Pushing Through | Just a Blowjob (Afterword) · 3:31pm Jan 16th, 2021

This was a story I begun long ago, tired and in a mood, locking myself in a bathroom for a time. I was having all these crazy thoughts as I stood before the glass. Then it occurred to me. Looking at my face, normal as it was—nothing of what I thought was reflected there.

I continued to think and turn my head as though, somehow, it would come through. But it never did. None saw the person beneath the body. They might as well have been two people. With this experience in mind, I took to my keyboard, and wrote the first chapter of this story.

Which is one of my favourite pieces of all.

The next day came, and the mood went, and the quality of the chapter scared me from writing another. So I left it for a while. Until it became nearly too late to add to it again. Then, sadly a few days before this, my dear friend, my soul sister, RarityEQM, had passed away.

It killed me then as much as it does now.

Her last blog stole me with her final words.

'I think I'll write some more when I wake up...'

There's too much that's packed within that sentence for me to unravel now. I looked over at her goals and saw she had a few stories she'd like to get a few more likes one. I wrote a blog, and the kind people of the site went and read and upvoted the stories.

But there was one task on that list we could not do.

'Finish all my stories.'

It got me thinking to the ones of my own that were left undone. I always took it for granted that, sometime down the line, the perfect moment will come for me to finish them. But now... I don't hold that view much, anymore. Even before the death.

I think you have to keep at it, within that story, to acquire what you need to finish it. Sometimes you won't always be able to finish it well. But the act of doing so will give you the practice to do the next one better. It was a struggle for me to finish this piece.

I'd been reading more of RarityEQM's messages and her advice to me on writing. Her biggest was for me to stop asking for advice and insisted that I wrote like myself. But after my whining—she gave me a few pointers on her style. How to write metaphorical prose and make writing look delicious. I tried writing like her on my return to this story.

Only to bomb on those sessions.

I found that she had been right all along. That I shouldn't be throwing away my usual method to copy someone else. That I should take bits from here, and apply them as they arose. But I cannot discover anything new about myself that I don't first attempt.

I'm glad I tried out her style and kept her reasoning for matters in mind when I attempt them. I prefer her writing. Her use of metaphors accomplishes so much in so little. It evokes a feeling you could only get from them.

But I cannot write like that despite my wish that I could. Rather I have to absorb as much of her way as I can—while still keeping in my own. This story is a strange experiment because of that. No doubt that my scattered mind didn't help in trying to write this well.

But I did not want to give up writing.

I was willing to take the hit of a few bad sessions to ensure I do not lose the momentum of keeping with it. RarityEQM lost it for a while there and struggled to get it back. Those close to me fight to find their way back to the page. I worry that, one day away, and I'll be gone for months once more.

I'd rather struggle, write badly, all so to continue on the path that'll return me to normal. For the moment, I am set, for me, on that being the proper path. No amount of thinking and waiting will overcome these problems in writing. Rather, you have to keep on writing to stand a chance against them.

But now I am so exhausted.

RarityEQM could barely sleep. I never realized how bad it was for her. I'm meeting a few friends that stay awake for crazy times without anything they can do about it. Unable to write well because their mind can hardly work—much less after working all day and night.

My favourite message from you was.

'I FINALLY GOT SOME SLEEP <3'