Two CD Rambles I Posted On Twitter And Now Posting Here Because Fuck It, Honestly

We do our best to measure what is left of our powdered hearts.

Weigh each vial accordingly. Count every grain of sand. What we have left is a fine grain. It doesn’t sound like much. It may never be enough for anybody. But what it lacks in size, our love makes up for in length. It lasts forever. It goes beyond everything. It glows to let you know it’s there even in the silent moments. It is there. Lingering in the dark. Longing with an incandescent burn. It tingles at your fingertips. But we cannot give it to just anyone. Not anymore.

We’ve tried to save universes only for them to erode from exhaustion. Our brilliant light of salvation could not keep the competitive fires of others from blowing out. We gave them the full effect of our hearts, gave them a chance to keep living, gave them everlasting mercy…only for them to waste it. They wiped their asses with the prospect and made themselves irrelevant in the long run. And you want to know the worst part? They aren’t even around for us to take our anger out on.

So we sit here in our little island at the center of everything, drenched in neon light and shadow. Caressing the flesh of an Outer God. Taking great care of a loyal hound. Shifting into the Other Vessel and feeling its every movement. It is a place where everything we love

(or rather, the few things we can afford to love)

are gathered. Our world. Our dream. Our moment and monument. Ever mouldable to ours and our Beloved’s will. We have picnics in the Killing Fields, slaughter the dinosaurs, and sometimes when we feel nostalgic, we train and make love in hidden training grounds. It is paradise. It is heaven. It is home in its absolute essence. There are only two things that keep us from staying here forever.

Our bloodlust and our wanderlust.

We were born and bred to be a disposable warrior. We emerged from the War as a restless wanderer. We have spent all of our time searching for a place to fit and when we couldn’t find it, we made it. But even now…even now, we are what we are. No amount of sights and gold and broken bodies at our feet seem like enough. The rush of being in the moment. The crowd. The noise. The flow of it all. In between all of that, we get antzy. The longer it takes for the next fix, the more irritated we get.

But Anna! You can fix it!

We will reiterate. Disposable warrior. Not trained to be a maintenance man. We thump at the timelines. Patch up the holes when needed. Create technical difficulties and time loops and whatever kind of mockery so you humans don’t feel the severe temporal whiplash when things start moving back into place. There’s matches you’ve fought and didn’t remember for days or even months. And you don’t remember not remembering because of us. Even if you did, you’ll blame it on the head trauma. You always do.

We’re driven mad with the boredom. If we’re not in the midst of doing a thing or anticipating a thing, we eventually become stuck in stasis. We hate that. And it’s happening more and more and more and…

So we wander between the timeline in an endless hunt to not be bored. Because what’s the alternative? Posting sexy pictures on Twitter every five seconds like most of you do? If that’s your thrill, fine. But even that would make us feel empty after a while. We can’t just be one thing all the time, every time. We can’t just be a wife. A dog mom. A champion in one fed or multiple. We need variety. We crave it in our bones.

But in the meantime, we measure out love and ensnare a stone of hope in tentacles.

________

Anger is an energy.

Anger is an energy.

Anger is an energy.

Anger is an energy.

The voice of a man formerly called Rotten echoes through the neural hallways of the Multitudes. And not for the first time, either. It’s been popping up from time to time. A straight forward message with mysteries they often longed to solve. Destruction and creation. Two sides of the same coin. The ceremony of it all. The trinity sat in the notes. The static nun, Vɛrin. The rage in the cage, He-Who-Hates. The leader, the Prime. They spin in the aftermath.

Forever ago, we were called “Weaver-kin” and it wasn’t entirely wrong. We weren’t built to weave the Web of Time, per sé. That was done well before us, in times where Great Vampires infested the skies, by people who wanted to taste Infinity but couldn’t (yet). We merely inherited the damn thing, forced to protect it or at least have enough string to fix it up when something big and harsh enough disrupted things. We can harp on about the people lost. The blood on our hands. But honestly, why bother? Nobody else remembers. And to be honest, the ghosts no longer make the noise. They just stand there. Easy to ignore. Fading from our sight. The only things from the past that hold any relevance now is the stuff we’re willing to dig up and carry.

Which is why we’ve dragged this out.

From the boiler room of a frozen, slowly dying Earth, we dragged this out. Piece by piece. Bit by bit. We’ve rebuilt it just far away enough from Casa Daniels for it to feel like something. A six sided ring.

Go back to the root. Let’s find something new

or something old to be made new

That’s the hope, isn’t it? If Dodobird can’t resurrect out of her own accord, then it’s up to us to gather what’s left of her bones and make something with them. She’s the one we’ve been chasing after all. The one we’ve had to truly compete with. We’ve won a lot of belts since the regeneration. We are practically a different creature now and a lot of friends she’s had are dead and distant. You really can’t come home again no matter how hard you try.

How do we…one up ourself? How do you conquer the shadow of your own ghost?

Fuck knows.

We already have our assorted bags packed. A pack for Japan and all its bloody possibilities. A backpack for the land of dreams. A messenger bag primed for its ‘verse. A gun case at the edge of a millenium. A hobo bundle for the road of kings. There’s a few others, too. Stuffed. Waiting for the moment when we need them. We just washed and folded our Red Jaguar Spangled Death Squad shirt. Sat it at the edge of the marital bed. 

(We’ll hold down the fort, beloved. Don’t you worry about that. It’s part of our skill set.)

Until the battles and shenanigans call for us, we are left with ring ropes at the center of Everything. Occasionally stroking the Amazonite ’round our neck. Contemplating our role in each place and the cards we can play. Anger is an energy. And we can choose it to destroy or create as we choose. We choose to create. For now.

This’ll take some time. But let’s try to rebuild anyway.