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kaberettI have a novel trying to happen: the broad strokes and some of the details are sketched out, but actual proper words are currently stalled. In part this is because of the three paragraphs that follow: they needed to happen, they are of direct relevance to the point at which the story begins, but I can't quite see how to make them fit; I suspect the actual words need to be scrapped and the ideas need to be rewritten, so - here you go. About escape and cruelty and mental illness.
They are not so very alike, these things: standing at the top of the cliffs with the spray in your face and the salt in your mouth and your exulting heart; sitting in safety behind softly misted glass, watching the spray kicked up by passing cars. And yet in both of them there's love, and endings within beginnings within endings. I tend to the view that the lucky among us learn this lesson again and over again. It's a slippery truth, but even in glimpses I am blessed.
An ending and a beginning: you have spent years of your nights longing to be elsewhen, elsewhere, elsewho. You have learned that the world is cruel, and you cringe from it. You do not believe it will be different if you leave, but you hold tight to the hope that you might be: that in disappearing you will destroy the parts of yourself that you consider weak and worthless, that you hold in contempt.
This is how, on a bright November morning, you might find yourself dragging driftwood and gorse and heather into a heap anointed all uncaring with the blood that trickles from your splintered palms (your splintered heart), to burn your bitter past with salt.
They are not so very alike, these things: standing at the top of the cliffs with the spray in your face and the salt in your mouth and your exulting heart; sitting in safety behind softly misted glass, watching the spray kicked up by passing cars. And yet in both of them there's love, and endings within beginnings within endings. I tend to the view that the lucky among us learn this lesson again and over again. It's a slippery truth, but even in glimpses I am blessed.
***
An ending and a beginning: you have spent years of your nights longing to be elsewhen, elsewhere, elsewho. You have learned that the world is cruel, and you cringe from it. You do not believe it will be different if you leave, but you hold tight to the hope that you might be: that in disappearing you will destroy the parts of yourself that you consider weak and worthless, that you hold in contempt.
This is how, on a bright November morning, you might find yourself dragging driftwood and gorse and heather into a heap anointed all uncaring with the blood that trickles from your splintered palms (your splintered heart), to burn your bitter past with salt.
(no subject)
Date: 2014-06-17 09:58 pm (UTC)I have no further words, I'm afraid, just: gorgeous.
(no subject)
Date: 2014-06-18 10:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2014-06-17 10:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2014-06-18 10:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2014-06-17 11:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2014-06-18 10:36 am (UTC)Per chat, I have worked out that the reason this is a problem is that for all it's about the point at which the story begins, that's not where it belongs in structural terms.
(no subject)
Date: 2014-06-18 03:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2014-06-18 11:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2014-06-18 01:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2014-06-19 01:03 am (UTC)Oooh.