. I'm slowly becoming a mess.

So here they are, for whoever dares to be brave... a thought-train of things that I can't seem to tear my focus away from.

I warn: A lot of them aren't pleasant.

When I was in the emergency room a little over a week ago, I walked past a group of people. They were all crying and holding one another, and it was obvious what they had seen. One of the women gave me a passing glance -- that glance pierced through my body and hit me right in my very soul. A tearful glance was what I was given, a look of confusion, devastation, and helplessness. A look that almost begged, "What do I do now?" And even though I was in such an excruciating amount of pain, I wanted to hug that woman, and I wished that I had something to say to cure her expression. It was a fleeting moment that bothered me, even after I had been placed on the morphine and other drugs. They finally came and whisked me away to a screening room, so Mama and Dawn stayed behind in my room.

When I returned from the test, they told me the coroner and morgue had come to pick up a body of a person who had died in the room across the hall from where I was -- the relative of the woman who gave me the heartbroken look. I felt my eyes water even though I had no clue who this person was.

Mama told me, "The coroner said while they were wheeling the body out, 'Looks like he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.' He then laughed about it." I felt sick.

How can people do that? How can people be so callous and cold as to laugh and joke at the expense of others? Where is the pleasure in teasing another, living or dead? I kept wondering to myself if that coroner would've had the same reaction had he seen the expression I had been given. Could he be so cruel as to laugh after seeing the heartbreak and agony the loss had caused those people.

Where is the pleasure in hurting others? I, myself, am guilty of getting laughs at the expense of others. And while my own antics are rude, I don't set out to hurt, I set out to annoy. There is a difference there. I set out to hurt somebody one time in my life. Just once. I felt so horrible and guilty after the fact that I went back and apologized. There is no pleasure in hurting others. Sure, you might feel dominant and super and all that jazz immediately after the fact, but the pseudo-happiness melts away and the truth eventually comes to surface. But for some people, there is no feeling the truth. Maybe they deny it, or maybe they have trained themselves to believe the pseudo-happiness is the truth...

On the topic of truth... when does making excuses become a lie? I'm notorious for making excuses. Not excuses for why I didn't do something, but rather... excuses to "protect" people. Primarily their feelings. I like to say I'm a person who doesn't want things sugarcoated, yet I turn around and sugarcoat all the time to protect people. What a hypocrite I've become.

I make excuses when I should be angry at a person. I make excuses so I don't wind up being angry at said person, and eventually I keep telling myself them over and over until I begin to believe them. Suddenly they aren't "excuses," they're "fact." I also make up these same excuses for when a person hurts me. Anything to prevent me from being upset with them. But does that make me a liar?

Over the past few days, I've felt like a liar. Playing pretend, making the excuses, employing the ostrich theory (if I don't acknowledge it, then it doesn't exist)... I don't want to be labelled a liar...

Lately I've felt like there's been a lot of conflict. It starts with a conflict of interest, and ends with people going to bed angry and feelings hurt.

I hold onto an old grudge. Something that has seemed to span my entire dating "career." I have the ability to get with people who are addicted to things that I don't seem to grasp on to, or things that I might not like. And I try so hard to get into these things, but sometimes I don't understand them or I just can't make myself like them. And these conflicts of interest turn into permanent wedges that eventually drive my relationships apart. It's happened every single time. You'd think I'd be used to it.

It doesn't bother me too badly until people begin mentioning it or talking about it around me. The second it gets mentioned, I want to curl up and hide. So again I lie and make excuses for my own "negligent" behavior. Deep down, I want to scream that it isn't my fault. But maybe it is. Anytime a fight starts because of this conflicting interest, it's because I've started it. I'm always the spark that causes the fire. Always the instigator. And I hate it.

It's gotten to the point that I can't even stand watching from the sidelines. I feel like I should be on the field, at his side, right where I'm supposed to be. And even when I get out there in a bit part, I can't stand it. I feel possessive... I don't like the idea of anybody but me being at his side and I get so jealous and mad when I see anybody else doing what I ought to be doing... even though I know I can't do it at all and he's better off with somebody who actually gets it. And I get so jealous that it puts a bitter taste in my mouth. And it's even caused me to have awful thoughts of wishing I could turn the tables for just one day. I wish I knew how it felt to have an important role to play somewhere, but I'm just an average nobody.

