5_continuance

Entry 10 - Continuance

11/22/25

Note: Originally written as blog 10. Wasn't up to my usual standards, so it goes here.

---

The sky alight for a single moment.

A streak across the sky.

The moon full.

She's singing again.

It, as always, is wonderful.

Her voice compliments the night as we drive away from one of the most important moments of my life, and perhaps one of the most important moments in hers, as well. Much has happened. Much to parse. Much still to parse, weeks later. It is unknowable.

We talk, between the quiet. Between her voice harmonizing with the music we both enjoy. We speak on our fears. Our hopes. The place we hope to be. What we hope to be to each other, what we hope to be with others. She's so excited for everything. For me to meet the others. For me to find myself in a position of knowing. It's horrifying.

There is so much hope. It hurts.

I understand much more now. Why she comes to this place. The interests she has in these folks. I developed them too in only a few days. Animals who I now love. Who I adore. Who I hope only the best for. Animals who are home. Animals for whom I would fail to not do anything for.

She tells me that I am cared for. That I am loved and that I have something here. I struggle to believe it. I always have. I wish it wasn't true; I wish that I could trust the words that come out of others when they say them. I am not that person, however. I am not that person nor will I ever be that person, if the toxic core of my being is never torn out and replaced. However, to lose my core is to lose me. It is more me than "hexaaelia" is.

It however, makes me think. I have, for so long, sook art as a way to be known. To be remembered. It was the only thing I could do. To shout out in the void in a way that's deemed acceptable, to show everyone what I am, who I am, who I was when I'm gone. It was horrific. I could never do it. It was too much. I am a failure in this regard.

I realize now, that perhaps it does not matter. Perhaps I am okay sometimes being the inspiration, rather than the creator. Sometimes I am okay simply existing, bringing positive into this world. To make you happy. Perhaps it is enough. It is enough. I can be remembered as someone who lifted you up, someone who encouraged you. This is not to say I'm hanging up the artistic towel. If I ever say that, shoot that hexxaelia as she is the imposter, but the pressure is no longer there. I do not need to write the meaning of my life. Nothing is in vain. You know who I am. I have a family who sees me. That is all that matters.

There is fear as well. At work, I had a moment, in the middle of an intrusive thought. I could lose them, we could lose them. It would be pain, more than anything. The same is true for me. Unimaginable fear. I must take care of myself for those who love me, those who care. Those who need me. Because they exist now. I hear from them. They tell me that I'm important. They tell me to take care of myself. I struggle to. How does one take care of themselves? It's impossible. My flesh is built for sacrifice to others, but the moment I go to far, the moment I let myself lose a bit too much, I'll be mourned.

I don't want to do that to you. I don't want to do that to any of you. I love you. More than the words that the english language includes can specify. I am, to a point, yours. I'm beholdent to you, in the best ways. I need to stay here. For you. For me. For your smiles. To see you happy. To play TTPGs with you, to watch you cackle about inane breakcore and video games. To talk about our projects, to feel like home.

What if the others don't like me. What If I'm bunk, a waste, if they see through the brilliant facade I put up to be liked. What will I do? Is there anything I can do, or will I simply languish, relegated to the side in which I can never be more? I believe it. It's so common. What if it's worse?

I fear losing you. A common fear is that one day something awful will happen. We'll lose you. Everything will implode. Things will end up stable of course, there is no destroying this, but your presence will be missed until the day we are gone. Til the day we perhaps can meet again.

I beg for that not to come to pass.

Your purrs, your small little noises. The cute scrungly hair you end up having after pets. That fucking smile when you're around me. I need it until I'm gone. What is being gone?

I'm lost. I don't know what to do at the moment. I write this at the peak of a depression I thought I defeated. What am I doing wrong? Am I doing enough? I have to take your word for it. I'm enough, perhaps. I can't internalize that. I've never been able to internalize the fact that I'm allowed to not exist somewhere for a bit, that I can show up on my schedule. You are so important.

I understand why she comes down here now. As much as the other places, it is home. Many animals. Safety and understanding. A silent sort. How Does One Do This. It is so overwhelming.

Perhaps it will be okay, come time. Perhaps I will be known, come time. Perhaps I will be a comfy presence, rather than the alien invading your home.

Regardless, I imagine your paws in mine. Why are they so cold? I can warm them. Mine are warm, and I will sacrifice my heat to make you more comfortable.

It is all I can do. To many more of these. To much more of this. I hope and pray.

--

But since I met you.

I Don't want to die no more.

5_continuance
4_dearfriend
3_this
2_her
1_voices
0_horrible