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bitchassbucky · 3 years

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Word Count: 1.7k

Warning/s: dark!bucky x dark!reader, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, blood mention, gore and dismemberment, murder, toxic/abusive relationship dynamics, sedation/drugging/use of sedative, stockholm syndrome-ish, one very special character reveal

A/N: this version of the epilogue is the 'clean cut' - there's a good chunk of it missing but it's not particularly important to the story. if you want to read the EXPLICIT version, there should be another one uploaded at the same time. (sorry, this is scheduled so i don't have the link yet lol)

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Safeness, comfortability, warmth are all but a false sense of reality.

When a prey takes down its walls, the predator moves in. Camouflaged in familiar colors, in words that you’re used to hearing, in praises, in lies. Most predators use the mask of the night to move in darkness—unyielding and calculated. Come morning, there will be only one left alive, tainted with victory and bloodshed.

You and Bucky have been engaging in a dance for two—a battle of who’s willing to take the leap of faith and unleash hell upon the other.

Stifled smiles and pursed lips.

The air is filled with unsaid irritants, little things that ticked away like bombs.

There was no time for pleading, no time for mercy, no rest for the wicked.

Did you still love each other?

How far are you willing to go to keep up with his… complacency?

Bucky’s mundane life already taking a toll on you. The endless nightmares of him feeling you. The swirling vision of Bucky being with you every waking—and sleeping—moment: it grates your soul to shreds.

“We’ll be together forever, right?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What about the day after forever?”

“That too, honey.”

Where was the man you loved so deeply? The man that broke his morals just to be with you?

Was he under this hull of a Yes Man? A poor little thing that says ‘yes’ to everything like a puppy.

The man you held so dearly now slipping away, chipping his humanity, shedding the once-human.

“Would you marry me tomorrow if I asked you?”

“Of course, baby, why wouldn’t I?”

“Would you kill for me?”

“I’m meant to do the same for you.”

It’s irritating how Bucky gave up too quickly. Too fast, moving too fast. The gazelle let the lion tear its neck as it lay there, unmoving, letting the blood seep into its hide.

When you first met Bucky, it was your own fairytale unfolding before your eyes. Kismet, reality, forgiveness from above. He was soft and shy, passionate, lively.

Far from what you expected from a man his age—you blame Steve for forcing you into his narrative before. That all men are out to get you. They will hurt you. They will use you and leave you for good. But Bucky? Bucky came in like a knight. He saved you from the carcass of your past. He saved you from the sins that you prayed and knelt for.

Bucky taught you how to love.

Bucky taught you how to live for yourself.

Bucky taught you that being alone doesn’t mean you have to be lonely.

“It was an unspoken little thing, wasn’t it?”

“What thing, baby?”

“Our love.”

“Yes, honey, it was.”

He worships you.

He worships you like a fucking God and you hate it.

Suffocating, too suffocating. You dove straight for the water and now you’re drowning.

Do you still love each other? The question hangs in the air, heavy with its weight, light as a feather.

It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault.

You stand there with a syringe half-filled with a horse sedative. It’s a concern how easy it is to waltz into a pet store and pick up a general anesthetic. You make a mental note to look at it later.

Bucky’s body slumps forward, his forehead meeting the edge of the table with a dull thud. If the overdose doesn’t kill him, the weeping crack in his head will.

Holy fuck, humans bleed a lot. And fast. Good thing you already have that clear tarp taped down. Even with the hush money stuffed down your throat, it would take a good nick to regrout the kitchen.

“What is that for, honey?”

“I’m painting the cabinets.”

“Okay, darling.”

So you let him bleed, surprised that the liquid is redder than what you thought it would be. A soft gurgling noise came from Bucky, the last of air escaping his dead body. You stood there, syringe in hand, as you thought how to dispose of a six-foot-tall man without arousing suspicion.

Not that he’ll be missed anyway: the local news and the internet already branded him as a psycho and you as a victim. You were both victims in this fairytale. They reported his case as “skipped the town like the sicko he is.” So, no—no one’s going to look for him.

The sun was high up in the sky and there was a dead body in your kitchen.

