There were always in me, two women at least, one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair, and present to the world only a smile, an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest.

I prefer by far the warmth and softness to mere brilliancy and coldness. Some people remind me of sharp dazzling diamonds. Valuable but lifeless and loveless. Others, of the simplest field flowers, with hearts full of dew and with all the tints of celestial beauty reflected in their modest petals.

Often people attempt to live their lives backwards; they try to have more things, or more money, in order to do more of what they want, so they will be happier.  The way it actually works is the reverse.  You must first be who you really are, then do what you need to do, in order to have what you want.

I feel it cloy at my skin again. The familiar terror that for a while was so unfamiliar and distant has returned.

Why is it that as soon as I start to live my body starts to die?

When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold.  They believe that when something's suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful.

Empty is
the sky before the sun wakes up the morning.
The eyes of animals in cages.
The faces of women mourning
when everything has been taken
from them.
Me?
Don’t ask me about empty.
Empty is a string of dirty days
held together by some rain
and the cold wind drumming
at the trees again.
Empty is the color of the fields
along about September
when the days go marching
in a line toward November.
Empty is the hour before sleep
kills you every night
then pushes you to safety
away from every kind of light.
Empty is me.
Empty is me.

Respect whatever pain you bring back
from your dreaming
but do not look for new gods
in the sea
nor in any part of a rainbow.
Each time you love
love as deeply
as if it were
forever
only nothing is
eternal.

Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.

What a day to be young and alive!!
The world is at my feet, moist and glistening, like a new born taking its first breaths, thrashing away the placenta and looking at life through a virgins eyes - possibilities, adventure, danger, excitement!
Oh to be young, have raven red hair, pierced ears, a posse of die hard friends, and a reason to live!
I love this day, never let it end!

some day i'll be dignified.
today is not that day.

i feel all out of wack, like my internal clock gave up the ghost and is sat their twitching like a dead rat waiting for a battery change. it's 3.45am, and i've slept from 6pm till 2am, missing swimming, planned night of TV with my mum and the chance to talk to K that i'd been waiting for all day.


the thing is, and i've thought long and hard about it. i don't actually want a boyfriend, or at least to say - i don't want K. my friends tell me that i should meet him and see what he's like in person, but mentally i know i'm not ready. i'm still in lust with C. i'm enjoying the head games we play with each other. it's like playing cat and mouse with something neither of us can have. we couldn't work as a couple, this much is obvious to us both, but the hopeless futility of it makes the chase more appealing.


i hope he will kiss me and see how important i am.

love

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish it's source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.

just me.

Ah, what difference a week makes. It's nice to write a normal entry here for a change instead of something I have to drag up from the depths of my soul. Luckily i'm not all intensity and bleakness and occasionally even a smile escapes my lips.

This week can only be described as incredible. Madness. But a beautiful, intense, thrilling madness that makes my gut tingle with anticipation. This was the week I discovered Henry Miller, 500 days of summer, The Smiths, Florence and the Machine, The Kinks, Black Books and An Idiot Abroad. It was also the week I got to know a really nice guy who can only be described as everything a girl should want - kind, good job, funny, cute. Maybe this is my lucky week. Maybe everything is slotting together and fitting into place at last...

Why one writes is a question I can easily answer, having so often asked it myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me—the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own like a climate, a country, an atmosphere where I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That I believe is reason of every work of art. We also write to heighten our awareness of life. We write to lure, enchant, and to console others. We write to serenade. We write to taste life twice, once in the moment and once in retrospection. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak to others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled or restricted or lonely. If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it.

I’m getting less good at faking it. People in my family are noticing and asking what’s wrong. My friends give me invitations to talk, to cry. I love them for their caring, but I want to run from it. I have lost their language, their facility with words that convey feelings. I am in new territory and feel like a foreigner in theirs.

This week ticks by so slowly. The drib drab of another day seeping through the sand timer, and what do I get in return? A few more words written on a virtual page, tucked away in an obscure corner of the internet.

