for a quick-bite post. Looked up all the places I usually go for a bit of a gnaw of meaty inspiration.
Fandango has FOWC (but I hate the word ravish — do people understand the full implications of that word and it’s associations? It’s one of those words with two meanings at polar opposites:
To ravish is to take someone by force, to force someone to engage in sexual intercourse or to experience extreme happiness. … When a girl is raped, this is an example of ravish.
unusually attractive, pleasing, or striking.
This word is one of these:
An auto-antonym or autantonym, also called a contronym, contranym or Janus word, is a word with multiple meanings (senses) of which one is the reverse of another. … This phenomenon is called enantiosemy, enantionymy (enantio- means “opposite“), antilogy or autantonymy.
— That means it’s not a word for me).
And then I found this:
A train track, leading into the sunrise, ocean on my left so I’m heading east, into the rising sun, into a new life. Yes, this is the inspiration for the day!
A Thought on Home
Two bags or one? One is easier to carry. And the first job will get me a backpack. What is it that drives me away like this? Every time, every single time I settle into a life, something happens. This time, it was bad.
Time to leave. Again. Head east this time, into a new chance, a new perspective. Get on a train, don’t look at the destination, just get on and wait until it gets to the end. Then get off.
That was the plan, the only plan in my head. Go somewhere, get off, start again.
This time, there won’t be the same issues. I promise, cross my heart (where is the bloody thing?) and hope to die (although I’ve survived death in all his forms so far, so not much of a promise, is it?).
Maybe this time I’ll end up in a city big enough to disappear, be invisible to everyone. No one will notice the purple eyes which flash green with anger (rage, usually) or the aftermath of that energy burst.
Maybe this time, I’ll appear normal enough to get a job that’s more than slavery but dull enough that no one needs intelligence. Being smart around me isn’t good for the health of those asking questions.
My skin condition (I call it that so people don’t ask questions, but they do) appeals to a personality type who think they can rescue me. They can’t. It isn’t a condition, it’s who I am, the real me under the skin. Only the sun in this place discolours the scale and feathers them. If there were places I could live in half-light, dappled with cool shade in places where no one lived, I would be happy.
I would be at peace.
That isn’t going to happen here. There are so many people that there’s nowhere a person can go to be alone with their grief and pain.
I want to go home, but there’s no such thing now. Even my ships disintegrated and rusted and became one with this place, as I will eventually.
My course has started, so will have fewer posts this year, and I won’t be publishing anything until I can parse it through the new information gained from the study modules.
But I’m still here, still slinking in the background, perusing and rusing and telling stories.