A butcher and a surgeon walk into a bar for a drink. “What do you do for a living?” Said the butcher, “I save lives! What about you?” The doctor answers. “I save animals from dying slowly. We’re basically the same. You’re just very clean.” You see, the butcher comes into the bar covered in blood, reeking of death. The surgeon, on the other hand, wears his white coat with pride even though he’s surrounded by death every passing second.

Today was the day you learned that you have the tools of a butcher and the precision of a surgeon. Unlike before.

You carefully take Bucky’s fingers off of his left hand, leaving a skin flap on the edge of the last knuckle for you to stitch close later. Four promises. Four goddamn promises and he broke all of them.

It was his fault that he’s dead. He made you do this.

Placing the body into the trunk of a rental, you begin your journey to the end of your fairytale. Off to the woods, where you buried your first love. In a town where not everyone who dies leaves.

The drive to and from the place was tiring, to say the least. The internet connection of the diners was spotty at best. Locals were overly friendly with the city folks who came passing through their towns. The roads reek of roadkill and manure from the farm animals that were left to roam for fresh grass.

At least you get to come home in a spotless apartment, alone once again.

But not lonely.

Your space is yours again. No trace of anyone anywhere. Immaculately yours.

—

Humans are social creatures.

No one can truly be alone, especially in today’s world where we’re connected to everyone—whether we liked it or not.

Leaving your wretched job behind was an easy feat to do. No one can say no to the victim of such a vile crime. That’s all they saw you: a helpless little thing. So off you went; saying half-assed goodbyes and sending emails of courage and hope and fucking resilience.

Your resignation meant that the company’s free of any dirt from you, Bucky’s disappearance quickly becoming a joke and a rumor blending in one.

They let you leave: in your bank account a fat check ensuring that you’d shut up about the scandal for months until you can’t feed yourself no more. So you packed your bags and jet off without looking back. You never liked that apartment anyway.

Nevertheless, you found yourself looking into another dead-end job in one of the towns you stopped over before. It’s a charming place like time froze in their plaza while the rest of the world went on. You found a small studio apartment in a street tuckered away from the main avenue, you settled there as days became nights and nights turned into days.

You woke up one morning craving a healthy serving of coffee and pancakes, luckily the town’s local diner wasn’t far from your new home.

The coffee was too hot, the pancakes were amazing, fluffy, and just right. You’re sitting in a sunny booth, the warmth doing its wonders.

“Hi, can I get today’s paper, please?” Your voice is sweet as you call your server, giving her a quick smile.

A pair of Raybans adorn your face, unconsciously hiding behind its darkened glasses. The waitress gives you a thick stack of newspapers, refilling your cup with black coffee.

Upon opening the paper, you ignore the town’s headlines and go straight for the job postings. The door jingled open as patrons come in and go, waving to familiar faces.

Job Vacancy Announcements

Secretary to the Town Sheriff

You skimmed over the rest of the details, only noting the address of the office. The job looks quite lucrative for someone who would only take messages and organize files for the sheriff.

Looking over the job posting again, you read over the words walk-ins only. That shouldn’t be hard enough.

The diner looked deserted save from the man sitting behind your booth. Leaning over and tapping his shoulder, you put on a polite smile, “Hi, sorry, do you know how to get to the sheriff’s office from here?”

“Hello, darling.” The man croons in an accent, he looks over to you, “join me in my booth, will ‘ya?”

You’re in no position to reject his proposal, you’re the one who needed an answer.

Taking your coffee cup, you slide into his booth, “hi.”

“Just the face I wanted to see.” Clean-shaven, a hint of mint and smoke, and something woody; a worn leather jacket and white button-up shirt hugging his soft frame. “Some folks over on the apartment complex were talkin’ about a city girl wanting to rent a studio all by herself. That happen to be you?”

You look over to him, trying to understand how that small of news spread like a wildfire, “yeah. I moved in a week ago.”

He leans over, smiling sweetly as he unabashedly lets his eyes roam your features, “What’s a city girl like you doin’ in a place like this? I hope we ain’t too boring for you, gal.”

