Lenora Like Arragon

It was a case of extravagant misery.

The bigger the house you own the more room you have to walk inside and not have to go outside. Yet with the smaller houses there came a kind of comfort, one didn't have to walk three miles to explore the living room and kitchen squawking like a decapitated chicken. One could dance upon in smaller space, until you eventually fall over dead. Although unfortunately none of those I knew did, I probably would have come out substantially better with that.

For me I had been living in my old family house for some time, but had avoided certain rooms do to negative associations that those rooms give me. Such as the times I would sleep with my parents in the same bed, and dreams of things in the closet that will come to take me away. The period of dreaming was constantly streaming, and the very natural of how I perceived the real began to crack.

The thing about imagination, when you allow it to run wild, at times it makes you perceive reality when outside of the dream in a different way than you otherwise would. And for me, as someone who had family that would never strongly emphasize that things I experienced were dreams, and more immediately family that made me question my own natural memories, this led to me questioning my own sense of self. And after a point, I only had myself. Then not even that.

I had only my fractured mind. This was a mind that had a kind of impractical creativity I had initial difficulty applying to tangible projects.

And then I began sketching.

I had urinated in my bed from an early age, and my psychiatrists attributed this to depression. So when an early age onward, something that apparently goes against the science of today, I was taking anti-depressants up to the point I turned eighteen. So the way I perceived things were adventures I could have had at a time when I had difficulty expression my own inner sorrows. I feel like a glass bottle that would constantly be filled with water, and all the world's tears would flow inside, without having some means of an exit.

And so I came to understand holding back feelings.

I would hold back feelings when family turned over the tables, I would hold back feelings when I scraped by knees falling over my bike. And I would hold back feelings whenever my jokes were referred to as stupid. It took many years just getting to the point were I could make puns without reliving negative memories.

So after a point I withdrew to my room.

And after that I mostly drew. And yet most of what I drew came to mirror my own nightmares and inner frustrations with myself. And that's how you will come to find drawings of beheaded girls, girls kneeling on headsman's blocks, and masked executions getting ready for the chop.

My psychiatrists were concerned about my mental health, and yet mom would at times take me different psychiatrists. So my whole childhood was spent trying to find the right psychiatrist for me, or in older years my mom constantly nagging at me about what kind of future I would end up having.

That's a laugh, they think I actually have a future. If you call it a future, I suppose it is. But sometimes you make the best of what you have.

Even if it's nothing.

The thing about writing what you know, sometimes the individual nuance is complicated. Take for example the difference between being someone who is pregnant, and observing someone who is pregnant. But whenever you write about a woman who is pregnant, the assumption always seems to be you've been pregnant before rather than merely observing someone who is.

I had just gotten back from outside my house to visit more with the trans support group, and among them was a small woman in a brown pony tail, and several other friends from support group were there to greet me on stools. I was in my old house in NashChat, right in SmyrMurf. We were having support group right in the dining room, which had now been carpeted by the original color of carpet to bring back a sense of my old childhood to allow me to relive certain memories. Such as remembering when I used to be read picture books and played with wooden trains. And so I was able, at least briefly, to explore further the nature of my own memories.

And yet these memories blended with other memories, of when I visited yet another hotel room on a rainy night, and how I had once tried writing a new novel. Although I am uncertain as to whether this was a memory or a dream, my computer had decided to eat my novel once it ran out of batteries. I was attempting to write about specific experiences in my life, and to add various science fiction and fantasy elements to it. On that particular night it all was for naught.

And there was no care about this from the support groupies.

In fact that assumed that most of my childhood I was expanding the memories of my own childhood inside in my mind.

But it's not up to them to decide what I remember.

I shall remember what I want.

I hopped between different time periods and dreams, and imagined myself in the crowd of Lenora's execution, which was similar to Catherine Of Arragon's beheading by the ax.

"I am able to die very easily if you will it." she said, handing him a small bit of change to ensure her quick demise.

And so to explain the people the true nature of reality as I see, it almost on some level has to be expanded in my mind, and embellish as a work of fiction. For the nature of how I remember things is blurry and murky and nightmarish and needlessly complicated mazes and puzzles I may well forget about in the morning. Because for me, it is easy for me to merely wake up under the awning, and sit on the childhood porch rail merely observing the raining sky.

Until a lightning bolt falls down.

And makes me fall to the grown below.

The life of a dream and memory blender.


Fairy Dust



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