Friday/Cryday

Friday was a bad day.

My friend’s funeral. I couldn’t get the image out of my head, the image of him holding the rope and making the slipknot, testing it, finding the best place to support his weight. Maybe he was crying as he made the slipknot – I don’t think he was, I can imagine him being really calm, with only a slight tremble in his hands, but it doesn’t matter now because we will never know. He was haunted by something and nobody helped. Maybe people did try, maybe he didn’t want help, maybe he couldn’t be helped by anyone. Sleep easy cousin, we’ll meet again I’m sure xx

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Oh and then I saw my ex’s best friend in the pub and he dropped a bombshell. “R.L is having a kid.” Of course, I was last to find out – everyone knew and nobody told me. I was with his auntie and uncle only hours earlier and they didn’t say anything. Everyone has known for over a week. I thought it was a joke – this has got to be a joke, right? A windup on Facebook or some April Fool that’s gotten out of hand? No, it’s not a joke. Yes, the girl that he started dating straight after me is pregnant. Of course they’re keeping it. All he ever wanted from me was a baby. And I would never give him one. So he’s known this girl for only a year and now she’s pregnant. Brilliant. I wonder if he will want to use the baby name(s) we decided on. I hope not. That would hurt. It does hurt. This really hurts.

I wish I didn’t care. But he has broken my heart all over again. I feel so sick. I now have absolutely no option but to leave this town as soon as possible. I cannot bear to see their happiness – neither of them deserve to be happy, particularly when I am suffering in this way. I am devastated and disgusted and hate everyone and hate myself. I don’t want to be alive.

Yesterday’s Guy

Your past times consisted of the strange, and twisted and deranged, and I love that little game you had called crying lightning. (Crying Lightning – Arctic Monkeys)

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I inhale, deep,
and all that tragic colour drains from your
expectant eyes
the ones that hang
so heavy under this smoking purple sky
and you can’t admit that I’m no good,
that you are simply Yesterday’s Guy.

So you choke on the lies that I feed you
and can only sigh when I ignore you
and walk right on by, leaving you
sad, suffocating, alone
with your expectant eyes,
and your sweetest voice, the one that is smothered
by my eyes, and my lies, and this smoking purple sky.

Midnight in Paris

We all fear death and question our place in the universe. The artist’s job is not to succumb to despair, but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence. 

Gertrude Stein’s character, as played by Kathy Bates in Midnight in Paris (2011) dir. Woody Allen.

SICKKK

Things that I keep saying to my friends, family, acquaintances, anyone who will listen, multiple times, daily:

I’m sick, so sick.

I’m not very well, baby/honey/darling.

I’m really sick, man.

I’m not doing too well at the moment.

I’m really not very well.

I’m not well at all. 

There’s something very wrong with me.

I’m ill, I’m ill, I’m sick in the head, babe.

I won’t see my 35th birthday.

I won’t see my 30th.

I won’t make it to 25.

I will be dead by the end of the year.

I’m sick, honey.

I’m not very well.

Help me.

I’m sorry.

I am so, so sorry.

22 & Brave

theweeknd

‘Forever 21′ is almost over. It’s my birthday tomorrow and I’m not feeling good about it at all. I’m going to try really super hard to behave myself. This will be difficult – I am certainly going to get extremely drunk and do stupid things. I am nervous about all of the bad things that I will do, all of the ways in which I’ll embarrass myself, all of the people that I will manage to upset. I’m terrified of my own behaviour.

I am nervous about being the centre of attention. I am nervous about 22 being as bad a year as 21. I am nervous that the two people who I’d like to wish me a happy birthday probably won’t bother, and then I will be sad. In the space of 5 days I have been on two cocaine binges and then slept with two different guys, one of whom was a total stranger, one of whom was That Horrible Guy who I vowed to stop seeing. God, I am so stupid. As I write this I am shaking my head at my own stupidity.

I don’t want to be sad and lonely anymore – it hurts too much. I am thinking to run away to Paris for a while, to recover, to think, to decide who I want to be – I do not think I want to be drunk and troubled anymore, but booze is the only thing that makes me feel better (until I do the next bad thing). I know that something has got to change, I need something to change. But change is risky, change scares me, change can go wrong.

Maybe when I am 22 I will be brave. Yes, I hope to wake up tomorrow and feel brave. 22 and brave.