I wonder when did words stop being enough? I wonder how words were ever enough in the first place. As if symbols on a page could ever hope to make up for a reality at odds with everything i am.

I dont want to JUST write anymore. I don't want to JUST do anything. I want to eat all corners of the cake. I want the whole thing for myself, not just the corner labelled "writer". I don't want my destiny at the exclusion of everything else life has to offer:

sex, drugs, fire, passion, love, career, friends, family, music, art, literature, property, piercings, travel, experiences.

Funny really, how wanting everthing is the closest thing to wanting nothing.

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. 
You leave the same impression 
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.

Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.

I feel myself getting smaller and smaller. More and more disposable. How long will it be before I disappear altogether?

My world falls apart, crumbles, The center cannot hold. There is no integrating force, only the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation. I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralysed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought. I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going—and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions. I long for a noble escape from freedom—I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will. There is nowhere to go.

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me. My love's not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person. But I am not omniscient. I have to live my life, and it is the only one I'll ever have. And you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time..

I'm writing this on my lunch at work. In the background people are talking and I can hear the ping of a microwave. It's hard making my thoughts solid enough to actualise in words. I feel like i'm on the cusp of discovering some great truth, somthing poigniant enough to give me the meaning i've been looking for. But like a butterfly it flutters incoherently beyond my reach and I am left stumbling after it. Transfixed by the beauty of something I can never possess, irides scorched by the brightness of the headlights as actualisation threatens to encompass me and then moves swiftly by into the night.

its funny, because at the back of my mind i already knew the test results before they came back. i've felt it all before, the ache of my swollen glands, the bruising around my joints, the exhaustion, losing weight. so to say it's a surprise is a lie. 

i want to push back the layers of my skin, rip it apart, reach inside of me, and tear out the part that is destroying me.

i don't want to die.

the funny thing is, when i found out i might be sick again, there was only one person i wanted to give me a cuddle. and he can't. he never can :(

I am the most tired woman in the world. I am tired when I get up. Life requires an effort I cannot make. Please give me that heavy book. I need to put something heavy like that on top of my head. I have to place my feet under the pillows always, so as to be able to stay on earth. Otherwise I feel myself going away, going away at a tremendous speed, on account of my lightness. I know that I am dead. As soon as I utter a phrase my sincerity dies, becomes a lie whose coldness chills me. Don't say anything, because I see that you understand me, and I am afraid of your understanding. I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am so utterly lonely, but I also have such a fear that my isolation be broken through, and I no longer be the head and ruler of my universe. I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world; and then I stand revealed and I have to share my kingdom with you.

Why? You want to know why?

Step into a tanning booth and fry yourself for two or three days. After your skin bubbles and peels off, roll in coarse salt, then pull on long underwear woven from spun glass and razor wire. Over that goes your regular clothes, as long as they are tight.

Smoke gunpowder and go to school to jump through hoops, sit up and beg, and roll over on command. Listen to the whispers that curl into your head at night, calling you ugly and fat and stupid and bitch and whore and worst of all, "a disappointment." Puke and starve and cut and drink because you don't want to feel any of this. Puke and starve and drink and cut because you need the anesthetic and it works. For a while. But then the anesthetic turns into poison and by then it's too late because you are mainlining it now, straight into your soul. It is rotting you and you can't stop.

Look in a mirror and find a ghost. Hear every heartbeat scream that everysinglething is wrong with you.

"Why?" is the wrong question.

Ask "Why not?"

He smiled understandingly- much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced--or seemed to face--the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.

In life we're all born with a hand of cards. Some people are lucky and get the Ace's, King's and Queens - others have nothing more than 2's and 3's, but most of us - the vast majority - have a mixture. For us people, the masses as the bourgeois would call us, we need to learn how to play the game. We can rise and we can fall. Play the right cards at the right time and genius is tangible, yet so fragile. 


Life is a game of cards. but what if i don't want to play your card game anymore.What if i dont like the rules? What if I want to make my own game, with my own rules and just play by myself? Hell, what if i don't even like cards?