I used to say, "I refuse to be second place for anything." But I am second place. I've always been the one who gets pushed aside for the sake of something or someone else. I used to fight it. I used to argue and complain and demand to be first place. But now I've given up. There isn't a point in fighting something that's never going to change. I'm slowly learning where my place is, and the sooner I accept it, the better off everyone will be. I'm tired of fighting it. I am second place. Always have been, always will be.

I put myself on too high a pedestal, but now I've fallen off. I've landed and now I know where I should have placed myself all along. The perch is not as high nor as glorious, but at least it's an honest perception of where I should be.

I don't want to be on a high pedestal. It hurts to fall off it.

Chapter Two.

I'm at it again, with more scribbling!

Rediscoveries: Chapter Two: Disasters and Reunions

She found herself sitting alone on a crate in the corner of the inn. Her best friend, a young woman named Eya, had been staying in the palace ever since she discovered she was expecting a child. Lucafira had insisted this living arrangement be made for the safety of her friend. This left her without a companion. Eya and Lucafira had been friends since their early teenage years -- two young runaway girls with nowhere to go and nobody to care for them. The two girls were practically twins, with only the shades of red in their hair to distinguish one from the other. They'd grown close and called each other "sisters," and behaved as such.

"Maybe I should go check on her," Lucafira said aloud to nobody. "I've not seen her in quite some time." She then paused, remembering all the memories held in the palace walls. "No. I'm not going back there. Ever."

A pair of drunken young men who had obviously gotten on each other's nerves approached Lucafira's vicinity. They were swinging swords at one another and swearing profusely. The redheaded woman raised an eyebrow and watched as they drew closer. They were paying her absolutely no mind, and one swung his sword within inches of her ear. She didn't flinch -- she didn't even blink -- and rose to her feet. From the sheath at her side, a beautiful Saber emerged. She swung once at each man, causing each to have their sword fly out of their hands and into the air.

"Don't you see me here?" She growled lowly. "Be a bit more considerate."

The drunken males ignored her and instead pounced on one another, tumbling around on the floor. She scoffed and stepped over them. "Disgusting people," she murmured.

She walked through the streets, avoiding eye contact with anybody who happened to be in her path, ducking into the woods at her first convenience. With nobody to bother her, she walked with her eyes staring ahead instead of downward. The trees formed a quilt which blocked off the sky from view. The green haze in the air was unseen. Suddenly, a snapping sound caught her attention, and she whirled around. Her green eyes widened in horror as a rotting hand clawed its way out of the earth.

"No," she murmured frightfully. "Impossible... they were all..."

Another snapping sound, then another. She turned a slow circle and found undead creatures digging themselves out from the soil. She quickly counted seven, with more still appearing. She took a step backwards, but found herself surrounded. She stood as upright as possible, although dread and terror made her want to cower towards the ground.

One of the creatures limped forward on its decomposing legs. It pointed a bony, sharpened finger at her.

"Back for you, Lucafira..." It growled.

She reached into her pocket for her half of the skull-shaped stone. For the first time in over a year, it flickered to life. She narrowed her now purple eyes into catlike slits, and reached for her sword.

"Not without a fight," she growled with her best effort at bravery. She lunged forward and tumbled across the ground as the zombies jumped at her. She rolled to her feet and sprinted through the wooded landscape, jumping and dodging as rotting hands continued to spring up from the ground. Her chest felt tight as her lungs began struggling to keep up with her pace. She had to stop running. She had to fight. She turned back to face the horde, thirty strong, and swallowed a growing lump in her throat.

"Either they retreat, or I go down swinging," she spoke to herself. With a vicious shriek of aggression, she threw herself at the horde, swinging her Saber ferociously.

