hi!


this is music thing. below is letter thing about glimglim to luna from spike that inspired it. it sounds a lot sillier when it's put like that, i suppose.

video courtesy of expression2: http://expression2.deviantart.com/

this is a remaster.

strig

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Dear Moon Horse,

There's dust on her photo frame.

I mean, it caught my eye. I'd like to think that counts for something.

But, my world echoes my apathy.

These days are long, moon horse. I'd like to say that they're purposeless, but we both know that's not entirely true. By virtue of my existence, I am kept busy, whether for sustenance, or out of a driving fear of drifting into a state of pure inertia.

No, these days do tire me.

And I...?

I am so empty, moon horse.

It is not a sappy, existential emptiness - nor is it a reflection of a childishly trivial lack of attention. Long has my mind ceased to wander down those paths that I once perceived to be — perhaps falsely — treacherous. No, it is a gnawing, numbing realisation that when all in my life is seemingly stable, when my inner voices have been quelled and when the silence has become pleasantly deafening -

Moon horse: I am so, so alone.

I am cold, scathing, dark; I am nothingness, so insignificant, so minutely small that my trials are laughably inadequate.

I will never attain the precepts that I aim for. I will never frolic in the autumnal thoroughfares between birth and death. I will never be content to live and love naively, to pretend that the metaphorical elephant in my metaphysical room isn't swelling in size.

Moon horse?

I will never be restrained from moulding my reality. I cannot quell my insatiable, primal urge to create, to express, to transform beauty into song, to form words from intangible thoughts.

I...

I say with finality:

I am so selfish.

I am so self-aware.

I am so, so useless.

And I am utterly alone.

It is not my need for expression that drives me past my proverbial breaking point.

It is my need for affirmation, for "childishly trivial attention", that has sent me headfirst into a seemingly innocent haze: a haze that has kept the true root of this episode hidden.

I want to create.
I want to be satisfied.
I want to be appreciated.
And I want - no, I need -

I…

The sun is dying, moon horse. The canvas sky, stained with bold strokes of marbled pink and gold, heralds the dusk.

Soon, the painted night will come. Soon, the indigo sky will be your refuge, and soon, your stars will be my beacons.

Will you listen closely? Will you hear me?

Or am I just alone?

I miss her, moon horse. Do you remember her energy, her urge to discover? Do you remember her thirst for fading truths, her righteous crusade in the name of what was right and good and true and -

Moon horse, why does it hurt?
Why does this pretentious masquerade drag on, while I continue to remember an idealised image of who she was?

And despite it all:

I can’t let go.

I can’t survive; not without her.

They say that in parting, our hearts grow fonder.

-

For whatever it’s worth,

Spike.