Life is like a game of cards - but what happens if we cheat? 

In bed this morning
you tucked into the cove of my belly
our feet slipping past each other like fish
I reached out to embrace
the flat rock of your back
and carved out our names
with my tongue 

if there is such a thing as a guardian angel. i need mine, now, please.

Walk with me, hand in hand through the neon and styrofoam. Walk the razor blades and the broken hearts. Walk the fortune and the fortune hunted. Walk the chop suey bars and the tract of stars.

I know I am a fool, hoping dirt and glory are both a kind of luminous paint; the humiliations and exaltations that light us up. I see like a bug, everything too large, the pressure of infinity hammering at my head. But how else to live, vertical that I am, pressed down and pressing up simultaneously? I cannot assume you will understand me. It is just as likely that as I invent what I want to say, you will invent what you want to hear. Some story we must have. Stray words on crumpled paper. A weak signal into the outer space of each other.

You are closed and shuttered to me now, a room without doors or windows, and I cannot enter. But I fell in love with you under the open sky and death cannot change that.

Death can change the body but not the heart.

We are an ignorant, apathetic nation of losers. We have more opportunities than ever before. What has all of the hard learned lessons brought us? We're fatter, lazier, and stupider than ever. THESE are the Dark Ages.

We have reality shows so we can experience life without having to put down our Big Macs.

Books are made into movies, shortened for our commercial attention spans.

Pop stars (no longer can most be rightfully called musicians) rewrite the same drivel to a different computer generated beat.

In a few years, the pre-teens of today, whose heroes are rappers and the mindless elite, will be able to vote.Who cares about Iraq, North Korea, or any of those unpronounceable countries somewhere on the other side of the globe. What's Britney doing today? Did you hear about Lindsey Lohan getting out of rehab?

Why should I vote? My neighbor will do it. My one vote won't count. And I may miss (insert popular tv show for this month here).

I don't even have to leave home to buy groceries any longer. Everything can be delivered and paid for with credit. Paper money and credit cards will never lose their value, right?

What's a library?

Who is Winston Churchill?

Wasn't Marie Curie that alien on Spooks last season?

My brain is screaming with the influx of ignorance around me. Should I give in and join the drooling throngs of Westernised culture?

Do they give lobotomies on request?

Is there a secret place out there, a paradise, that Thinkers have found? When will I be notified? How do I get there? I need to escape from this society before I rip out my brain (or someone else's). I long for intelligent debates, real conversation, art, literature, everything that redeems humanity, and proves that we're better than dumb animals. Passion, creativity, they give life meaning.

Why do people work as little as they can for as much as they can steal? What has happened to us? You are not entitled because you are you. Stop whimpering about your life if you are not going to change. More, more, more. Greed, greed, greed. Work hard. Do more than expected. Help your fellow man experience life!

There is so much out there! I long to see and do it all. Life can be amazing, but not from a recliner. You can not have a fulfilling life in front of the tv or a cell phone. Turn off the technology that is keeping us apart. Get out there and socialize. Learn about others, care about others, and your life will improve dramatically!

Take an hour a week and turn off the fucking tv! Invite your neighbor for a walk. Take cookies to the old man down the street (cliche', I know), volunteer, help out a colleague. Do something for someone else.

I want to see if my faith in humanity can be restored, or if I should just pull the trigger.

Without individuals we see only numbers: a thousand dead, a hundred thousand dead, 'casualties may rise to a million.' With individual stories, the statistics become people - but even that is a lie, for the people continue to suffer in numbers that themselves are numbing and meaningless. Look, see the child's swollen, swollen belly, and the flies that crawl at the corners of his eyes, his skeletal limbs: will it make it easier for you to know his name, his age, his dreams, his fears? To see him from the inside? And if it does, are we not doing a disservice to his sister, who lies in the searing heat beside him, a distorted, distended caricature of a human child? And there, if we feel for them, are they now more important to us than a thousand other children touched by the same famine, a thousand other young lives who will soon be food for the flies' own myriad squirming children?