Chatty—he’s way too chatty.

“Just wanted a change of pace, really. Away from the bustle of the city.” You rustle the paper, clearing your throat to get back on the matter on hand, “so the sheriff’s office? Is it too far from here?”

“What business are ‘ya bringing into the office?”

“A job, actually. Says here that they’re looking for a secretary.” You might as well tell him everything, he seems too chatty to be dismissed over and over again.

“Well, darlin’, today’s your lucky day. No need to drive down the old road.” He reaches down to his seat, pulling up a brown hat, “Hi, I’m Sheriff Bodecker. Now, to whom do I owe the pleasure?”

You bite back a giggle, you’ve always wanted to be involved with the law.

#bitchassbucky writes #dark!bucky #dark!bucky barnes #dark!bucky x reader #dark!bucky x reader smut #dark!bucky x reader fluff #dark!bucky x reader angst #dark!bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader smut #dark!bucky barnes x reader angst #dark!bucky barnes x reader fluff

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angrylizardjacket · 4 years

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Run to Paradise {Nikki Sixx} Part 31

31. told you not to worry (but maybe that’s a lie)

Summary: lola starts taking her job seriously, but its hard to be mostly sober around the band now.

Warnings: angsty as shit, blink and you'll miss it sensuality but no smut, and happy pride, that's not a warning, that's just a little note!

ragtag bunch of misfits: @starlalove @toofasttofallinlove @xrosegoldwolfx @obsessivesky @lovehelpmewrite @marvelismylifffe @lilytalebi @glitterdreamsz @freddiessmallnipples @crazysaladchopshop @dramatique-moi @calspixie @aryssav @catsoo12 @sweetshutter @silvertonguedserpent @shamelessobsessions @lavenderbones22 @keepcalm-and-beyou @scarecrowmax @nicholeh7 @unknownoblivion @sighsophiia @fruitinthebottom @misscharlottelee @local-troubled-writer @redlipscrystalskies14 @kaitieskidmore1 @the-specific-oceans

{ MASTERLIST }

Touring is a new and special kind of hell now that she's actually trying to be good at her job and not sleep with most of the band.

It was actually rather nice to reconnect with them in a way she hadn't been able to, with Vince and Tommy and even Mick; for all she'd been around them, the tour was the first time she could convincingly call them good friends. Now more than ever was she fulfilling her role as the band's assistant, and more importantly, as their wrangler.

"Nikki needs to be onstage in three minutes!" Doc shouts through the door of his dressing room, and Lola calls back that he'll be there, despite the fact that he's busy hurling into the toilet, and she's holding back his hair.

And of course, he'll be there, on time, puke free for the most part, and Lola's taking the first song to breathe for the first time since getting to the venue. And she finds one of Nikki's syringes in his bag, and takes the edge off before she has to be side-of-stage herself.

She makes a point of spending time with Tommy, and more often than not, she's the one handcuffing him to the bed at the end of the night; unfortunately it's at Doc's insistence, after Tommy goes out of control in the early hours before dawn.

Tommy, who will absolutely not remember this the next morning, fixes Lola with a blurry, vaguely lustful stare as she affixes his wrist to the bedpost.

"This feels familiar," he laughs, blind drunk, giving the handcuff a rattle for good measure.

Behave, Lola reminds herself, and she steps off of the bed as he makes grabby hands at her.

"Stay, Lols, please stay," he whines, and Lola swallows hard, smiling despite how her heart was beginning to ache under the effects of his puppy-dog eyes, "I've missed you." And that hurts like a physical ache.

"You're engaged," she reminds him gently, and Tommy's pleading gaze immediately turns blissfully fond as he remembers Heather waiting for him back home.

"I'm engaged," he repeats back, almost dreamily, "I think this one's gonna stick." He tells Lola with as much earnestness as he can manage. Lola's smile starts to crack.

"I'm happy for you, drummer boy," she tells him gently, patting his shin, and Tommy sighs happily.