***

Phil was standing on the deck of his vessel, eyes staring up at the strange green haze that hung overhead. It sent a dreadfully familiar feeling down his spine... a feeling that had been absent for over a year. He squinted a bit and looked at the island that his ship had ported at. Things looked so calm and peaceful despite the green cloud that loomed over it. In the back of his mind, a warning began repeating itself:

The time has come to rise again...

He shook his head. "No," he said to himself. "I'm retired from all of that. I'm just hearing things..." He shook his head again as the warning repeated, louder. It was then that his pocket began to vibrate. He dug through it until he found the source of the sensation -- the purple stone. His eyes widened, and he was tempted to throw the stone into the depths of the water.

"Stop it!" He shouted at it. "I'm retired from that!" He felt a whirlwind of emotions plaguing him from out of nowhere. But most of all, he felt a strange, protective aggression. The stone suddenly emitted a purple line of light, pointing to the island. His hand tightened around the stone, and in the back of his mind, he began to hear voices.

"We are back for you..." A distorted, menacing voice.

"Go away! I'm not giving in until I'm dead!" A female's voice. Tired. Weary. Afraid.

Without thinking, he jumped down onto the docks and ran in the direction of the purple light. He shoved his way through a group of gossips who quickly shouted insults in his direction. But none of it mattered to him. All that mattered was getting there in time.


She yelped as her body landed abruptly against a trunk of a tree. She slid down it until she was in a half-sitting, half-lying position on the ground. She had fought off five of the damned creatures before three stole her sword away and began their assault on her. She coughed, gasping for air, wincing as she was hoisted up from the ground by the throat. She felt the nails digging in; she felt the blood dripping down her neck.

"Give it up," the creature holding her instructed. "You can't win against us alone..."

She gripped at its wrist and dug her own nails in, but she was far too weak to cause any damage. The creature responded by sinking its own claws in further, causing a gasping cry to come from her throat. Her vision was becoming hazy in the corners of her eyes, and she felt as if her life was simply draining away.

So this is how it's going to end, she thought grimly to herself. I'm going to be killed in the first onslaught...

The creature repeated, "You can't win against us alone..."

"She's not." A male voice suddenly pierced the eerie silence. The zombies turned around to see a young man standing a few feet away, a sword in his hand. He didn't give them much time to react before quickly jumping forward and separating the undead creature from its arm. The young woman in its grasp made a weak noise as she felt herself fall to the ground.

"I don't know who she is or what you want from her," Phil began in a strangely calm voice, "but I suggest you leave her alone before I make you leave."

She looked up wearily, but could only make out blurry visions around her. She crawled across the ground, looking for her Saber. A zombie dug its claws into her shoulder, causing her to emit an awful shriek of agony. Immediately, her rescuer turned around and threw his sword through the attacker's midsection. For a second, Phil looked down at the girl he was saving.

She looks familiar... he thought. He quickly jumped back as another zombie swung its disgusting claws at him, and he made quick work of slicing off the undead monster's hands.

"I guess none of you listen all that well," he growled at them. He gripped the stone in his pocket tight, activating its hidden energies. His sword immediately transformed into an amethyst flame, and for a moment he missed the strength Bane gave him.

The remaining zombies appeared frightened. They began to make a retreat, but not before Phil sacrificed a few more to make sure the creatures got the message. He stood at the ready for about five minutes before coming to the conclusion that no more zombies were going to spring up. Just before he was about to discharge the stone's power, a familiar blue haze appeared in front of him.

"So, it is you again," the female's voice made him growl angrily.

"You're not dead, I see," he spat out bitterly.

"My name is Lucimueria -- Light of Death -- you foolish boy," Lucimueria mocked. "I do not die that easily."

"What do you want now?" He demanded.

"I was expecting to be rid of my sister when I sensed Bane's activation. Imagine my surprise when I find you, 'Fearless Phil,' holding the blade instead." She narrowed her green eyes and smirked viciously. "Tell me, how are things between you and my sister?"

For a moment he looked wounded, but the look quickly turned into impending rage. "None of your business," he snapped quickly.

"Fine, I do not have to ask you what I already know," she laughed softly. "Just know this: The Ghost Dynasty has risen once more. We will be in touch, Phil..."