Like most of the others I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right. I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top.

At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles- a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other- that kept me going.

it's nice to feel hopeful, i've got that 1945 feeling, the war is ending, the enemy is backed into its last corner. dawn is breaking.

my heart is beginning to unfreeze.

i'm not scared anymore. i want to go out into the world and make it drum to my beat. no more following. no more running away. time to face my future. time to make my place in the world. my own unique, quirky place.

i'm not like all the other girls. i don't care about make up and the right boy. i just want to be me, no more putting myself on ice for anyone. no more waiting for a dream of someone who never really wanted me anyway. i'm alive right now, and i owe it to myself to live for the moment. taste the freedom.

What a time. What a long lonely time. I never knew the days could stretch out so endlessly. Stretch so far I think they’ll break, but they only heave and sag. The weight of them bears down on me mercilessly. I wake … into another day of dread. Dread with no name or face. Nothing to fight with my body or wits. Just a gnawing gripping fear. So hard and heavy. I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow.


The emptiness of my depression turns to grief, then to numbness and back again. My world is filled with underwater voices, people, lists of things to do. They gurgle and dart in and out of my vision and reach. But they are so fast and slippery that I can never keep up. Every inch of me aches. I can’t believe that a person can hurt this bad and still breathe. All escapes are illusory—distractions, sleep, drugs, doctors, answers, hope…

you're perfect. be mine.

ah, the things we want to say but can't...

Some of the most wonderful people are the ones who don’t fit into boxes.

you: so thats it then kid?
me: what?
you: you're going to give up just like that?
me: i'm not giving up, im changing my expectations.
you: you told me that someday you want kids and a family
me: i did
you: well what changed?
me: me
you: i think you just took the easy option
me: sometimes the easy option is the right one
you: don't hide yourself away from the world
me: im not hiding, i'm just existing independently
you: like me then
me: i wouldn't want to be a freak like you though! lol
you: you're worse than me
me: whats worse than a cunt?
you: i jsut answered that, you!
me: i hate you on so many levels
you: you're too small to hate
me: guess you've never been to bed with a mosquito then

i love my friends :)

The problem with me is that as soon as I start thinking about getting it together, I get this mad craving desire to fuck it up.

I tried to understand the mystery of names by staring into the mirror and repeating mine over and over. Or the word 'me.' As if one could come into language as into a room. Lost in the blank, my obsessive detachment spiraled out into the unusable space of infinity, indifferent nakedness. I sat down in it. No balcony for clearer view, but I could focus on the silvered lack of substance or the syllables that correspond to it because all resonance grows from consent to emptiness. But maybe, in my craving for hinges, I confused identity with someone else.

who was it
who invented
size zero?

who was it
who promised
that if you got
to a certain point
you would no
longer
be?

Which of my feelings are real? Which of the me's is me? The wild, impulsive, chaotic, energetic, and crazy one? Or the shy, withdrawn, desperate, suicidal, doomed, and tired one? Probably a bit of both, hopefully much that is neither.

Even now I prowl through people's houses. Arriving for a party, I hang my coat in the closet and glance at the shelf above the pole, wondering: what's in those boxes? Upstairs to wash my hands and look in the medicine cabinet. Dental floss and Jolen cream bleach for facial hair. A prescription for tetracycline, one for antifungal ointment. Nothing shameful- no Valium, Xanax, or worse, Prozac. These people aren't anxious or depressed. They have sinus infections and athlete's foot. They don't spend the minutes between waking and showering reciting reasons not to kill themselves.

I suspect that people from unhappy families are always searching the cupboards and drawers of happy people. Sliding a hand between the neat stacks of towels in the linen closet, slipping a finger under the hinged lid of a jewel box, flipping furtively through the pages of a book. They are looking everywhere. As if, perhaps, out might fall a list, an outline, the formula for how they do it.

Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swaps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all.

Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to reach.

The world you desire can be won. It exists... it is real... it is possible... it's yours.

