jadesprite: (↪ panic on the streets)
gggg we should really do personal posts more often instead of just writing but

do you ever feel like more of a concept, an idea, than a person? we do often but i am not sure if perhaps it is just born out of self-loathing, some miserable feeling of being less than a collected connected being with all our pieces in order, a feeling of being less, less. it does not entirely feel that way, though — not always, not for every disarrayed piece. not for everything
 
the thing is that 'noah' is vague and intangible and undefinable: he is not our blood, he is not our brain, he is not our heart. he is consciousness and nothing more and in that i suppose he is truly the essence of nothing in us. our body means nothing! the body is host and inside of it is where the person, the being, really lies. in a sense it is a cage; a cage of flesh and blood and bone, bone like You truly You are stuck among the arching frame of your ribcage as behind prison cell-bars. and you know our skin feels sometimes like it is the only thing keeping us together and we could hate that! if there was not a part of us deep down that is rational and logical and knows over believes (and that part we could hate, too) we would almost think that our skin is keeping us trapped—
 
like it is a foreign wrap on our innards, a bandage pulled too tight into numbness, only there is nothing to tighten down on, no innards, not really. it is a loose net around our soul but somehow it feels suffocating also. likely that is just in a metaphorical sense, likely it all is, most likely of all we are wrong because we are flesh and blood, can we not feel it? can we not feel our pulse and our body heat and the weight of our flesh? of course we can; it is dragging us down into the earth always. but deeper down, inside of even that, there is more or perhaps less

our soul is made of air if we have one i think. i think, i think it is nothing, personified nothing, the smoke of a dullahan’s severed neck-to-head, the film of mist lying on the surface of water where nymphs and sirens and lake-ladies reside, it is pure spirit of life and death and what else could a soul be? below our blood and flesh that is what i like to think lies. smoke, thick as highland fog, unbreathable and i suppose unliveable! but no, no somehow we live. oh we live. we live forever—and every one of us if it is what we so choose, what you choose—and within that all we die a million deaths and break through from a million rebirths before we ever manage to raise ourself into anything more than flies buzzing in the silent infinite everything of the universe. and still yet we go on.

*

so you know i guess it's a silly thing to say but we just want to help people so like... if anyone ever wants to talk to us about identity things or belief things and stuff like that then we're always open for that. and so long as you're relatively respectful about it, if you have any questions fsr about our writing or w/e then yeah that's cool too. i mean probably wont ever come up at all but hey just in case right? idk idk idk
jadesprite: (↪ the world in your hands)
i'm words. nothing but words, a walking dictionary of personality traits and a directory of names: (a)lex and teal and ridley-kristen and even the old one, the first one, jammed down among our ribs, stuffed at the base of our spine and down into in our guts, old-blood dried up and sunk under the new
 
from a formal viewpoint i guess my personality is not really "alex is" or even "i am" but "inside me there is" because we are not entirely a person or even people!! not a shape defined by its edges, not colour within the lines, we are edgeless and shapeless and without-boundaries of self, we are colour spilling, ink bleeding, raw emotion and clinical thought and
 
things full of so many things and at any given time we are more of one thing than another but that does not take any of them away!! it only carries them off in our blood, sweeps them into our bones where they cling like wet-seaweed to sand but in the end they are always carried back, just a constant inner tide of ebbing and flowing always and sometimes it lies low and calm and sometimes it foams and crashes but it is us either way
 
we are water and wind, the sea and the sky, both and neither and all roads between; we are the line of the horizon between endless light and ever-growing life and our soul is made of silver and gold, rubies and emeralds, gleaming like stars and that is what we are! we are stardust from a million years away, broken down into infinite unfathomably tiny pieces and drifted to Earth like snow or ash and the soil and water and light have brought it all back together again, rearranged us with white-tan skin and pink flesh and bubbling blood and heavy heavy bones but beyond them we could be weightless and maybe one day when our dust breaks down and sets to travel again that is exactly what we will be
 
we are the prince of a kingdom of stars and on Earth we are young and small but beyond this, among the stars, we are younger and smaller, infinitely so, a speck of nothing rubbing its raw-eyes, blinking and forever reborn, in the face of incomprehensible time and distance. but the difference is that here that distance is daunting — out there, it cradles us. in it we are both the tiniest fly buzzing unheard and the spider with its long spindly legs and its sharp eyes spinning webs between the dots of stars in which to catch solar winds.
 
dust in our veins and dust on our bones and in the back of our skull and in our mouth, we are made of dust, but it is dust that sometimes we swear we catch on the back-end of tingling, glittering. singing.

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rotten kid

October 2014

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