Dear Aragorn, Legolas, Eowyn, Gimli;

I have this dream, and I think it may be of you. I think it may have been easter, or maybe just spring, or maybe none of that at all. There was stained glass. There was quiet talk and I remember something said like you wouldn't see me again for years.

And I don't know why I'm writing this, but I'm lonely as hell and if it's real, even just a little I wish you'd come to where I am and be my friends. I think I'm too loyal for a normal person, or something, because i Love people and I want to help them and they just don't let me in. And my husband's like that too, I think.

Please. We just want to be your friends. And to fix things, if it's possible, or just to help to fix things, if there's any such way. I want to have lived a life that matters, and I want to have loved friends that love me back as well.

I want great good, even if it means facing great darkness. I want to bring hope, even if it means I see little enough of it myself. But I do want, for myself, I want friends. I want to know there are other people who would sacrifice their own good for another's, and I want to live and work beside them.

Here is my heaven; your hand in mine, your life with mine, my life and hand and love for you, now and forever.

It's quiet, tonight.

The world, it seems, has breathed out a sigh, and left me feeling it most truly. The silence is warm, the darkness is sweet and deep like a well at journey's end. Peace is in my heart, and joy is in my eyes. I beheld what is dearest to me, as though in a mirror, and in my mind it reflects to truth. Soft and shadowed are my thoughts, and it seems as though I cannot grasp them, as a hand cannot catch the wing of the butterfly; and would not wish to, for that might bruise it.

My soul tells me I am no longer alone; and though by week and weary mile my demons have pursued me, I have come at last to shelter and warmth. Where shall I seek that I am known, as I know, as I always have known? My hands craft the words of my mind, but it seems as though I speak from my body, from all of myself and not what I was or will be, but only what I am this moment. I am no writer, no crafter of ink and letter into word and thought; my thoughts have crafted themselves, and I move my fingers to the rythm of a song I have not heard, but only felt.

Here is the heart of me! Here are soul and light of my eyes, fast as I can make you see, can tell you, can move away so that you might see behind me, through me, the thing that my being and doing and writing covers from your eyes. Look! It is more than I, and I am more than I knew, and less, and ever unchanging are the desires I only understand for an instant, a fleeting breath, a space where I am not myself and more myself than ever.

The world reflects my silence, my momentary pause. My quest to douse three candles, to find three lights and hearts to match the beating of my own. I am ever, but I am not, and I would give and grant for all that I cannot. This thing, it has no words, and cannot be written, but if you can see the words that are not, then answer the question I dare not ask - the only question, the true question, the one that is truth more than the answer could ever be.

I am light, but I am not alone. The darkness shows more clearly the flame I might not have seen.

Thank you, thank you, for the darkness.

Greater still the light.

It's been a long time since I posted, and that was... well, different. I'm glad to say I'm writing again, though I don't know if I can really say things are outright better. Living conditions are still significantly sub-optimal, and I really freaking miss our little flet outside the city.

Gosh and hell, I loved that place. Third story in the back, and all I could see was trees. I could open the window and hear nothing but the rustle of wind in leaves, and small animals and such. It was just a little apartment, and I had a /feeling/ we wouldn't get to stay long, so I never let myself completely move in. I'm thankful for the feeling, though, because it made me treasure the place. We had a tiny balcony all our own, and I could sit out there and watch the trees. The ceiling in the living room vaulted, for all that our loveseat and one recliner more than filled the space. My bookshelves lined the walls, even though we never unpacked all the books. There was a tiny fireplace, and we used it to heat the place in winter, since the house-heater didn't get it over forty degrees.

Six months, we were there. But we had to drive back and forth, dragged down by old commitments, and only got to stay there four nights a week. And then, for one glorious month, we truly /lived/ there. We even began to make friends, at least of a sort. I was going to the gym again, I'd joined an archery club, we had plans to go back to school.

Here is... tiny. Not very nice. Run down, and we're renting it, so we can't even /try/ to make it better. And we're still bogged down by constant reminders of the past, things that won't let go. Shiny and I don't know what to do with ourselves, really.

But then... fuck the depressing stuff. I'm going back to school, at last, like a few of the people I graduated High School with. Surprising, at this age, but I guess we all had a lot to work through, before we could do this thing.