For J

It's one of my closest friend's birthdays today. So i thought I'd share some poetry in his honour. I doubt he likes poetry, but it must be nice to know someone was thinking about you when they created something beautiful with letters. These are from a while back, but still they show I think, how much I care for him and hope he has an awesome day full of friends and happiness and love.


----



I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffling the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratúe.



------


I don’t just want
your heart
I want your flesh,
your skin
and blood and bones,
your voice, your thoughts
your pulse
and most of all your
fingerprints,
everywhere.


-------


Just when I had learned to be without,
it happened that I thought:
this person I won’t give up.


------

I wanted to write tonight about feelings. I'm beginning to feel things again. Before it was either the shrieking high of hysteria or glum melancholy of depression. Now it's not just black and white. I see shades of grey, occasionally tinged with gold. Emotions so delicate and frail that before I could never reach them. 


Lust, hope, wistfulness. 


They linger on my lips now. I delight in these new sensations. I feel myself welling up with feeling again, as if I have walked out of the blackest night into an autumn forest. The beauty of being human astounds me.


It's like learning a new language. The way you'd learn the curves of your lovers body. Enchanting. 

It is perhaps sad books that console us most when we are sad, and the pictures of lonely service stations that we should hang on our walls when there is no one to hold or love.

I can't settle, I want someone who is fierce and will love me until death and know that love is as strong as death, and be on my side for ever and ever. I want someone who will destroy and be destroyed by me. There are many forms of love and affection, some people can spend their whole lives together without knowing each other's names. Naming is a difficult and time-consuming process; it concerns essences, and it means power.

I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger than reason. I am so thirsty for the marvellous that only the marvellous has power over me. Anything I can not transform into something marvellous, I let go. Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls.

Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?

A message for myself when I need it the most

Dear B

I don't know when you'll need to read this, but one thing is for sure, there will be some point when you'll need to read it. At that point you'll be rock bottom and feel completely alone in this world. Well biatch, you ain't alone. Lets look at this factually, you have far too many friends to keep in touch with, let alone ever to be alone if you want to be. In fact sometimes it can be kind of annoying, because you hate saying "no", so you say "yes" and go along to things with your friends you never really wanted to do in the first place. But that's ok, because usually you have a great time. You have great friends. Choosing to spend less time with them and more time on your book and fitness is a conscious decision. And yeah, it will mean being alone more, but ultimately it will get you the future you want. Imagine that, a published author and military officer? It's worth it! In the end your dreams really can come true.

Now, I know what else you're thinking. You feel unloved. You feel like everyone else is in love and you're not, and it makes you sad because it brings back happy memories of the times you were in love. Well, thankfully you're NOT in love, because if you were you wouldn't want to join the military, you wouldn't want to be away from home for long periods of time, you'd just want to be with your boyfriend. Well screw that, you've done love too many times. You've given everything and got nothing back except a broken heart and broken promises. Fuck love. Maybe one day you will meet someone, or maybe you already met someone but the time just isn't right. You owe yourself a couple of years to sort your head out, pick your heart up and get your career sorted. Love just complicates things. Loneliness hurts sometimes, just like missing Dave hurts. But you owe it to yourself to conquer that. 

You've got everything to live for, your life is just getting started, you are going to change the world, you know you have it in you. Just don't give up.

Love B x

Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice; it is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved. 

Here I am, setting out on the first step to world domination - conquering myself.

My legs ache, my arms ache, my chest aches, my back aches - and it's only going to get worse :)

If the earth were only a few feet in diameter floating a few feet above a field somewhere, people would come from everywhere to marvel at it. People would walk around it marveling at its big pools of water, its little pools, and the water flowing between the pools. People would marvel at the bumps on it, and the holes in it, and they would marvel at the very thin layer of gas surrounding it and the water suspended in the gas. The people would marvel at all the creatures walking around the surface of the ball and at the creatures in the water. The people would declare it sacred because it was the only one, and they would protect it so that it would not be hurt. The ball would be the greatest wonder known, and people would come to pray to it, to be healed, to gain knowledge, to know beauty, and to wonder how it could be. People would love it and defend it with their lives because they would somehow know that their lives, their own roundness, could be nothing without it. If the Earth were only a few feet in diameter. 

