sometimes i wonder what i have done to myself. but i remember that it was not i that has done this. it was not my fault, nor the fault of any other being.

during the day my senses are dulled and i do not have the ability to speak over a whisper.

sometimes i starve myself for days, unable to face the task of feeding. there would be days that i would give up, days that i would lie in bed and claw at the air, sometimes screaming, sometimes silent, always wishing away my being.

those days were not acceptable. i had to move on.

i am better now, now that i have learned to deal with who i am, and who i will always be.

whispering elegantly to no one

my name is vivian juliet, which means "full of life and youthful." one i am still, and one i will never again be. i have not still, not yet, found a companion for which to accompany me through all my days, or nights. i have not felt love before, and i did not expect to.

but i have known freedom.

the usual accompanying glory has not yet found its' way into my life, dim and dull, dark and dreary, dazed and duly dissatisfying.

the first few days were the hardest, and inexplicibly incomprehensible. the changes were radical and frightening, and i did not understand. but the days stretched into weeks, the weeks to months, which invariably melted into years. i became used to my being and its' odd conditions.

one day near the beginning, i pulled the curtains down and hoped i would die. i didn't. and when i didn't, i thought to myself, is that all there is? the old song raked through my mind like curled fingertips:

is that all there is?
is that all there is?
if that's all there is, my friends
then let's keep dancing.
let's break out the booze
and have a ball.
if that's all
there is.

the days were mostly full of waiting, and the nights mostly empty of dignity. but i walked the dark roads of railroad haints with my back straight and my head high, because there was nothing that i had need of to fear.