But still there's this thing. This hole, where friendship should be. I'd agree to anything, and I think the universe, or god, or whoever knows it... so I'm not even offered the choice. The rest of the damn world wants money or power, and these things I know I could get, could certainly work towards. But how do you work towards friendship? How do you find another person, a few people who will be loyal to you, in return for your loyalty? People you can have over, you can leave your door open to, you can let in your life and your heart and have as some sort of constant?

Maybe the world is to cruel for it. Maybe the universe has aged beyond the time of friendship, beyond the time and place where being true and kind was anything to be appreciated, beyond where one could fill their house with laughter and companionship. Is there any such thing as true friendship left in the world?

But this time... this time, I'm not begging, I'm offering. Look, this is a public post, and someone's going to read it, right? Somewhere, there's someone who's going to see this, who's a little like me. Maybe we share a love of stars, maybe reading, maybe archery, maybe art or hiking or bikes or fantasy or fiction, or even Lord of the Rings or science or space or just plain adventure. Maybe it's none of that, and we're only similar in that we'd each accept anothers' failings and quirks and little idiosyncrasies gladly, for a hand to hold and a kind word or ready ear.

Listen, please. I have help to offer; I've remodeled a house from scrap, I've saved finances from ruin, I've gotten a decent job without the education required, and I know how to help someone else do all these things. Hell, I can even offer a place to stay. I'm a loyal friend, a constant and often happy companion (despite my sarcasm, and my tendency to whine in this journal, and write only of darkness), a willing learner, and a steadfast and encouraging mentor.

See my hand, and know that it is yours to take, if you want it.

I'm trying to catch your attention. Desperate for it. Losing my mind, most likely.

"The remuneration of obedience is the fulfillment of the senses." Find me. I beg of you. Reply. Tell me it isn't all lies, the promises made to me, the dreams. Tell me I'm not lost, that friendship will find me. That's all I want; all I'm asking for - friends that I know I can trust with heart and soul.

And in return? Anything.

There must be some god, or entity, or something out there that hears me. Please! I offer you in return anything from this moment to the moment of my death. Life or living or anything. Everything. And I know full well that I can't understand what I'm offering, but I do, anyhow, in this moment I offer up any and all of it; take it. In return I only want this one thing. Friends, to the end of my days; true and loyal friends. Whatever else might have been - that means nothing. Less than nothing.

I know I am not worthy, I know I am nothing - only me, just me, but if by any right or choice or hope or reason I can make this request, I make it. Please. I beg. And if there is more I can offer, if more is the price, even that I will take, even that I will agree to. Only give me friends to love and who will love in return. Only grant me friendship, show me its meaning for all the days that mark the rest of my life. Even should it only be one day, let me have this. That is all I ask of life! Is it truly so far too much?

I breathe in the air, and it’s poison.

It always starts like this. I feel the taint of it, the taste of it, upon my tongue, and it burns, and it coats my throat in slime, and it’s foul, and it’s rank, and no living creature ought to have to draw it within them. But I do – I do, because I must, because I cannot simply stop breathing. My speed picks up, faster, to try to get away from it, but that only makes me breathe deeper, makes me draw the foulness of it further within me. And it cannot not touch me, cannot not affect my life, because it is the source from which all other things come.

And I take it in, and I breathe it out, and I cannot make purer that from which I must draw my life, and so what I give back will always be less than what I take. And it fights me, oh it does, even as I fight it, because I take from it that which it would rather grant its own. And I pull from the foul things, the night things, the ones that creep in the dark, I draw away their power, and their life, in exchange for my own. But it takes everything I have, in return, takes away everything that I can give.

It is an exchange I will make, because I will not always be here. And I will be alive again, when I leave, alive as I am not now, alive as I cannot be in this place.

And my stomach burns, and my legs, and my lungs, and I breathe it in deeper. And I cannot taste the taint any longer, though it has once more become a greater part of me. But I draw breath, now, truly, as the fire in my gut and in my lungs promises to purify that which I must take in. And it is more to me, now, that I breathe, that I live, and feel alive, than it is that I breathe this air.

And I’m free, for a moment. The heavy, dank thing that surrounds me is the clear, crisp taste of mountain air. The blues and greens surround me, and the road and the stars are my companions. And I run free, my feet barely pressing upon the earth, for nothing can chain me to it in this place.

And I turn the corner, and my house stands once more upon my left. And in the early morning’s twilight, it seems the same as all the rest, and the taint is not so visible upon any of them. In a few hours, it will be seen here most of all, perhaps because we fight it most of all, and perhaps because we give all we have to the twilight runs and gasps for breath, in hopes that we will still be alive, when we once more may leave Hades and his minions behind.

