the weight of living, and dying

 I screamed today, and there was such a difference to my voice. After I started testosterone, I stopped crying at the drop of a hat. (And really that was a relief) But today I ugly sobbed and screamed in the silence in of my house. It seems every time someone dies, I find out before noon when I'm home alone, sitting in this chair. It was like this for James, for my father and now for Splix.

I'm struggling to contain my superstitious fears and my inability to deal with mortality and death.

It was supposed to be brutally hot and sunny today but there have been clouds all day, which has been a mercy because I don't think I could handle full sunlight right this moment. My eyes are raw.

The longest friendships in my life came from livejournal, the people I met there who let me into their heads and their hearts, when we recklessly, relentlessly wrote about ourselves and our loves. I can't even remember exactly how Alex and I became friends. Probably because of fic, though the specifics are lost to time. We shared a love for that enormous cast from LOTR and their works, a love of shiny things and ballet and stories and 80s music and queerness and the beauty of the American southwest.

I wish I had told her more how much I appreciated her friendship, her writing, her incredible style, her wit, her sharp tongue. I wish I had done more, been a better friend. 

I sent flowers the week before, and I hope she enjoyed them. An enormous, riotous bunch of pink ones because she loved pink.