One night I snuck up on him while he was sleeping and poured ants into his brain. Now whenever I look at him, I see them there, working away behind his eyes. Busy little ants. I don’t think it did him any harm, but then again, I’ve got hungry spiders in my head.
I’m fascinated by bugs. I don’t know if it’s the spiders in my brain being hungry that makes it so or if it’s part of me. But I like looking at them, working away, always making themselves look so busy. You know, I think it’s an act. In reality they’re just as lost as I am, but they’re better at pretending.
I wonder what they see when they look at me? People tell me the wasps are more scared of me than I am of them, but how do they know that? Isn’t that stereotyping the wasps? Does it count for all the wasps? Could there be rebellious individuals that don’t see it that way? Brave wasps, or maybe wasps that simply don’t care, knowing that one day they will die anyway, that look at me and think; “Hey, that girl’s got spiders and worms in her head. That’s funny.”
Or maybe they wouldn’t think that. Maybe they see me and think; “Now, that’s someone who’s got it all, I wish I could be like that.” Well I got something to say to you imaginary brave wasp, you don’t know me. You might think you do, but you don’t. So don’t you draw any conclusions on appearance alone, you hear me? I don’t like boxes like that.
“Everything’s fine.” She says, hiding the broken cobwebs in her brain. So fragile, so strong. Made for catching flies. Buzzing things, they don’t stay quiet, even when caught. Even when the spiders come, wrap them up, suck up their innards. The buzzing never stops.
She smiles. A pretty mask to hide the ugly parts. The suspicion, the fear, the roaring paranoid monster hiding just under the surface. We don’t let it out. Or we try. We try a lot of things, it’s not enough to just try.
There are spiders in my brain. Busy things, building webs, catching flies. But there are so many flies, and even more worms. Brainworms. Nibbling away while whispering tiny petty words. The spiders are not the worst thing. They keep the flies from getting fat.
Sometimes they spill. Then the words don’t come out nice. The mask cracks, the smile turns ugly. A sneer, a growl, a display of anger. Angry at everything, everyone, even the good things. The good things reminds us that they will go away, we can’t trust them, they turn bad, rots from the inside. I don’t know how to fix them.
Ed wraps her arms around me. Skinny bony things, but infinitely strong. She won’t let go, not now, not ever, and I find some respite in that. She can make the worms go away, just for a little bit. All I need to do is obey. Obey her, bow my back and open my mouth and the worms will go away. Just for a little bit. Every picture of me she touches turns into a picture of her. Every image reflects only her. Her skinny arms and skinny legs and gigantic stomach. “Make it go away” she commands me, while giggling. Make it all go away.
And I do, for a little bit. She eats all the worms and it makes her fat and I throw up and she becomes beautiful. Only her teeth are yellow and her hair is falling off. Her arms grow stronger though. Every time I bow my back to her, her grip tightens. It tears into my flesh, my chest, my skin. My skin grows tight, too tight, I can’t breathe. So I cut open my fingertips, stretch my fingers through the holes, get some room. Ed’s grip loosens. And the worms return. Crawling, scratching, turning into flies that never stops buzzing. So very loud. So noisy. I pray for the spiders to build their webs faster, bigger, stronger than ever before. Just make the noise go away, make me strong, make me capable of dealing with the comments. Make my back straight and strong and powerful enough to withstand the weight of worms and flies and nausea.
I look in the mirror and I see Ed. She puts on her mask and smiles; “Everything’s fine.” Then casually she waves her hand and the cobwebs break.
When you mistypo “display” to “pissplay” ridicule is required.
Don’t let anyone else dictate your life.
On speaking your mind
I don’t usually write down my own opinions. I am not very good at phrasing myself, I much prefer to link to other people who say something along the same lines of what I’m thinking and let them to the talking for me.
If I write, I write stories, fiction so far removed from reality that I’ll have layers upon layers of obfuscating to hide behind.
It’s not that I don’t have an opinion, nor that I am afraid to stand up for myself. I just don’t like to be misinterpreted. I dislike arguments about semantics, and I don’t like having to carefully go over every sentence I write to avoid these traps.
So I don’t say what I mean. I don’t post my own thoughts in my own words. I find others who holds the same opinion as me, who have already phrased it in words that makes sense and I go “I agree with this.”
I am a mediator. I try to find understanding, common ground. I ask people to clarify themselves when they say something I find offensive and check that they actually mean it before I tear them apart. And sometimes I change my mind.
I went through a lot of old forum posts I’ve made here and there lately, and I can safely say, I am not that person. It is not me. It might have been me at the time, but I have changed. Or so I hope.
And then I realized something. There are many things that have been left unsaid. Arguements I could have phrased better than what they were by others. The only way I can be the ultimate failure in communication, that I’ve always feared to be, is by not communicating at all. I need to start speaking my mind. Because, some day, I will have an opinion. An opinion others won’t phrase for me, and then it will be a good thing if I’ll have learned how to explain it myself.
So in five years, I will look back at what I say now, and I will smack my forehead with my palm and go; “How could I have been such an idiot?” And I will feel embarassed and awkward and maybe even my words will be used against me. But the next time I decide to go through all my old posts, I intend for there to be words that are my own, and not just echoes of other people.
So Nanowrimo finally ended. I managed to miscount the number of words I had written and ended up on 80 000-something instead of the 50 000-something I was originally aiming at. Also, once again I’ve managed to write a really, really long story without giving it a proper ending. I did invent a wonderful new world though, which I might be interested in working on further. Although the characters were for the most part quite uninteresting aspects of my own projections.
Anyways, that’s done and I’m looking for new things to fill my time with. Not that I don’t have too much stuff already, but like all good flutterheads I always aim at having at least 7 things I don’t really have time for floating around. I’m learning to use Blender, being quite dedicated to kickboxing, I crochet like a motherfucker and I recently got sucked into Minecraft. And of course there’s work, but I won’t bore you with that.
So I’m thinking of new stuff I can do, and, after reading about bad sex in fiction nominations, I was reminded that I really love collaborating on stories. As long as I get to be in it from the beginning and I don’t have to deal with more than at max 3 people that is. I guess I’m picky like that. Anyways, I’m a bit too airheaded to organize that at the moment, maybe I’ll try to get something going in January if I still remember.
There won’t be much stuff added here until November ends. November is that time of the year. The time where words are ripped from my brain and plastered over the screen like blood-splatter. In other words; it’s Nanowrimo.