The Cheese Grates It: I Just Can't Even With This Shit

Yep, this isn’t gross, disrespectful, or fetishizing at all.
Not like it totally ignores a person’s illness and suffering. Forget that. They looked sexy when they posed for a picture 50 years ago.
Yes, this shit actually is a problem. It isn’t cute or funny. It’s entitlement.
Let me break it down a little.

Here’s David Bowie. He was so very talented. He was kind and gentle. Yes, he was attractive. Shockingly, it is possible to find people attractive while still respecting them and not fetishizing them. This kind of becomes even more important when the person is no longer of this world.
David Bowie died of cancer early in 2016. But by all means, let’s fetishize and objectify him. Because that’s hawt.

Here’s a picture of a young David Cassidy with his brother, Shaun.
David Cassidy was very attractive.
He was also much more troubled than most people realized.
He developed dementia in his later years. This isn’t what killed him directly, although it eventually would have. He died from multiple organ failure. His last words to his daughter were “so much wasted time.”
That’s really fucking sad.
But, by all means, do continue to objectify him. Because your masturbation fantasy is far more important than showing respect for the dead, and it surely is not possible to find someone attractive without fetishizing them.

Malcolm Young wasn’t conventionally attractive, but there are certainly plenty of entitled individuals who see fit to fetishize him, even though his illness and decline were beyond tragic. For the past ten years, his brain was literally deteriorating, and, at the end, he didn’t even recognize the people who meant the most to him, such as his children and his siblings.
But, by all means, objectify the fuck out of him, because one time, nearly forty years ago, there was a picture of him that looked like this.

Don’t forget to fetishize his grieving brother too, even though he’s still alive. It isn’t like he’s a human being or anything. He’s there as fodder for your fantasy.

Since the grossness wouldn’t be complete if you weren’t fetishizing the entire family, here’s a picture of a youthful George Young back in the 1960′s. George died back in October. He was a really talented musician and producer. But who cares about that? He was sexy in his youth!

As an added bonus, you can fetishize Alex Young too. He died in 1998 from lung cancer. Suffering and death, that’s so hot. Particularly since it’s completely impossible to find people attractive without objectifying them.
The reason I find this sort of thinking atrocious is because it is rife with entitlement (my desires above everything else) while completely lacking empathy. It isn’t cute. It isn’t funny. It isn’t edgy. It’s perverse.
When I say “perverse,” I don’t mean sexually kinky. I mean it deviates from right thinking. By right thinking, I mean having an attitude of compassion towards others. Seeing others as objects to be ogled and utterly ignoring their struggles is sociopathic. It takes only your own desires into account. People become things. A world in which people are seen as things is an ugly world.
The Cheese Hath Grated It

The Cheese Grates It: Accidents of Time and DNA

I was really having a go at myself yesterday. I was angry with myself for walking so slowly. It took me an hour and a half to walk 2 miles where it takes the average person about 45 minutes to do so. I later realized that I had been carrying about 20 pounds, one approximately 10 pound bag on each shoulder.

The next day I couldn't stand the sight of myself and continually referred to myself as an ugly old toad faced cow.

Today I remember Carrie Fisher's wise words.

Youth and beauty are not accomplishments. They are accidents of time and DNA.

This is one of my favorite images. It shows the same person with a relatively 30-year progression in age. There are a lot of people who say that this person has always been "ugly." Then there are those who say he was cute when he was younger but became "ugly" as he aged.

I say that those shallow sorts are cordially invited to go fuck themselves.

This person has never been conventionally attractive. He was too short and skinny to be a "manly man" and his elvish face wasn't exactly a "movie star" mug.

I don't think he "got ugly" as he aged, he just got older. People do that. We should be allowed to do that.

Recently, I ended up with chemical burns where one definitely does not want chemical burns. I put Nair on my legs to thin out the hair. I have very thick hair on my head, and with thick hair on the head comes thick hair on the arms and legs. Women are expected to have glorious, thick manes of hair on their head and hairless legs and arms. It's ridiculous.