He lunged forward to swing at her, but simply swung through mist. He stood motionless, breathing heavily while growling between breaths. How dare she ask such a question! But more importantly, why was she back? It was then he realized that he needed to go back and check on the victim of the attack.

He turned and saw the young woman laying face down on the ground. He quickly ran over and knelt at her side, turning her over to check for a pulse. When he turned her over, his breath was knocked out of him and his heart stopped for a split second. He was staring into the wounded, pale face of his former lover.

"Luca..." he stammered after a moment. He took a small piece of cloth out of his pocket and cleaned some of the blood from her face and neck, suddenly moving with an increased urgency. She was frighteningly pale and felt cold to the touch.

"Don't you dare die on me," he growled in distress, shaking her softly. He repeated his demand, voice raising with panic. "Don't you dare..."

He dug through her belongings until he found her half of the stone. He held it close in his hands and attempted to channel some of his own strength into it. He channeled his energy into the stone for two full minutes, then placed it into the palm of her left hand. He clasped her hand shut and held it tight, squeezing it in a pulsing rhythm.

"Come on," he begged, "don't reject my efforts..."

I know I made a mistake, he was pleading to himself. I should never have left, and I'm sorry that I did. But please, Luca, don't you dare reject my efforts and die just to get back at me. I would never forgive the both of us... Especially myself...

He put his head on her chest, and for a second remembered how so long ago, he used to rest his head against her while the two stargazed on idly floating ships in the middle of the night. He bit his lip and forced the thought away, pressing against her and listening for the beating of her heart. But he heard nothing. He cried out softly, involuntarily, and removed one hand from hers and began pressing on her chest.

"Luca, please!" He begged loudly. "Don't do this to me!" He pressed harder when he got no response. His hand squeezed hers tighter. A few tears welled up in his eyes and slowly traced down the sides of his face. He stared down at her, his energy waning as hopelessness began to set in.

"Don't do this to me..." He whimpered again, voice shattered.

Suddenly, Lucafira seemed to choke and gasp for air. He jumped a little, startled, and held his own breath. A few more tears spilled over in his eyes. She writhed a little, coughed again, and gasped hard. He felt her clutching the stone on her own, and slowly let her hand go. He studied her, noticing her shorter hair and lack of a ponytail. He leaned forward, practically leaning over her, mentally pleading with her.

Open your eyes, Luca, you can do it...

A few moments later, her eyelids fluttered and opened halfway. Her vision was blurry and she wasn't sure who was standing over her. She made a slight moaning sound and began to sit up. Whoever was next to her quickly grabbed hold of her and held her up.

"You... you're alive!" Phil cried out suddenly, wiping his eyes on his arm.

She blinked a few times and found herself staring into the eyes of her former love. She snapped quickly, "Yes. I'm fine." She pulled herself away from him and began to stand. She was extremely unsteady.

He looked a little hurt, but shook it off. "You really shouldn't stand up like that," he said softly. "I don't think I channeled enough to you..."

"Why are you even here?" She growled softly.

"Because I..."

She cut him off. "Why don't you go back to training, or whatever it was you said you were going off to do." She staggered and began to walk away.

He jumped up and followed. "I was wrong, okay?" He offered. "I shouldn't have done what I did. But I saved your life! I could've let you lay there and die..."

She turned around. "Maybe you should've."

"Don't talk like that," he scolded.

"Why not? You didn't care a year ago. Why do you care now?"

"Because I was wrong!" He cried out. "I'm admitting I was wrong. I'm saying I'm sorry... doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"No. It doesn't." She began to walk away again.

He continued to follow. "Besides, if your sister's back to cause trouble, you're going to need help."

"I can handle it."

"Right, like you handled the zombies?" He snapped sarcastically, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

She stopped again and turned to face him. "You want to stick around and help me fight Lucimueria? Fine. But after she's been defeated, we go our separate ways again. Understand?"

He sighed heavily and nodded, knowing he wasn't going to win the argument. "Yes. I understand."

"Good..." She wobbled weakly and began to fall. He quickly ran over and caught her. He watched as she lapsed into unconsciousness, then carefully picked her up and began carrying her to the hidden townhouse.