"You won't tell her about the- the groupies, right? The girls backstage?" He asks, suddenly worried, and Lola sighs deeply. "They- Heather's so perfect, Lols, she's so sweet, and so fucking hot." He all but groans, shifting his hips in a drunken, horny stupor, "if I could have her backstage after every show, I would, I would in a heartbeat, Lols, I just- I don't, and I'm weak, you know I'm so weak." He whines, and Lola has to remind herself that his happiness is what was most important, that she's being selfish for feeling hurt. She tries to smile a little wider.

"You and Nikki," Tommy starts, but his expression falls, and it's like he sees her again, sees how hard she's trying, "you guys," his voice is so gentle, "we were so lucky." He muses, and she's not quite sure if he even realised his mistake, "having each other all the time? So lucky." He says with a faint, surprisingly warm smile.

Lola can't help herself.

"We were so lucky." She agrees, and it's all she can do to leave.

As a stark contrast, Vince hates being sober, especially with the rest of the band practically black out drunk from the moment they wake up, but with Lola at the very least not drinking, they take to partying together rather frequently. But Lola watches with growing concern as Vince grows bored with the hard-partying lifestyle the longer he goes without a drink.

"It's killing me," Vince admits. He's got Lola in his lap at a party, more to keep himself from hitting on any other women, because it appears she and Sharise have conspired together to try and keep him faithful. It works, sort of, he still fucks a lot, but he's got it down to about one girl per city, and he definitely doesn't fuck Lola.

"What? Your dick? Dude yout hard-on is skewering my thigh," Lola tells him with a grimace.

"No," Vince flushes, shifting his hips a little, while Lola clenched her teeth and reminded herself to behave. Why did she wear a damn skirt? "I'm fucking tired of being treated like a damn kid; can't fuck when I want, can't drink, not even allowed anu fuckin' dope. Prison was more fun than this." Lola gives him a curious look, but he's quick to backtrack on that particular statement.

"Call Sharise."

"We always finish too late, I don't wanna keep waking her up after midnight," Vince muses gloomily. His grip around Lola's midsection tightens and he presses his lips to her shoulder. "What if I get you off, for old time's sake?"

Lola sighed, shifting so she face mostly facing Vince.

"You know it won't make you happy, lover boy," Lola's fingers were gentle on his cheek, and Vince leaned into her touch, expression forlorn as he sighed and nodded.

"This isn't fun anymore," Vince admitted, "I fucking hate being away from Skylar, I'm missing all the big moments in her life, and instead I get to watch everyone else having the time of their lives." Lola hugs him, holds him close enough to press his face into her boobs, perhaps as some sort of consolation.

"You can still leave," he tells Lola, reaching up to trace the tattoo of the drumsticks on her collarbones, "you should run while you can, get out before it kills you." Lola laughs but he doesn't understand why, just continues, "after all the shit you've been through, I wouldn't blame you. Leave us in the care of Doc, collect your last paycheck, and disappear forever."

Lola just gives him a sad smile and cards her fingers through his hair.

"Vinny, I don't have anywhere else to go." It's said with a sad smile, and air of finality, and Vince plants a kiss on her cheek before gently urging her to stand up. He goes and tries to call Skylar, and Lola finds Nikki and drags him to a bathroom, shakes him down for a syringe full of heroin she knows she has. And he kisses her, sloppy and slurred, and Lola holds him close so her hands don't shake.

Nikki is easy, Nikki is familiar, Nikki she knows better than she knows herself, can read him as easily as breathing. He moves and she moves in sync, their whole life an unspoken duet.

"You told me not to kill myself over Tommy," Lola and Mick are the only ones awake in the back of the tour bus at eleven in the morning; Lola's sipping a coffee, riding the high of shooting up right before they'd left the last hotel, and Mick's reading a newspaper. "Did you ever think that he wouldn't be the one to kill me?"

"He didn't," Mick reminds her pointedly, and Lola casts a nervous glance to the bunks at the back of the bus, but no-one made a move towards waking up. Mick looks up from his paper to follow her gaze, before he looks back at her.

"You never worried about me and Nikki?"