When I was walking to the shower, because I don't have the ludicrous "thigh gap" that women are supposed to have (hint: the majority of women do not) my legs rubbed against each other and squeezed some of the depilatory cream to the point where my thighs meet my nether regions.

I am still recovering from chemical burns to the nether regions.

It is ludicrous that women feel the need to burn the hair off our legs or have the hair ripped from our private areas to make ourselves not even impossibly beautiful (it is, in fact, impossible to achieve the perfection that we are supposed to aspire to) but merely acceptable. In this society, anything less than stunningly beautiful is hideous. It is unacceptable to be plain or average.

A person's beauty does not lie in their external appearance.

People do not become "ugly" as they age.

There is nothing wrong with being an ordinary-looking person.

Perfectionism is deadly to the spirit.

It is a soul-destroying demon with which I have wrestled all my life. So too have the people whose pictures I featured in this post.

May we somehow learn to find peace with ourselves.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

Not So Wordless Wednesday's Beautiful Person of the Week: Week One: Malcolm Young

Malcolm Mitchell Young was born January 6, 1953. He stands about 5'3" tall and weighs about 100 pounds. He looks kind of like a Leprechaun. He isn't what most people would think of when they hear the word "beautiful."

Malcolm was very shy and tended to be depressive. He turned to certain magic potions to make him feel more sociable and less sad, which is a not uncommon problem but an oft-vilified one. His closest friend and the other half of his soul, his brother Angus, stated that Malcolm wasn't sober one day from the time he was seventeen until the time he went into rehab at 35. He successfully rehabilitated from alcohol addiction at that point.

Seldom have I seen a closer, more obvious soul mate relationship. It's beautiful but at the same time tragic, because Malcolm doesn't remember who his brother is (or who anyone else is) any more. My heart breaks for both of them.

The big, friendly-looking fellow was Malcolm's nurse during his last tour with the band that he created. He no longer remembers how to play the instrument he was so proficient and innovative with. He no longer remember any of the things he did during his life. The picture was taken after he had a stroke in 2012. I know some people will think I'm terrible for saying this, but I think it would have been better if his body had stopped working at that point.

Our writing sister Dolly believes that Malcolm is a teacher and that his struggle is a lesson for us undeserving sorts here in Purgatory. She thinks he agreed to this mission prior to even being born. I don't disagree with her, but I still think it sucks much ass. She is correct that he was the kind of person who would say "why not me" as opposed to "why me" when confronted with such a horrific diagnosis.

Many people think that youth and perfection are the hallmarks of beauty. Most would say that the person in the top image is more beautiful than the one in the bottom image. They are the same person, and yet they aren't. In some ways, the person in the bottom image is the more beautiful, because he had learned certain lessons in compassion and was less likely to inadvertently make unintentionally callous statements. He was wiser, and wisdom is a thing of beauty.

Both of them are flawed people with good intentions.

Malcolm Young is a beautiful soul. I think that although his body is still functional, he no longer operates through it. For all intents and purposes, he functions as a discarnate spirit. I have sensed that he deeply regrets having hurt certain people during his lifetime and wishes he could make up for it. He remains a perfectionist who has difficulty forgiving himself for his mistakes.

Malcolm is my first "beautiful person" in my Not So Wordless Wednesday series because his birth anniversary falls two days from now, and because he means the world to me.

~Cie~

Soul Calls

At The Beginning of the End: Version 6
Photoshop manipulation by The Real Cie

This is my final post on the Cie Loves Mal tumblr. 

I am no longer using this blog for its original purpose. I feel far too vulnerable doing so. I feel like I have revealed things that are much too personal. 

I was intending to delete the blog, however, I am leaving it here with one final post. I am creating a new blog for my artwork, stories, and personal thoughts. If you want the URL, say so in the comments. I don’t read messages.

I remember one time a blogger wondered why she had such strong emotions for James Hetfield, a person whom she has never met. Sure, she loves his music, but this emotion went far beyond the rational. As someone who has had a lot of experience with the metaphysical, I did not believe what she was feeling to be irrational, but at the time I couldn’t explain this phenomenon. I now can, and I hope to be able to save other people a lot of grief by doing so.

