Funny, and yet disturbing all at the same time

On the twelfth day of Christmas, chronicpaint sent to me...

Twelve quotations drumming

Eleven comics piping

Ten acrylics a-leaping

Nine dreamgirls dancing

Eight texas a-milking

Seven books a-writing

Six heroes a-painting

Five acti-i-i-ion movies

Four warren ellis

Three gilmore girls

Two martha jones

...and a cancer in a sex and the city.

Get your own Twelve Days:

Funny, and yet disturbing all at the same time

On the twelfth day of Christmas, chronicpaint sent to me...

Twelve quotations drumming

Eleven comics piping

Ten acrylics a-leaping

Nine dreamgirls dancing

Eight texas a-milking

Seven books a-writing

Six heroes a-painting

Five acti-i-i-ion movies

Four warren ellis

Three gilmore girls

Two martha jones

...and a cancer in a sex and the city.

Get your own Twelve Days:

(no subject)

	chronicpaint forced communism on the world.
	... afterward, chronicpaint tried to cover up a bizarre love triangle involving them and two monkeys.
	'How will you be remembered in history books?' at QuizGalaxy.com

(no subject)

	chronicpaint forced communism on the world.
	... afterward, chronicpaint tried to cover up a bizarre love triangle involving them and two monkeys.
	'How will you be remembered in history books?' at QuizGalaxy.com

The Size of Sorrow

Tired tonight. Inside and out

If I express how I feel, the things I think are lacking that I would like to find, then I'm needy and trying too hard. I expressed myself, after countless time spent listening and offering support, only to be knifed in the ribs in the name of honesty.

And to top it off, I opened myself to a rejection I knew was coming and yet I bared my throat anyway. And now I'm just embarassed and uncomfortable.

I feel at this moment, in this instant of pain, this slice of time, like I need to stop being the one who always listens and supports. Like I need to retreat, let them sort themselves out for a change.

Maybe if I wasn't the one who always listens, the one that can always be counted on for support, I'd be seen as flesh and blood, and not just the safe harbour.

This week, an online friend told me his sister was diagnosed with inoperable lung/bone cancer. She has months. He's all spikes and sharp, a ball of rage. And I understand. I wonder if I would be the same. I can't rail against the unfairness of it. That's just a given to me now, like air or sunlight. Cancer is random.

But, the survivor's guilt is back for a return visit. Why her and not me?

I mean, I know why: They caught it in time, I responded well to treatments, I had a good attitude, I had a strong constitution. But I want to know why??  In the book of cosmic reasons, the holy writ of who has done what and who is yet to do what, why was it me?  I know the old saying, I think it's from Richard Bach, "Here's a test to find whether your mission on earth is finished. If you're alive, it isn't"

But what is that reason?  How do I find the reason, when I've lost my faith in the reasons?  When it's just a random bullet that missed me on the fields of war.

I'm adrift. And in this moment, in this corner of the night, I don't know what to reach for.

The Size of Sorrow

Tired tonight. Inside and out

If I express how I feel, the things I think are lacking that I would like to find, then I'm needy and trying too hard. I expressed myself, after countless time spent listening and offering support, only to be knifed in the ribs in the name of honesty.

And to top it off, I opened myself to a rejection I knew was coming and yet I bared my throat anyway. And now I'm just embarassed and uncomfortable.

I feel at this moment, in this instant of pain, this slice of time, like I need to stop being the one who always listens and supports. Like I need to retreat, let them sort themselves out for a change.

Maybe if I wasn't the one who always listens, the one that can always be counted on for support, I'd be seen as flesh and blood, and not just the safe harbour.

This week, an online friend told me his sister was diagnosed with inoperable lung/bone cancer. She has months. He's all spikes and sharp, a ball of rage. And I understand. I wonder if I would be the same. I can't rail against the unfairness of it. That's just a given to me now, like air or sunlight. Cancer is random.

But, the survivor's guilt is back for a return visit. Why her and not me?

I mean, I know why: They caught it in time, I responded well to treatments, I had a good attitude, I had a strong constitution. But I want to know why??  In the book of cosmic reasons, the holy writ of who has done what and who is yet to do what, why was it me?  I know the old saying, I think it's from Richard Bach, "Here's a test to find whether your mission on earth is finished. If you're alive, it isn't"

But what is that reason?  How do I find the reason, when I've lost my faith in the reasons?  When it's just a random bullet that missed me on the fields of war.

I'm adrift. And in this moment, in this corner of the night, I don't know what to reach for.