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.