The information I discovered is in this post. Please read it. It will save you a lot of heartache. I wish I had known about this phenomenon when I was much younger. It would have saved me many years of pain.

The phenomenon I refer to is known as a Soul Call.

People with empathic abilities are particularly susceptible to soul calls.

The soul call explains why some people always have a tendency to find stray animals. It also explains why some people have a tendency to find wounded people whom they try to save, only to end up with a broken heart.

The soul call also explains why an otherwise rational person could feel as if she is falling in love with (for instance) James Hetfield, whom she has never met. It has nothing to do with lust or wanting to bang a rock musician for the thrill. She might not even necessarily want to have sex with him. She does, however, find herself wanting to be close to him. The desire to do so becomes all consuming.

This happens because James (or whomever) is feeling troubled about something. He may not even be consciously aware that he is particularly troubled, but his psyche is reaching out, saying “does someone have an answer for me?”

I am hoping that understanding the nature of soul calls can help quell the miserable feeling of unrequited love that all empaths feel at one time or another for a person whom they cannot possibly get close to, and whom it might not even be a good idea to get close to.

For my own part, I would have been saved 26 years of misery wherein I felt a strong pull towards someone who turned out to have both substance and sex addiction problems. This person haunted my dreams, literally. My need to find and get close to him destroyed my marriage. Fortunately, what I wanted never transpired. In fact, during my final astral encounter with him, I ended up telling him to stay away from me or I would hit him in the face with a shovel.

For the record, the person in question is not Malcolm Young.

Regarding Malcolm Young, his soul is screaming and has been for many years. I do not mean to imply that he is in a literal hell, for this is not the case. I only mean to impart that he is extremely troubled by his situation because he is sorry for hurting those who care about him and he can’t do anything about it.

I believe that what Angus said about Malcolm not being in his body at all any more is true. He is, for all intents and purposes, in spirit. The fact that his body remains in the material world is disconcerting and distressing to him.

Certainly there will be empaths who will hear this call and feel as if they are falling in love with such a spirit. However, romantic love is not what he needs or wants. Blessings, prayers, and peaceful vibrations are helpful to spirits in a situation such as Malcolm’s. Regarding Malcolm in particular, I think he would greatly welcome such assistance. 

In closing, yes, dear empathic souls, the love in your heart for the one whose soul call you are receiving is real. On closer examination, you are likely to find that it is not, in fact, romantic love. Look deeper. Ask how you can help. If you cannot sense anything concrete, simply send white light or say blessings or a prayer on behalf of the one making the soul call. Believe that it will help. It will.

I know now that I have received many soul calls over the years. I have been severely damaged by feelings of unrequited love and of loss, and it will take time for me to heal. I hope that I can save some of you the grief I have known. That is why I leave this here for you.

Peace, 

Cie

Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Camp: January 2016

The rules for participation are simple:

If you write a post, please share the URL of your post in the comments.

Please visit other participants

PLEASE BE SUPPORTIVE OF ONE ANOTHER

I created the CCCC as a support tool for creative people living with mental illness, as we are often misunderstood and made to feel foolish in blog hops for "normal" people. This can trigger depression and suicide ideation, and who the hell needs that? Personally, that happens for me quite enough as it is.

Today is the birthday of one of the people who inspired me to stay on the creative path when the forces around me (family, school) were telling me that this was foolish and impractical. Unfortunately I was never lucky enough to meet him in person, but he still means the world to me.

Most people wouldn't give him a second look. He's no GQ hunk or "Alpha Male." He's tiny and not conventionally attractive, but I think he's beautiful. When I say "beautiful," I mostly refer to his soul. However, I do admit to finding him physically appealing as well.

I would like to wish him a happy birthday, but he does not have happy birthdays, because this has happened to his brain.

He has gone from this:

To this:

To this:

He is 63 years old. His brother has said of him that "he isn't in there at all any more." He does not remember what he did. He does not remember the people to whom he was closest, including his brother and his daughter, who was standing beside him in the second photo.

