From 12f675cff6b4bbc73f25a89c098c654bd2cb6382 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Madison Rye Progress Date: Sun, 27 Oct 2024 19:37:08 -0700 Subject: [PATCH] update from sparkleup --- .../what-right-have-I/first-pass.html | 40 +++++++++++++++++++ 1 file changed, 40 insertions(+) create mode 100644 writing/post-self/what-right-have-I/first-pass.html diff --git a/writing/post-self/what-right-have-I/first-pass.html b/writing/post-self/what-right-have-I/first-pass.html new file mode 100644 index 000000000..fa6b4c662 --- /dev/null +++ b/writing/post-self/what-right-have-I/first-pass.html @@ -0,0 +1,40 @@ + + + + Zk | first-pass + + + + + + +
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Zk | first-pass

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The itch on my palms is not a real itch, and yet all the same, it demands to be scratched. I can scrub my paws down over my front or rub them over my thighs and gain momentary relief, but it will always come back when tensions run high.

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Many things will plague me when tensions run high. I will tic — a jerk of the head to the side with a squeak or a yelp or a quiet grunt. I will pace in an abbreviated line, my steps spelling out an ellipsis. My stammer will get ever worse.

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I maintain that these are an integral part of me, that I will never strive to rid myself of them. I say to myself that I will never cease pacing, that my tics are a form of communication, that scrubbing my paws over my tunic or trousers is simply a part of the way that I live. I promise myself — and you, whoever you are — that I will not elide my stammering. When tensions are running high, these are cemented within me as a part of my existence.

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Tensions are running high.

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I am supposed to be calm. Relaxed. Professional. I am supposed to do anything other than scrub my paws over my front and fidget with the hem of my tunic or visibly restrain myself from pacing. I am not supposed to yelp or squeak in the middle of someone speaking — least of all Rav From Whence! — and I am definitely not supposed to scuttle off stage to go lay down on the cushion I keep beneath my desk for high-anxiety moments such as these.

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I explain to myself and to others that the entire reason that I exist is to outlive the part of me that speaks in should-statements. I am not supposed to do any of these things, but ‘suppose’ is a ‘should’ in disguise. Reframe it: “I should not do–”

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No.

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I exist specifically to kill that version of What Right Have I. The whole reason that I am What Right Have I of the Ode clade and no longer am I From Whence Do I Call Out is because Rav From Whence knew that at least some part of her, some version of her should exist specifically to revel in unmasking.

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We are a revelrous clade.

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We are all hedonists, in our way. Conscientious hedonists, mind: we believe that all deserve revelry in that which is good, but simply that we, too, are included in that ‘all’.

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Some revel in the hedonism of play, or the hedonism of creating, or the hedonism of food, of drink, of drugs. Some revel in the hedonism of naught: No Unknowable Spaces Echo My Words dreams of death and the lack of life, and to her, such is a joy. Unknowable Spaces’s up-tree Before Whom Do I Kneel, Contrite dreams of the very lack of a sense of self, and to it, such is a joy.

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Page generated on 2024-10-27

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