"But I hope you understand that I intend to change that." He spoke aloud to nobody.

First Chapter.

Continuing on with the story...

(You have to read from the bottom of the page to the top in order to read them in the right order. I probably should fix it, but meh.)

Rediscoveries: Chapter One: Two Traveling Monarchs

To his surprise, the waters were calm and still. It appeared that his vessel was the only one daring to be out at such an hour. Still, his blue eyes carefully scanned the area until they nearly memorized the location of every wave in the sea. With a gentle sigh, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the railing of the ship. From a distance, he looked completely collected and calm... but he had become such a good actor in the last year or so.

He reached into the collar of his shirt and pulled a chain out from under it. On the chain was a sapphire blue band that shimmered in the moonlight. He held it gently between his thumb and index fingers, reading the inscription. Amore Eterne, our love is eternal. Oh, how it lied.

A fellow crewmate had suggested to him to throw the ring into the ocean. And he refused vehemently, insisting that he didn't care about the memories it held. Refusing to admit he was still holding onto those memories. He no longer wore it on his finger because to claim he was taken would be incorrect; still, he couldn't let it go. Perhaps one day it would reconnect him with the only person he ever felt truly attached to.

The only person he truly was attached to.

In his pocket, half a piece of a purple, skull-shaped medallion. Before the final battle with Barnabas, they had split the stone in half.

"Here," she had told him. "This way, we both can share the power it holds. And this way, we'll always be connected."

He had never had to use the stone's power since the final battle, even though it would've been nice. No, he had retired from all of that... fighting undead hordes and whatnot. His opponents were now living and breathing, and he loved the challenge.

He just never expected that his two loves would conflict, and make him lose one.

It was nights like this that reminded him the most. Nights like this hurt the most. Her voice would run through his head in a haunting melody of words and sentences that wouldn't bother him had they not be spoken in her pitch. He could still remember the words from songs she used to sing to pass the time. If he dared to close his eyes, he saw her standing on the water, dressed in her tattered corset and ripped flared pants, her messy ponytail fluttering in the wind. But if he dared to reach for her, her figure would turn into fog on the water and disappear with the wind. And every night when he would retire to the bed in the cabin of his ship, the lack of warmth next to him would remind him as well.

Secretly, he was tearing himself apart. He intended on a short, two-week hiatus to give her time to settle down. He never intended for it to turn into a yearlong separation that had become permanent. But time had just escaped him.

Oh, so much had escaped him.

***

She had temporarily handed off the monarchy of her flag to a trusted friend and set off on a two-month mission to find herself again. That two months had turned into eight. When she walked out of the palace for the last time, she had no intentions of returning. There were far too many memories locked away in the walls of that beautiful structure, and there was no way she was going to try and cope with them. She had too many bitter memories in her mind, spanning way too many years. She didn't want it any more.

She returned to her hidden little townhouse, where the company of her many pets kept her from going completely insane. She had changed her appearance -- she decided to forgo the ponytail and had cut her waist-length hair to rest just beyond her shoulderblades. But the blood red of her hair still gave her away. She had tried to dye it back to its natural blonde, but the curse that was placed upon her always returned her hair to its blood color. She was forever marked, like it or not.

People were afraid of her. She had become extremely cold and distant, greeting very few with a smile and spitting venom at the rest. Ever since her separation a year ago, she had closed herself off to everybody. She had been wounded once again and was sick of having to heal. No more, she had decided. She wasn't going to put herself out there for the sake of anybody. She should've known when that boy walked in her life, she should have left him alone. She had drug him through a lot, and had gotten close to him, only for it to wind up becoming nothing.

And while she maintained such bitter thoughts, she kept his gift to her -- a sapphire and onyx ring -- in her pocket. When she felt depressed, she'd unconsciously hold it in the palm of her hand. Whether she knew it or not, she still held onto the silly belief that one day he'd actually come back. But it had been a year -- he made it very clear he was no longer interested.

She used her half of the amethyst stone quite a bit, manipulating people into fearing her. She had become a bit of a demon to people, hated by many and feared by most. It was just her defense mechanism -- if you can't love them, hurt them. And while she knew it was wrong, it made her feel safe.