He inspired me not only to be creative in spite of the fact that I was being told it was foolish and impractical, but to continue living in spite of the fact that I was being told I was worthless. I was twelve years old and contemplating suicide.

I was badly bullied. I didn't know it then, but my bipolar disorder was fully awakened with puberty. I was sad all the time. I felt like a major disappointment to my family. I felt like a freak. I was physically unattractive and painfully shy.

The fact that this painfully shy little man half a world away managed to create powerful music that reached out not to the "cool kids," AKA the bullies, but instead to freaks like me made me want to keep living, if for no other reason than to piss off the assholes who were bullying me. Whenever I held one of his band's records (Initially cassette tapes made for me by one of my few friends' older brothers) I felt like shouting out "see this? This was made for people like me, not for you assholes!"

I felt like I mattered to someone, even though he didn't know me. I thought that if he met me, he might want to be my friend. Sure, he was twice my age, but I would have behaved in a mature fashion, which would have made him treat me like an adult in most ways. I would happily have been his assistant.

He wasn't one of those perverts who would have taken advantage of a naïve kid. (Looking at you, Ted Nugent. Sadly, also looking at Steven Tyler, Iggy Pop, and Jimmy Page.) He might have enjoyed certain substances, sometimes a little too much, but he always had a strong sense of ethics. I loved that about him.

I was a bit of a dichotomy at twelve. In some ways, I was extremely naïve. In others I was old beyond my years. I was drinking and getting high. I knew almost nothing about sex, in spite of the fact that the kids at my school saw fit to spread rumors that I was easy. I wasn't. I wanted nothing to do with most of the boys at my school, and the one I was interested in saw me as a little sister.

I never made good on my creative dreams. Improperly diagnosed mental illness (I wasn't diagnosed with bipolar disorder until I was nearly 40) had something to do with this. I know now that I never will be anything but desperate and destitute. It's probably stupid for me to continue writing. I am a dismal failure. I let my hero down, although he will never know it, at least not in this life.

I continue writing although it is rare for me to receive any sort of response, just in case I actually reach someone who really needs it. Also because if I don't let the words out, they come out in the form of increased self-loathing. So I continue to write.

It is also why I created this group, which may never have a single other participant. I keep doing it, because you play even if you only have one person in the audience. You play even if that person is the bartender, who has to be there anyway. Because the music wants to be heard. Or, in the case of someone like me, the words want to be read. Even if the only person reading them is the one who wrote them.

The fact that I rarely receive acknowledgement hurts sometimes. I have, however, learned that seeking approval is no reason to do anything. I will never get approval.

My hero went unnoticed by most people. Granted, he was much more successful than I've ever been. However, his contributions to music are overlooked by the general public. He never let the fact that his younger brother received all the attention turn him jealous or hateful, and I admire that about him too.

Never seem to be in front
Or part of the exciting times
Destined for a life of second best
The blackmail not the bribe
Together now whatever work has gone unsung
He'll be forever Malcolm Young
Always gnocchi not linguine
Never Hitler you're Mussolini
Often the sideshow but not the circus
Always Malcolm never Angus
End up Carlton you wanted to be Negus
Single pluggers never sneakers
Always headphones never the speakers
Shouldn't have a complex cause
He wrote Highway To fucking Hell
Together now whatever work has gone unsung
He'll be forever Malcolm Young
Don't be too cocky cause he wrote Stiff Upper Lip as well

For what it's worth, I always knew he was special. The ones who get overlooked often are.

~Cie~

Broken Heroes

Nicolo Lothario

The prompt from Prompts Galore asks us to "write about coming to the realization that your heroes are only human."

Several times the realization has been one of these: guy seems like the perfect catch. He's married with kids, seems like a great husband and father, oh, if only I could find someone like...

Great googly moogly! So sorry, Spouse of Cheating Dog. Turns out that instead of being such a good guy after all, he's a rampant womanizer. Not going to name names, but I've been sorely disappointed by having perceived no few of these cads as heroes in the field of romance and can only count my blessings that I wasn't the poor fool who ended up with them. Not being pretty does have its perks. Guys like this ignore the existence of women who look like me.

