violaine: (Floral: Dark Flowers)
Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go write it down, and either you over dramatize it or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it down quite the way you want to. -- Sylvia Plath


If you're here because you're randoming around DW, l please feel free to say hello.

If you're here because I've added you (and you're probably checking my journal to see who the hell I am), I've done so because something you've written has captured my attention span for more than a moment or two, or perhaps it's because we have similar interests, or quite possibly - people in common. I don't expect to be added in return, but feel free to do so.

If you're here following a comment in a friend's journal or a community, please let me know! I always welcome discussion from new acquaintances. I love verbose people, people that provoke me into lengthy conversations and people who make me think outside the box.

In addition, for those that are already here: I like a sense of balance on my friends list, and if you choose to remove me from your friends list, I will likely do the same. If you haven't updated your journal in over a year, I will probably remove you. If you're still out there reading, comment below and I will add you back.


That being said, welcome.

i watch the story unfold.

sometimes i dictate the story to myself, then sometimes to the world.
sometimes i take dictation. sometimes i get it wrong.

--Amanda Palmer

No.

Jan. 11th, 2016 05:44 pm
violaine: (Floral: Dark Flowers)
"No."

It was the first word spoken this morning when I woke up, the first on my mind and the first out of my mouth. Of course, I meant it for the alarm that went off, because I had today off from work after working the weekend. I slid over the alarm on my phone, turned over on my side, and buried my face in the pillows while Gabe got ready for work.

"Sad day today," Gabe said, as he kissed me goodbye.

"Why?" I muttered.

"David Bowie died."

"No!" I exclaimed, not believing it to be true.

"Yes," he said gently, "I'm sure it will be all over your newsfeed whenever you wake up."

He left, but I couldn't go back to sleep. I opened up Facebook and started scrolling. It was true, and confirmed by Bowie's son. I had a hard time keeping my eyes from starting to tear. While I didn't know him personally, and I certainly didn't own all of his albums (but I do own quite a few), I haven't been this saddened over a celebrity death since Leonard Nimoy died, and John Spencer before that. This is the first, however, to move me to real tears.

I regret not being able to finish watching his most recent video, because it left me feeling completely unsettled when I did watch it. I regret seeing the notification in my mailbox that the Blackstar album was ready for download, and not following it. Blackstar: album 25. His opus, his coda, his pièce de résistance, his parting gift and farewell letter to his fans.

Today I am sad. Farewell, Thin White Duke, Jareth, Starman, Ziggy Stardust, Lazarus. I will see you someday at the castle, beyond the goblin city.

Ground control: out.

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