But it never repaired the hole in her heart.

Story Startings.

I'm jumping the gun a little. I feel like writing a little on a sequel to a story I've been working on for a while. And since I don't have any proper programs to keep my writings on presently, I'm gonna scribble it out here for a while.

So here you go: The prologue of the sequel story, Rediscoveries.

Rediscoveries: Prologue: Beginning and Ending of an Era

It was a double-edged sword, the story.

Barnabas the Pale has once laid siege on the ocean called Sage, terrorizing its citizens with periods of turmoil and fear beyond the worst fantasies anybody had ever dared to dream. With undead soldiers rising up from the soils and slowing overwhelming anybody brave enough to step forward, the population feared it would succumb to the evil desires of the great Ghost King.

But as all hope seemed lost, two young heroes rose to put an end to the tyranny.

Her name was Lucafira, and she was the keeper of Bane. She was a hard but troubled young woman who ran from her destiny while knowing it would eventually catch up to her. And as the time drew near, she met him.

His nickname was Fearless Phil, and he slowly proved himself worthy of his title. He was a trader-turned-hero not because of any special stone he possessed; rather, his heart led him to his destiny. It was with her, at her side, until peace was restored.

Bravely, the two refused to back down as the grips of the Ghost King's evil powers tightened around them. Together, the two were unstoppable. Their love was as strong as it was pure, and the strength of their romance increased their abilities at the time of the final battle. They vanquished Barnabas the Pale with joint force, and restored society to the way it was meant to be. Together, they took back control of the largest flag of Sage, Rojo Rubreyia, and rebuilt it to its former greatness.

That was a year ago. Things were different now.

***

As the flag regained its glory, Phil had found himself in control of the blockading force. Lucafira had requested he handle the position as she had no clue on how to do any of it, and he quickly complied. At first it was simply a responsibility he held amongst other monarchly duties, but he grew to love his position. He loved being on the open sea, in the heat of battle. It seemed to be in his blood, and he spent from dawn to dusk out at sea.

Lucafira soon found herself spending more time with her assistants than her lover, and to keep herself from becoming depressed and lonely, she began to travel. She declared herself the ambassador of the flag, and spent weeks at a time away on various adventures.

It was only a matter of time.

Phil became bothered by the fact his lover was never around when he would get to port. He feared she was reverting back to her old ways -- when he met her, she was a nomadic rogue -- and soon began to voice his concern on her disappearing.

Lucafira fired back that if he cared, he would spend more time with her to begin with. She would never be second place to anything, and she had been pushed to the side. Their arguments would go on for hours, late into the night, until one of them stormed out of the room.

One day, Lucafira woke up to find Phil had left a note. It was his daily notice, telling her he was going out to sea -- or so she thought. Rather, it was a note telling her that he was going on an extended trip with a couple of admirals in order to train young officers. On the note, it said "about two weeks."

Two weeks turned to a month. Then two. Then six.

And Lucafira realized the horrible truth: He wasn't coming back.

Thus an era began, and an era had ended.

Title.

I feel a little bothered.

I just feel as if my insides are heavy.

Not my physical insides. My emotional insides.

I don't know why.

I guess I should try to sleep.

But sleeping has been a struggle lately.

Hoping for Quick and Heavy Sleep.

I've spent the day alone.

It was definitely a good thing. Not because I wanted to be alone -- quite the opposite, actually -- but because of what's been plaguing me.

Sat down to dinner. Had one meatball and two forkfuls of spaghetti. My body rejected it. Abruptly. Violently.

I've been violently ill since 5:00 this evening. At times I'm heaving horribly but producing nothing. It's caused my sides and stomach to start pulsing with agonizing pains. My head hurts and I feel dizzy. Moving hurts, and I'm still having to crawl out of my bed and wander down the hall to purge what's in my system -- although there's no possible way anything's left in there.

I've been miserable. In the midst of one episode of throwing up, I decided to start crying. For multiple reasons: Frustration at being sick, agony from the heaving and aching, and depression from... things that transpired earlier in the day that ultimately led to my day of isolation.

