tachigamirising.bsky.social
i’ll always be Kezia, as long as any hope remains
British, regrettably
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being incredibly overdrawn and having to pull myself together for an interview also makes me generally feel like a duct-taped fractured plate
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BRAVERMAN as well saying “no i’m not English you have to be here for 5 or 6 generations to count as English” - can you IMAGINE how they’d respond to Trump? denying their citizenship (yeah Braverman i despise you but i won’t deny your godforsaken nationality) to sing from the far right hymn sheet
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and then, readers, i tend to wake up. or the dream moves on. or some other hellscape conjures itself to entertain me and process the neurochemicals i haven’t yet.
but this dream keeps coming back to me; same towns, same path, same trees and same sea
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other times i stay out, inhaling the sweet salt whipped into my lungs by the breeze, watching the lights blink out one by one as they give up searching
and the dream logic dictates: “you’ll tire out soon. you’ll slip under, soon. when the last torch is out, the water will close over your head.”
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sometimes in this dream i slink back to land, swimming stealthy as an otter, sleek as a kelpie, sea salt still clinging to my hair as i carve my way back up through the forest (the way i used to, gripping branches and bramble-vines for support, thorns be damned in tender flesh) and retrace my steps
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the sun always sets, and it’s always magnificent: blood red skies, shimmering reflections across the waves, bruise-black clouds morose and heavy, and an orange disc of burning sun
then darkness, the water turns cold, i can still see the foggy shape of the stone arch but i’m drifting out of reach
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i go out, or i end up swept out, it’s inconsequential to the tides; human agency shrinks before the moon, the sea, the things older than me that dominate my subconscious
i’m always neck deep, no sea floor within reach of my feet, treading water until the sun sets, watching torches appear on the land
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through the forest (and i know this is the steep green hills of home, a sheer path to the fields) to the open beach; sandy, beige, with a natural stone arch, shaped by the eroding fingers of wind and salt, looming out from the cliffs
sometimes it’s grey, others it’s blue, but the sea meets me there
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it’s always the same path to the sea; through streets of terraced brick houses, across a canal and over the lock, then up the main road, climbing into the hills
the houses spread out, the road gets less formal, pavement becomes cobbles becomes dirt as the forest’s boundary with the village blurs
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it’s got maybe 2 bytes of free memory space at any given point and frequently screams at me when i’m running a browser and Word that it’ll run out of disc space soon but it’s mine and i love it.
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USB CD drive gets plugged in just for the Sims 2, but the disc is fucky cause it’s ~12 years old AND the drive has to be perfectly level when spinning up
(it only works first time 50% of the time and i only know it’s working when it sounds like a jet engine powering up)
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correction, if i died he’d get a parrot, which is honestly a suitable substitute for me
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🫶 glad my fury is understandable
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interestingly got a content warning on this bad boy