And I will go about my day, and I will seem like all the rest. And none will know me from another that stands beside me. But I will not always walk this path, I will not always breathe this air.

My breathing slows, and I no longer feel the desire for air. I taste it again upon my tongue, its weight once more pressing down upon me. The darkness seems again like misted evil, twisted to become a thing which cannot be fought with fists, and can only be truly seen by its absence.

And I breathe in the air, and it’s poison.

How do I say all the things I want to say - all the things I need to? How do I tell of the empty ache inside of me, and how do I make you understand?

I don't get this, not any of it. I doubt everything, anymore, because nothing seems right or true. And what it all comes down to:

Does anyone really understand friendship anymore?

I mean, is this what it's really like, to be an adult? To be a fucking loser that nobody gives a shit about, just like all the other losers? Everyone lost in their own little friendless world? Fuck them! I mean, what in fucking hell /is/ this? I don't want anything from friendship but loyalty, and I swear I'd give it back in spades.

How in hell does this happen, do people who want to do things, and I want, I want so bad to do things to really help, to help to fix the world, or even just the little problems in it. How is it I feel like I'm the only one? Why the fuck does no one take an interest in anyone else? And I can't, not on my own, but I would give anything at all in this life, even life itself, to help. To really make a difference. To really make a change.

I read this story, once, a Lord of the Rings story called Pottymouth that was about a reality where the Fellowship and some others were alive and well in modern day, living their lives and helping. And there are two things about that, that I would give ANYTHING to be a part of. For one, there was this sign outside their ranch, about guests and friends, inviting anyone who did not belong to either category to become one or the other. And the other was that they did things - day to day things, and big important things - to help, to fix the problems, to save the world, to help the people in it.

Can I? Can I become a friend - or even just a guest? Can I, oh God, or Valar, or whoever you are, can I become part of the solution, rather than the problem? I will, I swear, I will obey if only you will order me. Only give me direction, only tell me what you would of me, and I will do it.

For, in that story, Legolas said, "The remuneration of obedience is the fulfillment of the senses." I would give all of my life, all of my living, to be a friend of theirs. Fuck money, fame and power, I want to love and to be loved.

You might think I don't really know what I'm talking about. Might think I'm just writing in a moment of anger or desperation: but here's the thing, I'm not. Not this time. I'm quite rational, in the middle of the day, with nothing pressing at me, no particular sense of loss beyond the normal. And for a full year - a year at least, I have begged every night that I would stumble across one of them, that I would meet them here or there or some other place. And I have left the house wandering, in hopes of being in that place, more times than I could count. And each time, I have left bearing with me what I felt the need to take with me of this life, if only something I did, by life or death, could matter. If only I could have such friends, if only for a moment, if only for a day - my God, my Lord, spirit that called the earth into being, I would give anything at all in this life to have it so.

The first time, I packed three bags. Packed a suitcase, and a duffel, and a purse. But it was a little less each time. At some point, I was carrying a one-shoulder bag, hair tied back and braided and covered for a journey, knife hidden on my person and lighters in my pocket, spare knives in my bag and all the camping equipment I could stuff into so small a bag, right down to soap and powerbars and aspirin and antibiotics and an extensive first aid kit and a hell of a sewing/mending kit.

Last night, I was all but barefoot, in pants and a shirt as not to be indecent but wearing nothing else, not even underwear, hair tangled, myself dirty - desperate. And even as that, would I go. Even as that, I wandered, and I watched, and I waited.

And no one came. And I wanted to hate them for it, wanted to hate whomever was out there, that might someday be a true friend, for not being there to be a friend, for not so much as talking to me. But I couldn't, not really - I could only hate myself. Hate myself for what I was, and for how desperate I was for a friend. How desperate I am.

And I thought I saw demons, in the shapes of the branches and shadows. And I began to hope they would chase me, so I could be afraid and forget about the hollow ache in my soul. And then I thought they were, and I began to laugh within, even as I wanted to scream, for the joy of feeling fear instead of emptiness. And I don't even understand it myself, but it scares me, and I feel so very lost.

But then... there are the trees, and the stars, and that is hope enough for my soul most nights, and so shall I continue, until I end, or they come for me.

Please, if you read this, if you are they - I only want to help. And the only thing I would ask in exchange is friendship. I will swear loyalty, will fight to the end of my strength, wherever that may be. Anything. Please.