"No point," Mick huffed, looking back at his paper. This was not the answer she'd been expecting, and it takes a long moment for her to order her thoughts. By the time she had, however, Mick had already lowered his paper, anticipating her next question, "if you wanted to kill yourself over Nikki fuckin' Sixx, there's no person on Heaven or Earth who could talk you out of it." He tells her flatly, "I wasn't about to waste my time on you co-dependent sociopaths."

And perhaps she wants to be offended, but the more she ponders on the sentiment, the more she finds comfort in it, can't help but bring it to Nikki.

The night, though it's almost six am, is warm and humid, and after a hard night of partying, they fall into bed together, like so many nights before. Something about Mick's words plays on her mind, and maybe it's that she's not quite sure where she ends and Nikki begins in this heat, but she doesn't want to let him go.

"Mick said something weird to me the other day," Lola starts, her head on his chest as she's catching her breath, and she feels Nikki's laughter as it rumbles through his chest, his arm around her, sweat sticking them and their hotel's bedsheets together in the afterglow.

"Everything Mick says is weird," Nikki snorts, "the guy's an alien." His idle hand draws an indistinct patterns on the sheet over her thigh.

"Do you think we're codependent?"

"Yeah."

"And don't you think that's... bad or something?" Lola tries, but Nikki just hums noncommittally.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Lo," Nikki tells her, voice shooting for something other than blunt, but not quite hitting the mark, "you're all I really know," he admits after a moment, voice softening, tone far away, as if there's something else on his mind, "and I know I could live without you, just like you could live without me, but I don't want to." He swallowed hard.

"I don't either." Lola says with a small smile, but when she looks to Nikki, he's gazing at the roof.

"I didn't realise I'd have to learn to live without shit I thought I needed, you know?" He says, and Lola's expression falls. Nikki looks back at her, as if realizing what he's said, and licks his lips, hesitating. Sensing his sudden nervousness, wraps herself around him, hugs him so he doesn't have to look her in the eyes, and squeezes her eyes shut tightly as she feels him breathe a sigh of relief. "I didn't mean you." Nikki says, his arms around her, warm and solid, his lips gentle against the shell of her ear as she kisses his shoulder gently.

"I didn't think you did," she says, with the faintest air of amusement, and Nikki huffs a quiet laugh. Neither lets go.

"Did you write Starry Eyes for me?" She murmurs against his skin, and Nikki holds her just a little tighter. She feels him nod.

"Wrote a lot of things for you," he trails his fingertips down her back gently, and Lola feels herself all but melting under his touch. Up and down, gentle as a feather, they lay, wrapped up in each other, in silence, until Nikki's hand stills, palm warm and flat against the small of her back.

"Tommy asked me to be his best man," he says, voice surprisingly raw, and Lola stays still as a statue.

"Congratulations," is all she can manage, a pit in her stomach at the very mention of Tommy's upcoming wedding.

"I couldn't say no," but it sounds like he wanted to, and Lola slowly sits up, straddling Nikki, her hand on his bare chest as she searches his face for what he's trying to tell her. Instead, Nikki reaches up, his hand coming to rest on her ribs right over her heart, "I think I get it. Being with Nicole was never about the drugs, was it?"

Lola's mouth opens in a surprised, quietly hurt oh, and her hand moves to join his.

"I don't -" but the words won't come out, and Nikki gives her this strange little half-smile.

"Am I an ass if I say that I hate Heather?" Nikki asks, and Lola's shock melts a little as she starts to realize exactly what Nikki's saying.

"She makes Tommy happy," she tells him, like she's told herself a thousand times before, wearing a sad smile.

"So do you," Nikki tells her, and Lola's heart starts to ache in a way that's all too familiar, "so do we." Nikki says quietly, unable to look her in the eyes. "How the fuck did you do this twice? How do you just say 'they're happier without me' and be okay with it?" His lip curls into a snarl and he gently pushes Lola off of him, maneuvering himself to the side of the bed, hunching in on himself. There's tears beginning to sting Lola's eyes, but Nikki's voice is raw, is bitter as he asks, "does it always fucking hurt?"

"I don't want to lie to you-" Lola tries, but Nikki turns, snaps at her.