Circa 1973



My father actually was one of the good ones. He and I didn't always get along. He had certain very conservative ideals that didn't jibe with my very liberal ones. He could be overbearing. However, he had a genuinely good heart, and I could always count on him being there when I needed him.

Until a hemorrhagic stroke severely compromised him, and thereafter he developed vascular dementia and congestive heart failure and spent six years with both his physical and cognitive health declining until he finally, mercifully, passed from this world in a peaceful room at the hospice center.

Everything dies, but the long, drawn-out way my father died pretty well shook my belief in an ordered Universe. Good people are allowed a merciful death, right? They don't have to suffer for years and years, becoming more and more fearful as the twilight takes over their mind, right?

Well, that was the most naïve thought ever. We should probably scan my head and see if I even have a brain, or if I long ago replaced it with a rotting lump of Limburger cheese.

Malcolm Young was my hero from the time I was twelve years old. He doesn't really look or sound like one might think a hero would. He's tiny, somewhere around five foot three and weighing something around 110 pounds when he's been eating hearty. He's a shy, nondescript man with a quiet voice. So, what would cause me to think of someone like that as a hero?

Malcolm took no shit from anybody, and he didn't like crappy behavior. He disliked bullies. He was sympathetic to people who were victimized by the mean-spirited sort who gets off on putting others down. In other words, I knew from the start that he cared about people like me, who tend to be the target of the mean-spirited lot. People who are shy, who aren't conventionally attractive, who are even, dare I say it, mentally ill. That's what makes him a role model, and, yes, a hero.

His family seems to have some genetic tendency to cancer and vascular disease. So, you'd figure it might be one of those things that would take him out. Oh, but no. He couldn't have gotten lucky and died from the heart problems that he had in the early 2000s, or the stroke that he had in 2014. That would have been too easy.

Nope, instead he has to be dying from a horrid form of dementia that has literally shrunken his brain and left him so he can't remember the things he did during his life, or the people he did them with. This disease took him from being a low-key but decidedly brave hero and a very independent personality to being a very sick, very confused victim whose once-alert eyes are bewildered and terrified, and who requires constant supervision.

You know where my faith has really been shaken in this whole mess?

The idea of a benevolent, ordered Universe seems rather improbable to me.

I'm not an atheist, but I haven't believed in the Church God for years. Deism seems far more plausible to me than theism, given the nature of things. I can buy the idea of a grand creator, but I don't really think it gives two fucks about us. Oh, it may be benevolently disposed to its creations, but it's also pretty detached, much like a person who raises fish whose purpose is to repopulate lakes and streams. This person cares about the fish as a population. They don't focus on the fish as individuals.

I think we're kind of on our own, as far as things go. Yes, I believe in a soul that survives the death of the body. To me, reincarnation seems the most likely course of events. Energy never dies, it simply changes form, and the spirit is pure energy. Eventually, it will find another body to inhabit. That's how I see it, anyway.

Sometimes my thoughts on the matter are similar to Sam Winchester's.

And sometimes they're more like Paul the Tavern Owner's.

"Look, there’s sure as hell demons. And maybe there is a God. I don’t know. Fine. But I’m not a hypocrite. I never prayed before and I ain’t starting now. If I go to hell, I’m going honest. How ‘bout you? "

Unlike Paul, I used to pray. I was once a devout Catholic. My father was a devout Catholic. He prayed. I'm not sure it did any good, but I'm not so arrogant that I'd 100% say it didn't.

The only thing I know for sure is this:

A benevolent, involved deity wouldn't allow its creations to suffer the way that so many of us do. If the deity is involved in our lives, I, like Stephen Fry, have but one thing to say to it:

How dare you!