Today I walked beside rivers and woodlands. And for once I looked around me and saw the world. Not just a distraction or a fleeting glance in my busy life, I took time to see what is missing, hidden, unless you take the time to look for it. 


Look at the trees, look at the birds, look at the clouds, look at the stars... and if you have eyes you will be able to see that the whole existence is joyful. Everything is simply happy. Trees are happy for no reason; they are not going to become prime ministers or presidents and they are not going to become rich and they will never have any bank balance. Look at the flowers—for no reason. It is simply unbelievable how happy flowers are.

When the last leave falls,
When the last drop of water dries out,
When the ozone layer is already destroyed,
Will it be too late to understand
that money is not going to save us?

I feel that now, miraculously, I have been granted a second chance to live. It was not the life I wanted or expected, but I understand that it was my duty now to live that life as richly and hopefully as I can. I vow to try. I will live with passion and curiosity. I will open myself to the possibilities of life. I will savour every moment, and I will try, every day, to become more human and more alive.


This is my promise that I make to me. 

They say life is a lesson and you learn it when you're through. Well, screw that. I want to learn it all right now. I want to know the answers before you even ask the question. Hell, I even want to be the one asking the questions. You get my point, I don't want my life to be at the mercy of anyone.


I have this desire to experience everything. And its something that won't be quelled. Again I return to the same idea, the RAF, seeing the world, learning how to fight a war, living with comrades and friends and experiencing the best that life has to offer. I've thought about it on an off for years, but cancer and then bipolar always got in the way.


If i can show i've beaten bipolar and had no episodes in 12 months then I can apply. That gives me the time to get fit, and really consider my options and if its right for me. Admittedly, even this decision to try means i'll pretty much be living at the gym, but so be it. I choose that route. I choose to make my body as strong as my mind. I choose blood and sweat over comfort and relaxation. Not because I don't want the latter more than the former, but because the latter is worth NOTHING without the former.


I don't want to watch the news any more. I want to be it.

its funny sometimes, the aftermath of a thought can be more powerful than the thought itself. it eats at you like a cancer. just a sly remark, a throw away comment, something so insidious and small that it slips through your defences and buries a hole so deep that you can't trace it. the thought remains, malign and misinformed, and just like fear breeds fear, one thought breeds another, until - BAM- there's an armada of those little fuckers making a beeline straight for your brain. 


how do you break the chain? how do you stop your conciousness accepting the raucous racket of discontentment and force it to focus instead on the serenity of happiness? what a strange thought, forced happiness; how often i have forced a smile onto my lips, forced a laugh even. anything to seem like them. because if you look like them, and act like them, they can't tell that on the inside you're not like them. they don't know you dream in blood and gunshots, they can't tell your deepest fantasy, they can't feel your malevolence towards them. 


all serial killers are brilliant actors. just like people with bipolar disorder, or the successful ones at least. its funny actually, the bipolar serial killers, well, their motivation wasn't to kill for the enjoyment of it like other kinds of serial killer. it was to project the image of yourself onto the victim and kill yourself, over and over, and over and over. because for someone with bipolar, there are times when to kill yourself once really doesn't give justice to the thoughts. its the only illness that makes you want to die twice. 


i've already killed my heart. that lump of tissue is diseased and vile. what's next? kill my sanity? and what after that? my body? by that point just a living shell for the person i once was.


thoughts are dangerous. at least to someone like me.

you: so you're saying you don't want a boyfriend again?


me: no, i'm saying I don't want anyone else to break their promises. i don't want anyone else to say they'll love me forever and then leave. i guess that i don't really trust anyone to not hurt me, because  everyone does.


you: have i hurt you?


me: well, no but it's not the same is it.


you: so not everyone hurts you then?


me: well you haven't hurt me yet.


you: what if i promise not to?


me: i don't know if i'd believe you.


you: do you ever think that by saying that you're hurting me?


me: why?


you: because i'm not just any other guy. i don't want you to lump me in the same box as them. they're idiots, because why would anyone who had you, ever want to let go? 


me: because i'm not worth hanging on to


you: no, it's because they didn't deserve you. if they can't appreciate who you are then thats their loss. you light up a room, i've never seen that with anyone but you, you're special, start believing it!!


