in a dark clime
Sep. 5th, 2003 09:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
j4Is there a limit to how much a person can cry before they dry up, or pass out, or die?
If you try to strangle yourself, your body steps in to save you; you pass out and thus your grip loosens, you breathe again. You'd need a pair of hands which wouldn't have second thoughts.
To drown yourself, all you have to do is breathe out. Then you sink, and you keep on breathing out until you have to breathe in; you instinctively try to come up for air, but you can't get to the surface fast enough to do so. Your body intervenes too late. I can't help thinking that concrete overshoes would simplify matters somewhat; though of course there are aesthetic considerations. (There always are.)
Anything else involves the use of inanimate objects, things which are subject to our whim; with tools in our hands, we are all gods. The rest is silence: silence, and a sharp edge, and blood fanning out flames on the water's surface. Aesthetic considerations.
When I was a child -- I thought as a child, and so on. But the point I set out to make is that as a child I had a vision of a log cabin filled from floor to ceiling with fireworks. A vision of myself, anointed with petrol. A vision of the rasping invocation of the final flame. ... The reality would be a damp squib. It always is.
The other vision was slower, quieter. Frozen slowly. Darkened wholly. And I wore the prettiest clothes because I wanted to be beautiful at the end. The reality was full of teary phleghm and messy pain and retching guilt and dirty blankets, and it hurt, and it hurt.
Words are clean and can be manipulated. The body is chaotic, oozing; it observes no niceties, no boundaries. I wrap myself in words, binding the sterile signifiers tightly around the rotting, bursting flesh.
Current music: Placebo, "Every You Every Me"
Sucker love is heaven sent.
You pucker up, our passion's spent.
My heart's a tart, your body's rent.
My body's broken, yours is spent.
Carve your name into my arm.
Instead of stressed, I lie here charmed.
'Cause there's nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.
Sucker love, a box I choose.
No other box I choose to use.
Another love I would abuse,
No circumstances could excuse.
In the shape of things to come.
Too much poison come undone.
'Cause there's nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.
Every me and every you,
Every me...
Sucker love is known to swing.
Prone to cling and waste these things.
Pucker up for heaven's sake.
There's never been so much at stake.
I serve my head up on a plate.
It's only comfort, calling late.
'Cause there's nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.
Every me and every you,
Every me...
Every me and every you,
Every me...
Like the naked leads the blind.
I know I'm selfish, I'm unkind.
Sucker love I always find
Someone to bruise and leave behind.
All alone in space and time.
There's nothing here but what here's mine.
Something borrowed, something blue.
Every me and every you.
Every me and every you,
Every me...
Every me and every you,
Every me..
If you try to strangle yourself, your body steps in to save you; you pass out and thus your grip loosens, you breathe again. You'd need a pair of hands which wouldn't have second thoughts.
To drown yourself, all you have to do is breathe out. Then you sink, and you keep on breathing out until you have to breathe in; you instinctively try to come up for air, but you can't get to the surface fast enough to do so. Your body intervenes too late. I can't help thinking that concrete overshoes would simplify matters somewhat; though of course there are aesthetic considerations. (There always are.)
Anything else involves the use of inanimate objects, things which are subject to our whim; with tools in our hands, we are all gods. The rest is silence: silence, and a sharp edge, and blood fanning out flames on the water's surface. Aesthetic considerations.
When I was a child -- I thought as a child, and so on. But the point I set out to make is that as a child I had a vision of a log cabin filled from floor to ceiling with fireworks. A vision of myself, anointed with petrol. A vision of the rasping invocation of the final flame. ... The reality would be a damp squib. It always is.
The other vision was slower, quieter. Frozen slowly. Darkened wholly. And I wore the prettiest clothes because I wanted to be beautiful at the end. The reality was full of teary phleghm and messy pain and retching guilt and dirty blankets, and it hurt, and it hurt.
Words are clean and can be manipulated. The body is chaotic, oozing; it observes no niceties, no boundaries. I wrap myself in words, binding the sterile signifiers tightly around the rotting, bursting flesh.
Current music: Placebo, "Every You Every Me"
Sucker love is heaven sent.
You pucker up, our passion's spent.
My heart's a tart, your body's rent.
My body's broken, yours is spent.
Carve your name into my arm.
Instead of stressed, I lie here charmed.
'Cause there's nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.
Sucker love, a box I choose.
No other box I choose to use.
Another love I would abuse,
No circumstances could excuse.
In the shape of things to come.
Too much poison come undone.
'Cause there's nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.
Every me and every you,
Every me...
Sucker love is known to swing.
Prone to cling and waste these things.
Pucker up for heaven's sake.
There's never been so much at stake.
I serve my head up on a plate.
It's only comfort, calling late.
'Cause there's nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.
Every me and every you,
Every me...
Every me and every you,
Every me...
Like the naked leads the blind.
I know I'm selfish, I'm unkind.
Sucker love I always find
Someone to bruise and leave behind.
All alone in space and time.
There's nothing here but what here's mine.
Something borrowed, something blue.
Every me and every you.
Every me and every you,
Every me...
Every me and every you,
Every me..
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no subject
Date: 2003-09-05 04:02 pm (UTC)Is there a limit to how much a person can cry before they dry up, or pass out, or die?
Yes, there is, because I've done it, twice that I recall. I once cried so much I gave myself a cold. There does come a point when you won't have any tears left to cry - you'll go kind of numb.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-05 04:17 pm (UTC)Have had some very odd thoughts these last two days. They pass. I have some writing from a few years ago that I may email to you, if it won't be construed to be pressuring you to read it (last thing I want to do). If you don't say "no" to this comment I'll send it tomorrow, is that ok?
no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 05:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-05 06:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 05:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 06:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 08:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 08:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-05 06:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 05:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 03:51 am (UTC)'I hope no one who reads this book has been quite as miserable as Susan and Lucy were that night; but if you have been - if you've been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you - you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing was ever going to happen again.'
- C. S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe
no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 05:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 04:01 am (UTC)Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 05:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 05:52 am (UTC)Hope this morning is, even a little, better.
(& yes, I too can confirm that it is possible to run out of tears. The trouble is, the running-out doesn't last all that long :-/ )
*hugs* seems somewhat weak, but.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 08:07 am (UTC)