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EmpathySometimes, if I sit perfectly still, I can convince myself I'm floating. I close my eyes and the sounds of the cars rushing by on the viaduct slowly disintegrate into white noise, which helps to further remove me from reality. I am on my own.
I seem to do this more and more lately. I love the feeling of not feeling. Numbness. Brain-melting numbness. It reminds me of the last time I talked to you. I told you that I couldn't be around you, for fear my heart would leech onto you and I'd be plagued with pits of jealousy for your imaginary trysts. I told you that no matter how much of an emotionless bastard I am, I can't not feel for you.
And you said nothing.
So I ripped the band-aid off; no anesthetic needed.
I felt nothing.
And ever since, I find incredible comfort in not feeling a damn thing. I don't let myself get stuck on the bits of you I have in a shoebox at the back of my brain. My thoughts dance around all that reminds me of you so I don't have to remember; so I don't have to feel
I wrote this on a Tuesday.I am distraught, waking to your arms wrapped around my chest with such intention and motivation to cling unwaveringly; you don't even break slumber. If not filtered through glass, I'm sure the sunlight would leave lasting, traceable patterns on our torsos, bending and connecting around the gentle curve we've carved into the bed linens you had shipped from your village.
My left ear feels the beat of your breath, but it's hard to take solace in our closeness. I am viscous, forever filling the shape of he who contains me, though you are not the same shelf upon whom I leaned at last sunrise. And perhaps I'm imposing onto you the ill-formed suppositions I've made of those in my past, those who've lost touch.
Though your touch is far from lost; it comes from behind drapes all around me, straddling my sensibility of how to approach your impending consciousness.
I can't lie; I love the constant embrace. But I haven't known you more than a handful of days, and if my only stipulation
The Parlour IncidentOne day in July, I believe it was, I found myself sitting with several acquaintances in Christopher's parlour. It was one of those deliciously lazy afternoons which only the summer in her full glory can bring. The room had a wan, listless light to it, relaxing the other guests and myself as we languidly chatted over tea and crumpets. The air was also sluggishly heavy, dulling the senses to a slowly-blended calm engendered by the heat of St. Othniel's southerly climate.
At length, after much stimulating conversation, Christopher stood, producing a book of sheet music.
"What do you all say to a bit of music?" he asked.
"Certainly," I answered.
"Oh yes, please do darling!" Tabitha exclaimed, "he's quite the maestro."
Christopher laughed, shaking his head.
"Now, now love, I'd not go that far."
He strode over to the piano as the other guests urged him on. Ida entered the room bearing a merrily steaming teapot and more crumpets.
"More tea sirs?" she inquired, shooting sideways glances at her
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More