"I don't care! How the fuck can you watch them together and not want to yell at him that he's throwing away -?" Nikki's mouth snaps shut, and the fury in his eyes dies down, too afraid to voice his thoughts. Like approaching a wild animal, Lola slowly makes her way over to him, wrapping him up in her arms, letting him rest his forehead against her shoulder.

"I didn't even know I was... was allowed to love him like this," the words spill from him, messy, angry, and Lola's silent, curled over him like a shield from the outside world, tears dripping from her eyelashes, "didn't even realise I did, but Heather just thinks she can, can what? Fucking take him? From us?" His grip on Lola is tight, his nails digging into her skin when all he can focus on is his own anger, but after a moment of silence, he feels the way Lola's shaking, and he comes back to reality, "Lo?"

"It always hurt," Lola whispers through her tears, "Nikki, it always fucking hurts."

#nikki sixx #Tommy Lee #Vince Neil #nikki sixx imagine #tommy lee imagine #vince neil imagine #nikki sixx x oc #tommy lee x oc #the dirt #the dirt imagine #motley crue #nikki x tommy x oc #motley crue imagine #the angry lizard writes

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gplewis · 4 years

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Where to put deleted (composed but not sent) messages now that I’m serious and don’t want to put it in my Notes since sometimes I send those out whole-hog without really checking for what (mostly, WHO) I have haphazardly included?

Just want to thank you again. The other night at the end of a walk, I was reflecting on how proud and excited I was to sing for you when I had practiced and worked on my voice, it really is a privilege to have you hear me and run me through your course of exercise.

I wish I could make you happy, I wish our friendship could be romantic in a complete way and we could be life partners. I’m sorry.

I watched a man today at the bandshell in Golden Gate Park in a pink thong and gold chain lace necklace coming down his front, pointe shoes, wig, ladies’ jewelry do a photo shoot on pointe against the Greek columns. Telling you reminds me of the comment you made about the Baryshnikov clip I sent you, you said “is it wrong that all I see is discipline and years of dedication?”

It is an honor to talk about the seriousness of being an artist with you. Accepting one’s fate is a stage to go through, I am across the threshold and on the other side. I’m ashamed about money, ashamed I have had time to do what I’ve done, ashamed of parental help, ashamed of my fortune —

I don’t mind putting this on Tumblr. Ultimately it’s more stone in the quarry, another example of [not me questioning my sexuality, but being open to name ... thoughts as they come ... that’s boring,

I wish I could have fun with my failure. I miss the idea of creating with others in a mythical Paris - laughing, working, creating, doing it together - this has been so rare for me. Shakespeare coveted the normalcy of being a group-member and I think about that all the time.

All I do is cut myself and bleed literature, I open my attentive voice with a can opener and can’t make a mistake in what I cut out and reveal.

The voice of Wayne Koestenbaum fills my head, that master interpreter, whisperer, creative man, bon vivant, seer, expansive personality where wisdoms mix and music occurs.

I can’t thank you enough for the seriousness and care you brought to my inquiry last night. A third of an hour of your time is valuable, priceless (though surely you could quote me a consulting fee without much trouble) and I can’t thank you enough.

I’m going to ramble here, mostly for my sake (your overall message was on my mind at the moment where I usually transition to “Morning Pages”, an exercise of writing longhand with a pen on paper for three pages about whatever comes to mind, so I’m doing that work here and might send prematurely or not at all, haven’t decided)

Your message had the effect of depressing me and scaring me, which is good. You’re right. It reminded me of quitting alto saxophone when I was 18 — I sent in a lackluster cassette tape tryout for the UCLA marching band (I don’t even remember making the tape or putting my best into it) after having been an award-winning young musician throughout middle and high school. My mother got me private lessons with a local legend but I didn’t practice, I didn’t want to learn music theory, I didn’t want to do what didn’t come naturally.

Eleven nights ago, I played an alto saxophone for the first time in maybe eight years.