Hell, I'll wash your dishes and keep your house, if only I could be your friend. I give up whatever path might have been mine in strength, to serve you in weakness, if you will it, for sake of friendship. Any path will I walk if you will hold my hand and call me friend.

And, truly, here I can ask, here I can know that you will know this much of my heart, if I write this where any can read it. And so I do, and I pray to any god or goddess or being that will hear me that you find and read it. And though it is this fool's hope that I might come to be your friend, and that you might come to be mine, hope I will. And may that hope, and nightly starlight walks filled with the dreams of my soul's desires sustain me until the day you call me, or come for me - or I pass from this world to whatever is beyond.

And I'm going to stop, now, before you think I'm a melodramatic idiot. And maybe I am.

Always at least wear socks. You might step on a really nasty bug (roach?), and it’s better not to get it on your foot. (this holds especially true if you’re in a room with a dog door, are walking in the dark, or are going outside) (porches count as outside) (that’s where I stepped on the roach) (thank god for the socks)

Bug-bombing your house will always produce at least one over-large dead bug, probably a roach, almost definitely a beetle, no matter how long it’s been since you saw a live one (for example, I’ve never seen a live roach inside), or how long it’s been since you last did it.

If you make the bed, the dog’s less likely to steal your pillow.

Don’t leave the windows open over night, or the cabinets will mould.

The walls might also mould if left to it, but are more likely to take two nights or more in a row. Painting with a mildewcide tends to reduce this risk.

There’s such a thing as mildewcide. It can be painted on. It can be tinted, almost enough so that you think it’s normal paint. But not quite.

Unless you’re painting your walls yellow. Then, you can’t tell.

Vapor barriers, when sealed against solid surfaces and to each other, can help keep bugs out. Sanity might just be able to be maintained in this fashion.

Nothing will keep the bugs out completely.

Never put your hand in the dog-food bag without looking.

Never look in the dog-food bag.

Never open bottom cabinets after nightfall.

If you have to open the bottom cabinets, open them while not looking at them. Wait a few seconds, then look.

If you’re really worried, like if this is an outdoor storage location, poke the object with your toe before retrieving it from the cabinet. Most likely, the bugs will find a more stable hiding-place.

Don’t look behind the object while poking.

Always store cups, bowls, and, basically, anything a bug could get caught in upside down. No, you can’t really do anything to keep the bugs off your dinnerware, but at least this way you’ll never know they were there.

If you’ve got a lot of spiders, you’ve got a lot of other bugs that you just haven’t seen yet.

Carpeting can be a bad thing.

Grass can be a thing to despise.

The bugs are there. It’s better if you don’t look when you see a flicker out of the corner of your eye.

Slap first. Figure out whether it’s a tickle or a bug second.

If it squishes, or if you feel something crawling on your skin, fling it away, don’t look at it.

If it’s big, pretend that you’re certain it was a leaf.

Sucking an ice cube can help stave off the swollen-tongue feeling of mowing the lawn in hot weather.

Holding an ice cube between your teeth, and breathing around it, can take the edge off the heat when doing something active in hot weather.

If your task is unpleasant, the painful chill from the cube clenched in your teeth will also help distract you from it.

The more you cut the grass, despite your hopes of killing it or at least thinning it out, the thicker and more bug-friendly it will become.

Weed’n’feed doesn’t kill grass.

Acid will only turn it brown. Give up – the grass likes the bugs better than it likes you.

Not-cutting grass at all results in long grass, which is worse than all of the above, put together.

Don’t park your car in long grass. Ever.

Don’t buy milk during daylight hours. It WILL spoil before you can get home. Even if the grocery store is down the street. Even if you’re at the gas station, and only a block from home. (unless your car has a/c, and you’re storing it in the passenger compartment. If you also make certain it isn’t in direct sun, you’ve got a fairly good chance)

Don’t keep any food in any place that isn’t sealed at least water tight, if not air tight.

Potatoes, even nearly brand new, can be found to be filled with maggots if not kept in the refrigerator. And I do mean filled. (And the bag was only three days old, and had never been opened – it was still sitting in the middle of the kitchen counter top, where I’d set it when I brought in the groceries.)

Drywalling is an art form.

Mowing the lawn can result in being covered in earwigs.

No matter how hard you scrub, or how hot or cold the water, the crawly feeling won’t go away.

Discovering oneself covered in earwigs can result in severe psychological damage and inability to sleep.

Getting really, really drunk can alleviate skin-crawling induced insomnia.

