Raiding

>< I guess there is nothing for it. I should have seen this coming. And there is really nothing for it. James should be able to raid. He is going to be really busy when school starts, and he should be free to have as much fun doing what he wants before then. I can use that time to read, and to write. He and I will have time together Monday and Friday, as well as the weekends. Just venting.

L. Ron Hubbard is a hack!

HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE!Ah, that helps.

 Everyone is free to write whatever they like when it comes to fiction, good, bad, or indifferent. But when it comes to spirituality, and guidance a person should take a care. Hubbard is a man that created a very insidious movement, a cult, that has out lived him, and will continue to do so. Even when I hear people championing his fiction I feel a bit annoyed. Don't they realize who this man was? Don't they know that he was outcast among his fellow authors? It really pains me. So here I vent, and wish that Issac Asimov was still alive, so that he could tell these fools what real science fiction is. I'll have to look and see if I can find anything written by him about Hubbard . . . .

A notebook

I have a notebook, or binder really. Now I need some notebook paper. I've started to read articles about writing and getting published, and how self publishing might work to my advantage in this new day and age. It is exciting.

James has said that he would very much like to write with me, and has started to pick my brain about my Searching Saga. It's truly wonderful to feel it going some place after so very many years.

Is this where my life is going? Will I really pursue this? Could I go back to school and just study literature like I've always dreamed? I might.

Worshiped

If I think about you, and close my eyes, I cannot help but smile. I can see you, I can hear you, and if I hold my breath just for a moment, I can feel you.

Even when you are away, your presence is always with me. You're ever in my thoughts, bringing me joy when I tend toward tears.

When I feel small and useless you hold me, turning it around. In your arms its good to be small, and I have a use, I cause that wide warm grin to slide across your beloved features.

I marvel at your easy going nature, you kind spirit, and your nearly endless patience. Knowing you is like knowing gentle joy. Being the object of your affection is to be worshiped.

And being so blessed I struggle constantly. How can I be worthy, how can I deserve such wonders as you bestow on me? Your eyes tell me the answer, they whisper it, "Love me."

Cut

Why do I still bother to think of you? What is the purpose of such unfulfilling thoughts and feelings? Why do I fallow you, and put up such flimsy walls? The block button is a useless shield.

The fact is you stopped caring before you'd ever gotten around to telling me it was over. Such a short little romance. Your feelings so trite, so simple.

You were always talking about what you are. Passionate came up over and over again. So passionate that you burned out in just over a month. Used up and dry.

There is little purpose in this futile exercise I'm in engaging in. You'll never read this. You couldn't care less. And I do. Why?

Because it hurts to know that I was so completely fooled. I would have loved you. I would have tried to be a different me just to please you. And you never cared.

Not even for a moment. Not when you kissed me, or held me, or pitifully fucked me. You never cared that I would have turned myself inside out and upside down to be what you needed.

I look at you picture on the glaring screen and wonder why I cared? I look at the man sleeping next to me, his face barely seen, and it is even harder to understand.

When there was such love as this, as the one next to me in this instant, how could I ever have cared for you? Why am I still bothered?

Because you fooled me. Because you got me to lie to myself. Because you used me up and threw me away. And it cuts deep. As deep as love.