Not quite the fox (or, Kate II)

I don't know why I'm doing this but for some reason I feel I need to. Last year I attempted suicide and successfully failed. An oxymoron but it fits. Since then I have had to tear down who I was and rebuild from nothing. I've had to change feelings and thoughts that have been embedded in me since before kindergarten. Expression is what I fear of not being able to show. Art and writing is who I am ...

This was said by Kate, it is that quote I was looking for, back on the day I missed her terribly.

A month and a half ago I attempted suicide and I'm not ready to call it a successful failure. If you have questions, ask them. I find keeping this to myself only increases the constant tension in my chest. It's so hard to keep a lie straight when you don't know who knows which versions of the truth. [[You are neurotic and depressed does not mean that you are sad.]]

But I like this quote of Kate's. I like it because for her, it was true. For her she climbed out, and made it, and found her art, her life, love. I like it because when I read it, I miss her terribly, but I think, 'hey, if she did, so I can I'.

I like it because Kate said it, and maybe I'm not the fox, maybe there's things I'm not quite so brave on, but maybe, just maybe, for this I can brave enough.

Not of the colour of wheatfields.

There was something Kate said once, a long time ago, back when we both had some innocence to spare, that I have been searching the internets for, and cannot find. I suppose that is how it goes, sometimes words disappear from the internet. Today has been a long enough, bad enough day, and not even friends could make it better. And the words from Kate that might have offered some comfort have gone and cannot be found. Today is a dark day, and a good day to be missing Kate.

I don't think some of you know the story of Kate, and it would take too much time to tell, but she was the first person I loved unconditionally. She broke my heart.

She still makes my heart ache and yearn and want. Want so badly. She is the colour of raven, the blackness, the void. She is found in the tinniest of corners, corners left black and dark, lonely and forgotten. She is everything that makes my heart race with desire, everything that it means to have the Earth crack and threaten to swallow you whole.

She was mine, a long time ago. And now she is off in the world, belonging to someone or something else. But she is always in the corners, always the colour raven, always the depths of my desire, always always always. Somewhere, deep inside, pieces of her still belong to me. Our adventures and that slow, painful, different sort of coming of age ... those, those are mine.

Say hello, and say goodbye. Tell her something for me, when you find her in that blackness, that void. Tell her I love her, ask her if she loves me, still. When you stumble upon the right sort of colour raven, tell her I am the not quite the fox, I cannot be so brave, but always always always shall I hope.