Everyone wishes they could change the past.

Friday, 5 August 2011

Resisting the call of the dreamer,

Why do I apologise so much? I have a lot to apologise for.

Hey, all. Let me apologise for last night's post. I don't really understand it now; my head is crystal-clear once more, but I think I know what was happening.

Firstly, the words in my head that I knew I had written. I knew they were familiar afterwards, so I did some searching. They're all victims of the Aspects. Allow me to apologise, in advance, to the writers of those words; there were other words -- other trains of thought -- in my mind, I simply didn't have time to write them down before I managed to calm myself. I don't know why I thought I was the original writer; perhaps His machinations?

Secondly, the frantic urge to write. It's happened elsewhere, too; I wrote things that, frankly, it doesn't make sense to type onto a computer and hit "Publish Post" for; frantic panic was somehow overcome by the urge to finish that post, sign it and send it. I don't know why; before, I dismissed the Compulsion out of lack of evidence. Perhaps I have been confronted with the ultimate proof herein?

These are just matters of not enraging the writers of the words which were in my mind; again, I cannot apologise more. In any case, let us deal with the aftermath of what I posted.

As I recall, upon feeling the air itself hold onto it's atoms, my first urge -- after those the "Compulsion" (how dirty I feel thinking that such a perverse thing could be in my mind) inflicted upon me -- was to dash for the door. To get outside, onto the ground levels. Somewhere in my mind, I knew that Vanitas would have locked the door on the other side, but that didn't matter. Not to me, then; I would have ripped it off the hinges if it meant getting out of that cursed space.

I didn't even know if he was there. But I removed the lock on my side, shoved down the handle and pushed, and ran; Vanitas just had her hand on the door to her bedroom, readying herself to get into it. After seeing me, her eyes widened for a moment and she said something like "stop!". Not a command, but a firm tone of voice. I stopped, my hand on the door to leave her flat.

She walked over to me, and spread her arms. I can only imagine that the look I gave her was a quizzical one, if not one of sheer madness. She smiled, and put both of those arms around me in a hug. At first, I was incredibly wary; then I felt a slight relaxing of my heartstrings, and I put my arms around her, too. The air-on-edge was gone, replaced only by the warm of the English night. Vanitas didn't say a word; just gently pulled me over to the couch, sat me down, and didn't stop hugging all the while. I buried my head in her shoulder, and slept. For the first time in a week.

I woke up in my own bed; my room, completely tidied. A note was on the door. "Are you feeling better?"

... was it a dream? No, it couldn't have been. I would have run from the house, I know I would. I have to thank her. Maybe... maybe this'll work out, after all? I mean, I couldn't imagine that this would work and, indeed, that what she did would work. I'm not easily cowed by such things, normally, but... I don't know. I don't want to think at the moment. But... I do want to thank her. I should write that in one of my notebooks.
-Achromatic Morality-

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