Sep. 20th, 2014

breezeshadow: Is it not adorable? (PumaKitten)
Who comforts the comforter?

It is a question asked by egoists, mostly. Or it is subtly sneered at in silly sayings and words: "Every girl you see is SMILING beyond the PAIN". Every kind gesture is laced with tragedy. The world is cast into doubt and despair: "How do I know she is happy to see me? Is she CRYING INSIDE?"

I do not know who comforts the comforters. It seems to me that a lot of them surely can turn to other comforters, to themselves, for solace. No one is standing atop a mountain, staff in hand, the sole comforter in the world, the Zeus of sympathetic ears. If they are, then that speaks to bigger problems, ones that a strange saying cannot fix.

Who do I seek for comfort? I am a gossip well. I fill up with things I hear, see, suspect, but almost never do I let such things out. Or so it used to be. Wells fill up eventually. Wells need to be emptied. Some things I fear I have pushed along.

Maybe it's not a bad thing, but it's a weird thing, a stressful thing. I have, unexpectedly, become the one who speaks up, stands up to be heard. I am the one being thanked by the CEO of the company for helping with something, for all of my department to see. I am the one who laughs at hearing someone hates them, regard their obvious gossiping when I approach as entertaining. The silence as I pass by, returning when I am away, has become funny -- "How obvious can you be?"

But what is funny for me is a mess for others. I talk to others in my department, and they talk to me, and the well fills with bracken waters. Ash stains my fingers, and though so much of me says "Don't say anything, wait for THEM", my morality sifts out the soot and says "There is no waiting".

Everyone is scary to me, so there is no need for added anxiety. I approach and enter an office with fear and anxiety bubbling from my heart and mouth, but when I decide to do something, I do it. There is no waiting, no comfort for the comforter. I look down at my health and career, and say "We are emptying this well, no matter the dirt left behind."

When did I become the mother of mothers? The nail that stands up, as they say? How has it become me to approach a manager and speak of bullying and racism, of people being afraid they were be fired if they speak up? How am I the one who gets the response of HR being looped in, words that are a strange blend of hope and fear? I am but a bystander, ignored but not degraded. In that office my voice speaks for others, when I cannot speak for myself. I return to those I guard wishing I could bring back better hope.

Who comforts the comforter? Friends, family, pets? Perhaps if I sought out any of them, they would try. But this comforter blankets her bed quiltless. There may be holes where the down is escaping, but in that twisted saying, good things come to those who wait. Will I have relief, or firm things to need relief from? As I juggle the madness of living, will I have a ball taken away, or a stray one that smacks me in the face? A million bad metaphors could get me no closer to an answer; it lies in a blood vial, in chemical reactions, in a lab printout, somewhere out there.

Who comforts the comforter? Who empties that well?

Perhaps I should ask who is filling it in the first place...

(P.S. I don't have any details I want to share right now, since the test results aren't in yet. So I'll say that I've been better, but beyond drama at work everything is okay there; and that depending on those test results, we may have an answer to a lot of my health issues soon. Feel free to approach me through message or IM if you want though.)


Sep. 20th, 2014 01:50 pm
breezeshadow: WTF TIMES ICON (WTFCat)
Forget-me-not sayeth the flowers, seeds of burrs and petals of baby blue.
But oh, what did you do to never be forgotten, with your mouse's ears and fingertip flowers?
What have you heard, Myosotis?
Should we not forget, because you cannot?
What have you seen, clustered in dozens along her cobblestone walls?
O! if you could but talk, the stories you could share, like the fly on the wall in her kitchen, hearing the buzz of a timer that received no answer.
Why are you so blue, Myosotis?
Who turned those petals red, the color against the wall, whose eyes lay open and sticky?
O! poor flowers and flies and walls, stuck in their ways and worlds.
We will not forget you, Myosotis.
We will maintain the garden of memories, alongside her cobblestones.


Prompt "forgetting". What in the WORLD this is, I couldn't tell you.

Once I finish a few other stories, though, I'll have a very late bingo for [community profile] origfic_bingo.


breezeshadow: It's a wolverine, hey! (Default)

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