Your concerns about my voice are valid. The old books are there, the hundred-year-old masters about how to care for this instrument are there. It is cost-prohibitive in that you have to give up what you thought you were going to be. Is this my calling? You could scoff, like Dory did (you see his insults cut and wounded me deeply, and I have in a sense been on brigade against him to WIN ever since, working harder and longer at my own creative and artistic soul, turning it into a monster who will not be denied) and say “oh how privileged, to have voice lessons and spend all his time reading, writing and doing art, not bringing in any money (my failure to bring in money or to talk my way into overcoming this problem is my life! Truly! What else is my “workday” today but fighting against my not having created the right kind of relationships? I haven’t gotten my needs met! But I do think this is a vital topic, and even if I am a mediocre singer, I won’t be a mediocre writer or thinker — that is my work. Like Maria Callas said “being alone is our work,” I know being alone without the questions answered and attending to that mystery and void with all my rigor and attentiveness...that is my job. Corporate hierarchies are predictable, they are for others...and I’m sorry to say that, I wish I could free you to be free full-time and not have to worry about money — we both deserve it and would both discover something beautiful and true that would benefit all of mankind. We already do it through our relationships. We already light up the world.

In writing, singing and all the arts, I am on a 50-year growth trajectory. By my death I will be perfect 😇 so I have no eagerness or urgency to arrive or “be there” once and for all; I know there is no arrival — this is all a response to what you said about working smart as opposed to hard or long. I do want to be doing the best intentional work I can in the next few months and years, even if that means not performing. Though you scare me a bit with how much there is to know, about languages, the body, history, the world...you make me think I am a hack of an artist and don’t deserve to call myself by that word: you are the one who’s a man of the world and of the soul; I am maybe no more than the eager, impatient, horny teenage boy I used to be, even in all my supposed seriousness about my work. (Maybe this is just the old self-loathing and self-doubt that’s part of every creative personality and artistic temperament. Ugh, it used to be a salvation to say with pride that I am an artist. Now I think it finally did come true and it actually is a pain: all the things I read were right, and actually living it with no fanfare is...well, it’s a life, and life is long. I wonder if I am stuck right now, in this apartment, in my game of trying to keep enough money to pay my rent and grocery bill, no other ambitions but to execute my latest daily perfect iteration of 5-7 hours of reading/writing/communicating, outdoor exercise, and singing in the evening. I have clung to this life for so long, and I wonder where it ends. I am somewhat ashamed to keep getting bailed out of my situation by my mother — my father is much harder to ask for money, and the last time I did, I left him in tears. But surely thinking about this is the work: being emotional and vulnerable, and using writing to follow my vulnerability into its source — and surely *there* is the universal voice, because how I feel is how everybody feels.

And I thought I was Geoff Lewis, then G.P. Lewis, I think I’m happy with Geoffrey Lewis which is my actual name. It’s like T.S. Eliot said we arrive back where we started and know the place for the first time.

Editing and deleting are devious, violent, dishonest. Oh, I create the reader by writing; oh, why can’t I start? why can’t I finish? Oh I’m stranded in the middle for always! But I push and smash out ~ I take a rock-hammer to my life and do it all on the page; you read it and doing so changes how you process the next words and moments; the artist is the conductor of life; the artist makes the thing we look at to remember where we’re going — reality’s a strange winding road and it’s easy to get lost, tired, fatigued.

Maybe I really can restore hope and faith to the written word - maybe I really do have a role to play. I can’t believe I haven’t died or been evicted and homeless! My parents don’t really like me lol they’re confused that I refuse to get a job and support this addiction of self-actualization through writing this thing that isn’t asked of me and doesn’t fit anywhere. It is authentic

It is nothing without a reader (that isn’t true; maybe I’m trying to make this thing that’s private to me seen and understood and appreciated by You - oh, am I demanding?

Sadly or strangely I spin down before I give you a chance to react; maybe I keep writing to remind myself that I’m still in touch with the endless; though one day I will run out of eye-lifts (as in, lifting my eyes up off the screen, staring dramatically at the contents of a table in my living room)

I’m lucky to have a home, and ashamed! Give everyone a home, self-actualization should be encouraged. Freedom from drudgery and wage slavery. Freedom for parents from work that...distracts from the work of love and nurture.

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