*awkward silence as i don't know what to say*

I'm tired of looking for Romeo. He clearly took the wrong turning, stopped for a milkshake in someone else's yard or is sat crying into his live journal account.

Well a few words for Romeo -  You aren't worth the wait.

I never thought I was capable of being happy on my own. Once you let someone into your life and fill the space occupied by your shadow, when they're gone, well, there's just a shadow. Before the shadow was something you never noticed, now it becomes an empty place that nothing else can fill. The shadow doesn't ever go away, but the need to fill it does, and it happens quite unremarkably and unnoticed, an accumulation of days and weeks.

The good thing about growing stronger as a person is that you don't need anyone to reassure you. You realise that no-one on earth is qualified to judge you, and even if they tried you are intellectually capable of ripping them to pieces if you want to. 

It's funny because you realise that all the bad things that ever happened from you haven't detracted from your personality, they have just added to it.

I guess I'm finally starting to feel like I 'did it', meaning, I survived. And damn I've made it through so much - rape, cancer, suicide, bipolar. I am the strongest person I know, and the future is mine to create. 

I stopped looking for Romeo the second I found happiness within. I stopped needing to be more than I am. I don't need a guy to complete me any more, I need my friends to have fun with, I need my family to love, but no, I do not need Romeo.

Juliet seeks her Romeo

Juliet started a revolution. 

so this is what happens when you decide to actually help yourself.


you quit caffeine, you start eating the right things, you drink nothing but water and fruit juice. for a while it's hell, everything they said it should be- headaches, nausea, exhaustion - but after the crappiness comes the good bit, actually feeling alive in your own skin. 


i've not felt this good in so long. i don't just mean psychologically, but physically, i feel like i'm getting healthy, waking from a living nightmare or something. now i can finally be me.

I’m living under water. Everything seems slow and far away. I know there’s a world up there, a sunlit quick world where time runs like dry sand through an hourglass, but down here, where I am, air and sound and time and feeling are thick and dense.

So, I met this guy. And not just any guy, but the kind of guy who opens doors for you. 

You know there are some people in this world, the really special ones, who make time pass by so fast an hour with them feels like a second? Well, he's one of those guys. One of the people you know is on your side, and i'm glad to have him on mine.

Books choose their authors; the act of creation is not entirely a rational and conscious one.


I have my idea. Now to make my place in the library.

my weekend began at 5pm on friday night when i finished work. coming out of the office i remember it being dark and kind of icy, the sort of cold that hits you soon as you walk out of the building, and you kick yourself for wearing those silly ballet pumps and that low cut top which seemed a good idea at the time- the time being when you were stood next to the heater all cosy in your PJ's at 7am. and well, just to clarify about the top, it wasn't THAT low cut, just low cut enough so the boy you like notices that you actually have breasts, but without looking overly slutty! 

friday night was a bit of a rush, by the time i get in after the nightly queuing in traffic an hour has already pased. i resent the fact that i spend 2 hours a day in traffic every day, that's 10 a week, 40 a month. i can think of much more useful things to do with my time, namely masturbation, or failing that book research. but it can be nice sometimes, throwing a CD in and drifting off somewhere else. i usually follow the mood of the CD, and a lot of the time it brings me back to dave, whenever i hear about love he's always the one i think of. its dangerous where the thoughts can lead from their, and sometimes i sink into the familiarity of my downward spiral and arrive home with my face wet from tears, hands shaking from holding the wheel so tight, like i was holding on to him or something. usually if i get home like that i go straight to my room and lie in the darkness on my back, head sunk into a pillow, sobbing for a while. i say a while, because laying on my back really hurts my boobs after a bit. almost like my own body is rebelling against my misery...or that i just have big tits.. lol

Funny.