How dare you let little children be molested and murdered. How dare you let there be wars. How dare you let my son's friend, who is only 18, get bone cancer. How dare you let my father struggle on for six years, losing his ability to control his body and his mind. How dare you give my aunt dementia. How dare you let Malcolm Young's mind be destroyed and force him to keep living in a terrified, bewildered state. How dare you allow all these things, and the countless other horrors? Seriously--how dare you!

I don't believe in the Church God. But in the event that he exists and hears what we say, that is what I have to say to him.

My final thought on the matter of heroes:

The church god actually used to be one of my heroes. I lost faith in him years ago.

~Cie~

If I'm Living on Borrowed Time, Do You Think I'm Gonna Waste My Time Conforming?

Current age: 62 and has no memories of his accomplishments or his family and friends.
Age at onset of dementia: 55 (and fuck you, Universe)

Lewy Body Dementia discovered post-suicide Age: 63

The Real Cie's aunt: probable Lewy Body Dementia, age of diagnosis: 72

Me: Age 49, will be 50 on February 15.

TRIGGER WARNING: DISCUSSION OF SUICIDE IDEATION

Here's what I'm noticing. This kind of shit seems to be happening in younger and younger people. I'm not a scientist. Nor am I particularly given to believing in conspiracy theories. The Illumin-Naughty seem as likely to exist as the Illuminati, as far as I'm concerned. But I do see a pattern.

I think our world is polluted as fuck, and it's killing us in various and horrible ways. I think all the people succumbing to these shitty forms of dementia have been poisoned by our toxic environment, and it isn't going to get any better anytime soon.

I evidently have a genetic trigger for this shit, and I have been thinking. I may be living on borrowed time. And if I am, I'm going to off myself when I get the diagnosis. I've taken care of people with dementia for all but five years since 1988. I am not putting myself or my son through that shit.

Given that there's a fair possibility that I'm living on borrowed time, do you know what the fuck I'm not going to do?

Care about a bunch of rules set down by a bunch of stodgy, imagination-impaired, heartless, inflexible assholes. 

Believe as I do. Don't believe as I do. I really don't care. But don't fucking tell me how to think and feel. I was never going to conform to your standards anyway. Given that I may only have five or ten years left, I'm going to conform to them even less.

I have an open mind about metaphysical possibilities. I'm not going to close my mind because my beliefs make some people uncomfortable.

I love what and who I love. If you have a problem with that, take a look in the damn mirror as you point your finger at me. Then take a look at the three fingers pointing back at you.

I'm actually not afraid of this possibility. I'm pretty stoic about it. I've had suicide ideation pretty much all my life. I'm not afraid to die. My life hasn't been an easy one. Sometimes I think the easiest thing in the world would be to down a whole bunch of pills with a butt ton of alcohol and just let the world fuck off at last. I'm sick and tired of hearing what a fuckup I am echoing in my damn head all the time.

I'm not doing it today. So don't get your hackles up searching my URL to try and find out where I'm located. This isn't a "right now" suicide note. This is a "if I'm diagnosed with dementia I'm offing myself" note. Because fuck that shit.

So anyway, if I believe in the possibility of ghosts and incarnate people communicating with each other and maybe even becoming friends or falling in love, who the fuck is anyone else to tell me I can't believe that? 

If I believe the personality survives the death of the body, who the fuck is anyone to tell me I can't believe that?

If I believe in an afterlife, but not an afterlife that adheres to some particular set of dogma created by a bunch of stodgy old fucks to control the masses, well, that is what I believe. If it brings you comfort to think of me frying in a fiery pit because of my beliefs, perhaps you're the sick fuck, not me. 

If I believe in reincarnation, how the fuck is that hurting you?

People are always so all-fired hot to tell other people what they should and shouldn't think and feel. I've had it up to here with that shit. None of us knows for sure what happens after we die. My theories are as valid as anyone else's. More to the point, I don't shove them down anybody's throat. 

I guess my point is this. I don't know if I'm living on borrowed time or not, but I damn well could be. Do you think I'm gonna waste that time trying to please anybody by conforming to their particular reality? I can't live your damn reality, nor do I want to. I can only live my own. 