Note on ‘Your Name in Flames’ composition

It has taken me a very long time to write this poem, which I finally managed to finish this afternoon and post for you. The premise had been in my mind for so many weeks but I just couldn’t put the images into the words that they deserve. And initially I envisioned it as a four-line poem, a really simple quatrain about one image, but it needed more space to breathe on the page; plus, over time I had gathered more ideas that I wanted to include and so of course the poem became the length that it is. And after about 10 weeks of thinking about how this poem was going to go, it only took me about 20 minutes to write.

This poem is actually referring to three people although I have written it “about” one. My feelings towards these three people are very unique and complicated, and it was painful for me to write. But today I feel more accepting of my pain and accepting of being alone in my suffering – these three people are not here to save me, nor should they, nor are they going to. So writing Your Name in Flames proved very cathartic. My destruction has proved to be constructive – art is born from death. I need to be my own hero. Happy Sunday xx

Your Name in Flames

I blow you
out, extinguished flame –

you always smell the same
as a candle that has just been snuffed,
as that tiny trail of most delicious smoke
that dances from the blackened wick,
the one that I cannot catch.

You are the spent match,
used and discarded,
you crumble at my touch
and your patience with me disappears.
You are the charred remains with which I paint
a smile onto my skin, for my sins,
for yours.

When I am gone
you will taste my ashes on your tongue
and curse yourself for failing
to start fires when you had the chance
and so the smoke will never dance again.

What Nina Answered

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I am struggling to wake up from this nightmare but the truth is that I may not even be asleep; I may have nothing to wake up from. I don’t understand what is real and what is potentially a dream/fiction/my imagination. I am uncertain about who exists and who I might’ve invented. I don’t know what has been invented by the government or society, and what I have invented myself. I’m so confused. I’m not sure if I’m alive – or if indeed anyone is alive. This could all be fiction. Everything could well be lies. History could be a lie. History is a lie. Nothing is real.

let me go

The weather in London is truly beautiful today. Spring is here, finally – I have been waiting for Spring for so long, but now it has arrived I don’t know what to do. I am feeling very low. My body aches and my heart hurts. I’m feeling very anxious, sick with nerves, sick of living. I am desperately tired, but if I sleep now then I mess up my whole sleep cycle.

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I want to cry because I want to read so many books right this second but I can’t, I can’t concentrate, and it is impossible to read all of these books at the same time. Some things are impossible: and this fact makes me want to cry. I want to do everything and I want to do nothing, all at once. This loneliness is painful. But I can’t think of a single person that I want to see, that I want to have sitting next to me – there is no one. I am so scared of being alive. Please take me somewhere nice. Please let me go.

Easter Sunday

As usual, I have been thinking about who I am.

I was just sitting up on the roof, looking at London, having a smoke. I have had a few drinks but not too much. And, as usual, I have been thinking about who I am.

There is something odd about the air and the sky tonight – there always is on Easter Sunday, I have noticed it every year. The sky is pink and the sun is setting. I can hear birds singing, and the occasional sounds of children playing. Sometimes the “almost-silence” is interrupted by the trains and the traffic and my lungs choking on my tears. I don’t know if the evening is strange because it is the day of the Lord, or because we invented this day to be a special day, or because of the time of year – it may simply be an early April evening in the course of Great British summertime. I don’t know. But it is strange.

I was thinking about who I am, as usual.

I thought, “Sometimes I am scared.”

This is a lie. I am always scared. Not in a “panicky-anxiety-attack” sort of way, nor an “I’m-intimidated-by-everything-and-everyone” kind of way. No. I am not scared of anyone. I am, however, scared.

I am scared of my self, myself, my own strength, my weaknesses. I am scared of my self. I am scared of my brain, of the way it thinks so much. I am scared of my heart, of the way it feels so much.

I am scared of being alive. I am scared of dying. I am scared of myself. Every minute that I am alive, I am terrified. I am scared of being alive. And I am scared of dying. Every minute, of every day, I am scared, so scared, for I am alive.

This is perhaps the ultimate human quandary – I am too scared of living, yet too scared of dying. I want neither. I want nonexistence. I would like to cease to exist; not to die, but simply not to live. I didn’t ask for this – but now I ask for peace.

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