Drunkenness can be healthy. In some cases, it can be the only hope at remaining mentally stable.

Even a list like this one can be funny when you’re drunk.

Deleted. He fucking deleted my whole book.

That's just what life comes to, isn't it? One disappointment after another, and then when you think you've found something that might actually be you, and not everybody else, you pour heart and bloody soul into it and have it ripped the fuck out.

It'll never be good enough, I'll never really be good at shit, and nobody will ever really give a flying fuck if I live or die.

My God, can't I have anyone to turn to? Someone - a mentor, a friend, fuck, a random stranger that lets me cry on their shoulder. Sobbed my fucking heart out in the rain on a park swing, alone, alone in the grey and dripping cold, and that's all there's ever been and all there's ever going to be, isn't it?

Please, just let me die, if there will be no true friends in my life. Please, anything, anything at all is better than this emptiness. What does it matter anymore if there was to be some great purpose for my life? How can I be anything to anyone if I can't even understand love? Without parent or mentor or sibling or true friend, without purpose alone in the rain and fucked over by the world and myself... why do I draw breath at all?

Suicide is the coward's way out. I am no coward. But thousands die for freedom and justice, finding companionship in common purpose; even life and living I would give for companions. Can I not be one of them? Can I not die that they might live, who have found friendship in life?

Rhen, here's the answer to your question. But you have to answer this, too. 'Cause I said so, and 'cause you owe me.

If I had three wishes, they would be:
1) To spend the rest of my life making a living from something I like (and I'm good at).
2) To have three (or four) people in my life who are lifelong friends like the marauders meant to be, and who fill the sort of places in my life that I imgaine Remus, Sirius, James, and (Draco? Snape?) would if they were my best friends.
3) To be generally respected and well-liked.

So I got the notice. I didn't get in.

Just an email. Not a letter, or anything. Just... yeah. I think I might even have taken it better if they'd just said "you suck, and your writing is this or that or the other". It would've made things easier to sort out, and I could've felt like "hey, they didn't just send me the same effing letter they sent to the rest of the bottom of the barrel". I... aw, hell. Not even an alternate. Again. Just me, myself, and my crappy writing.

But it's really pretty wierd. The whole stress-to-be-good-at-it is gone. It's like... fukkit, I suck at this, but I want to do it, so who gives a shit if the stuff I write is even any good at all? I mean, yeah, it'd be nice to have gotten in, and all affirming and stuff - but, hell, I'm just me, I'm not any super-famous or well-read little bugger. I'd have spent the whole sodding thing feeling like a bit of an idiot, because I haven't read any of the authors that are teaching because they don't really write in the sort of stuff I like. My shit, and the kind of shit I like to read, isn't literary, or amazing, or whatever. It's just good, and good stories, and I guess in the end I don't really care if it's what other people in general will think is really that good. I'm just going to write, and I'm going to love it, and fuck them all it's going to be good for me. Who the hell needs them anyhow? (except, of course, that it would be damned nice to get paid for writing, so I could stop working at shitty jobs I despise)

So I'm selfish? That doesn't seem right, really. Maybe I'm just saying that I don't think writing has to fit in their neat little framework to really be good. Maybe I'm saying that short stories are all well and good, but they're not going to get me anywhere I really want to go. Maybe what I write is good, and what they write is just different, and I don't have to do what they do to be good. So I don't have a short story in my posession that's what they're looking for - so what? I don't even /like/ short stories. I typically think they're boring, or pointless, or entirely too floaty-poofy-frillyish and pretend-intellectual. (and haha, haha-haha, those are sucky hyphenated adjectives of the sort I've been utterly avoiding for the last full year because they're not befitting of Clarion. But I fucking well like them, and you can all just suffer!)

And maybe what I'm saying is that I'm jealous, and I'm grumpy, and I wish they'd all just go fuck themselves. And send along a note, letting me know they'd done so; it would really rather make my day.

And maybe it's all of that at once - the "hooray for me" and the "ugh I'm going to hate them because they don't like me". Does it matter?

Unfortunately, this means I have to get back to the stinking A+ certification books, so I can have a job that sucks just a little bit less whilst I muck my way through the rest of college. Thank God for the simplicity of schoolwork. Though I bet I'm one of maybe ten dozen geeks in the whole world who would actually be thankful for the comforting ease and familiarity of partial diff's in a time of stress.

I never tried to convince anyone I was sane.

Not even myself.