I understand killers better than lovers.

I wonder why I haven't killed before, when so many killers childhood's looked just like mine.

At the end of the day faith is a funny thing. It turns up when you don’t really expect it. It’s like one day you realize that the fairy tale may be slightly different than you dreamed. The castle, well, it may not be a castle. And it’s not so important that it’s happy ever after, just that it’s happy right now. See, once in a while, once in a blue moon, people will surprise you, and once in a while people may even take your breath away

All my life I have written, much more than I’ve ever shown anyone, most of which I’ve thrown out. All my life I had to: simple. Possibly the only thing in my life which has ever been simple, this draw to put things in words. The one thing about me worth envying …

It is not pleasant to experience decay, to find yourself exposed to the ravages of an almost daily rain, and to know that you are turning into something feeble, that more and more of you will blow off with the first strong wind, making you less and less. Some people accumulate more emotional rust than others. Depression starts out insipid, fogs the days into a dull color, weakens ordinary actions until their clear shapes are obscured by the effort they require, leaves you tired and bored and self-obsessed—but you can get through all that. Not happily, perhaps, but you can get through. No one has ever been able to define the collapse point that marks major depression, but when you get there, there’s not much mistaking it. Major depression is a birth and a death: it is both the new presence of something and the total disappearance of something.

It had had a life of its own that bit by bit asphyxiated all of my life out of me. I had moods that I knew were not my moods: they belonged to the depression…in the end I was compacted and foetal, depleted by this thing that was crushing me without holding me. Its tendrils threatened to pulverise my mind and my courage and my stomach, and crack my bones and desiccate my body. It went on glutting itself on me when there seemed nothing left to feed it. …I knew then that I could never kill this vine of depression, and so all I wanted was for it to let me die. But it had taken from me the energy I would have needed to kill myself, and it would not kill me. If my trunk was rotting, this thing that fed on it was now too strong to let it fall ; it had become an alternative support to what it had destroyed. In the tightest corner of my bed, split and racked by this thing no one else seemed to be able to see, I prayed to a God I had never entirely believed in. I would have been happy to die the most painful death, though I was too dumbly lethargic even to conceptualize suicide. Every second of being alive hurts me.

If you gave someone your heart and they died, did they take it with them? Did you spend the rest of forever with a hole inside you that couldn’t be filled?

D

I hope you're worth it.

B x

it feels like bliss
slitting your wrists.

I hate to admit it, but I really don’t believe in the afterlife. I still think that human beings, even our beautiful and wretched souls, are just biology, are just a series of chemical and physical reactions that one day stop, and so do we, and that is that. But I’m looking forward to this blank peace, this oblivion, this nothing, this not being me anymore.

It’s a physical urge, huger and stronger than thirst or sex. Halfway back on the left side of my head there is a spot that yearns, that longs, that pleads for the jolt of a bullet. I want that rage, that fire, that final empty rip. I want to be let out of this dark cavern, to open myself up to the ease of not-living. I am tired of sorrow and struggle and worry. ... I want to turn out the last light. 

In truth, there are only two realities: the one for people who are in love or love each other, and the one for people who are standing outside all that. 

You know you've got issues when your blog has 18 posts about suicide, 25 posts about depression and only 4 about happiness.


And you know you're screwed when you read the 4 posts about happiness, and they're all about the boy who left you.

It’s strange, the layers of misery that there are. You get used to feeling pretty miserable most of the time—what might be called “low-level misery”—a sort of permanent background of misery, and you learn to cope with it; it almost gets to feel normal. But then something happens...which reminds you of what it was like not to feel miserable, and it hurts so much you almost just can’t bear it.

ever feel so empty that you're bottomless?

last night

I have just now come from a party where I was its life and soul; witticisms streamed from my lips, everyone laughed and admired me, but I went away — yes, the dash should be as long as the radius of the earth's orbit ——————————— and wanted to shoot myself.