Stop trying to tell other people what to believe, think and feel. As long as what you're doing isn't hurting anybody else, it's nobody's damn business.

One thing I aim to do. When I do get to the other side, whenever that is, I am going to give both of the dudes pictured a great big warm hug, because they both touched my life for the better and both pulled me through when I was a very sad, lonely, and bullied teenager. I wished both of them could be my friends.

I totally shipped "Mork" as my best platonic friend back in the day, and you will never guess which band was Mork's and my favorite. When you're a sad and miserable twelve or thirteen year old, that kind of thing can mean a lot.

When people judge another person's reality based on their own set of experiences, they do the person they're judging a great disservice.

Both Malcolm Young and Robin Williams taught me a lot. The biggest thing they taught me is that having compassion is the most important thing. As neither of them are conventionally attractive, they also taught me that true beauty is in the soul. Not that either of them are ugly, but neither of them would ever be considered "hunky" by any stretch of the imagination.

Both of them struggled with depression and addiction issues. These are certainly things to which I can relate. 

These are beautiful people--truly beautiful people, not Hollywood hyped beautiful on the outside hollow on the inside glamour seeking glory grabbers. If I do end up being one of the many succumbing to the horror of dementia, at least I will know I am in glorious company. I love you Mal, and I love you Robin. And I do not give one single fuck what anyone thinks of that statement.

I guess I've said what I need to say. It pretty well boils down to this. Quit fucking judging. You do not know what another person is going through or what they have been through. Since you haven't experienced their life, you aren't qualified to judge it.

I can't live as if there's no tomorrow, because my Last Day may be here sooner than I ever would have imagined. I have to get what I can done in what time I may have left. I'm not wasting that time conforming to anyone else's bullshit standards.

~Cie~

Cross-posting everywhere because:

If I Only Could...

The Daily Post asks: What if you could go back and rewrite history? Then postulates that I could.

The one thing that I would do is somehow go in and tweak the brain of the sweet, smart, talented, beautiful creature in the picture above so that it wasn't deteriorating on him and leaving him so he doesn't remember his life, can't remember how to play the guitar, can't remember his children and the younger brother with whom he was apparently able to communicate telepathically, and doesn't even really know who he is.

(Note: the given link is safe. However, it is on a blog that should be considered NSFW as it contains explicit erotic material, including some explicit images.)

If I could make this happen, almost everything I've written in the past two months would disappear. The wonderful, life-altering metaphysical experiences I've had during this time would cease to exist, and I would be back to being the way I was before, which was pretty well dead inside with my world being nothing but shades of gray and a long, slow walk to the grave. I would knowingly do it, just like I would give birth to my son again, full well knowing how much pain it would cause me. (I nearly died giving birth to my son, and I have never known such severe pain.)

Malcolm's physical brain is being eradicated by a horrific disease, but his soul never can be. His soul is resplendent and powerful. Still, I also know he's felt terror during the times when he knew that his mind was being destroyed. No-one should ever have to feel such a thing. I would like to take that from him. If I could, I would switch places with him, even knowing that my life would become hell. He is far more important than I ever could be.

What would I could do if I could rewrite history?

Cure Malcolm Young.

I wish it were as simple as it sounds.

He saved my life when I was a troubled and bullied teenager by giving me the knowledge that there were people out there who cared about people like me. More recently, he brought color to my world when his soul touched mine in an attempt to comfort me because my grief over his illness was so great, but I would give that back in a heartbeat to make him well.

He is angelic and divine in nature and should not be destroyed. That such a horrible thing could happen makes me sick and proves to me that the physical plane is a place of torture and sorrow. I wish I had the power to rewrite the history at the end of his life and save him

I know how what I've written makes me seem to those with a narrow perspective.

I don't care.

 

~Cie~

 

It's a poor substitute for giving him back his mind and his life, but damn it, he will not be forgotten easily.



Fuck you, Lewy Body Dementia.

Diseases of this nature are proof that evil exists.

If I only could, I'd make a deal with God
And get him to swap our places

Cross-Posted to:

Dream About Me, Sweet Brother

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