I've had an uber bad day. I hope to God that I can just go sleep.

Yeah, I'll be sleeping alone tonight, but I still hope to God I just go to sleep. And sleep hard. And heavy. And that I don't wake up until I absolutely have to.

I hope everyone else had a better evening than I did.

Mid-Morning Musing.

Inspired by my poem The Seeker.

And recent feelings.

The Avoidance

She turned to face a different direction
And made sure not to look his way
Forced herself to maintain a blank expression
While never having a thing to say.

Supposedly there was security in exile --
This notion kept her quiet
Until eventually she forgot how to smile,
And her voice was forever silent.

With time she'd barricaded herself inside
A world of which no one knew
And it was here she decided to stay and hide...
Just to avoid feeling blue.

Because she was tired of the destruction
That came about so much it was routine
It was because of a little obstruction
They had made out to be obscene.

So by nights she stared into the dark
And picked at every little detail
Hoping one would give her a spark --
An idea of why they were unwell.

But even if she came across a solution
It would never be seen nor heard
Because she put herself in an institution
Of isolation for something so very absurd.

And because neither one will dare to speak
This pairing splits into teams of one
Wrapping up a near eight-month streak
When avoidance made them come undone.

Motivational Mess.

There's just some days where you hurt all over... where moving sends waves of pain through your body and you'd rather curl up in the dark warmth of somewhere nice and secure, and sleep.

But then you can't.

That's my situation.

But I'll get up and muddle through, because I always get up and push my way through it.

I just wish that I'd actually take care of the pain and make it better, not push myself harder and ignore it for the sake of looking tough.

I wish I wasn't tough. I'd love to be delicate.

It's just not me.

I Never Meant to Exist.

Have I set the standards too high, making it impossible for people to meet what I think is "right" or "good?" I used to think I set the bar pretty low, because I never felt like people had to jump hoops for me. But have I done backwards and actually made it harder for people? Are they having to cross tightropes over netless chasms through flaming hoops and swinging blades? Am I really that pushy, demanding, and selfish?

I don't seem to grasp the concept of "making things easy for people." I'm always so resistant and stubborn, wanting to put up a fight. I've never surrendered easily, and I always want to be right. But that's gonna eventually wear people thin of me and drive them away. Deep down, I apparently love confrontation and arguing, even when on the surface I insist that I don't. I must love having fights with people I love and care for -- I produce them all the time.

I'm wrong, okay? I'm wrong, wrong, wrong. I've attempted to change people lately for totally selfish reasons, and it has to come to an end. I've become exactly what I hate -- a demanding, whiny person who wants everything her way or the highway. When did this transformation occur? What the hell happened to make me this way? I've become somebody I can't stand. And I'm surprised anybody can stand me, either.

You know how on cartoons, how they'll occasionally have an episode where a character wishes s/he was never born... and how an angel comes around and shows them what life would be like without them? Yeah. I'd love to see what existence would be like if I weren't around to screw it up and make it bitter. I'd love to see how everybody flourished without the hassle of Dani being around to whine, complain, or otherwise incite trouble. And if I did see life was better without me, I wouldn't come back. I'd let everybody live their happier, improved lives while I spent the rest of eternity in the place where all nonexistence goes.

Quoting Shinedown: Maybe that's the way I should go -- straight into the mouth of the unknown.

And if I were to wish myself to have never existed, I'd also wish everybody would lose their memories of me. I would wish nobody remembered who I was or what I did -- because all I ever did was hurt people's feelings and leave them feeling wounded and hurt. I'd wish for them to find a friend, or loved one, or whatever that was ten times better than I ever was. Or will be. And then I'd slide into nonexistence, and everybody would live happily ever after.

I'm tired of hurting the people I love. I'm tired of wounding them with my pathetic, petty barbs. I want them to be happy. I want them to have somebody better in their lives. People deserve happiness -- not to walk on eggshells to please any one person. I wish I could disappear. It'd make everything so much easier.

Sometimes I wonder why I ever had to exist. But I guess disasters happen for a reason.

And boy, am I ever a disaster.