No, we're not baby x-men over here. Okay, maybe we are. A lot of you asked about the pyrokinesis mention made yesterday, as if you simply fell from the sky, opened the internet and read the first entry of mine you've ever seen.
*rolls eyes*
If you ask Lochlan directly he's a fire 'artist', nothing more, that's all.
I know better.
Jacob bent forks, the more stress he was under the less chance we had of returning the forks to a usable condition. I'm an easy clairvoyant, automatic writer and a reluctant but completely proficient psychometric (the paranormal kind, not the scientific kind).
Sam is a prophet. He doesn't need anything else but he talks to us from his mind too.
All of the boys are practised in divination and varying levels of psychic abilities and telepathy. By the telepathy levels I mean most of us can have entire conversations with each other without speaking and that's one of the problems I reference continually when I talk about privacy here on the point.
It's also one of the reasons we all have such a ridiculous, close bond with each other. It's one of the ways I've picked my friends and it's another way that I can shut you out completely (see Corey. Mark. Rob. Anyone I've talked about who doesn't live here currently.)
No one can teleport though, sadly, and I've been trying to raise up my mediumship skills for exactly fourteen years and it's rough going and I'm not at all happy with where they are, clearly. I talk about that every fucking day so if you haven't noticed by now and need it all spelled out like this then go away.
You can hone your own psychic abilities if you work at it. It's just easier for some people. I don't choose to believe we are special. We are to each other, of course but to you we're nothing. We just have opened ourselves to a lot of things most people wouldn't dare.
***
Speaking of the retrocasualist, Caleb came roaring back this morning with an armful of mea culpas. Apparently he has a whole plot on the other side of the orchard where he grows them because this year has been a bumper crop for sure.
I overstepped.
Dude, you went off in a flat run.
Dude?
Blame PJ. The more time I spend with him the more I'll call you that.
It's funny.
Probably.
Bridget, I don't mean to hurt you. I want to make new memories with you. Fun ones. The kind of memories that last forever and make us think fondly of each other.
We have the ones that last forever but they're all wrong.
Not from my perspective.
And we know your perspective is warped and twisted.
Help me straighten it.
Go help yourself.
He walks away. He knows I'm not in the mood to accept a thing from him, let alone his charming words as a way of asking for forgiveness. I am a brick wall today. An unmoving stone cliff and he can bash his head bloody against it but it doesn't move. That is me today. Strong and beautiful and I have no time for your bullshit, can't you see I'm over here holding my own heart up in both hands, blood and sinew dripping down my elbows, making an offering to a ghost who keeps his own schedule and shows up only when I'm at my weakest?
No, of course you can't, and I'm far worse at this than I thought I would be.