Need to get both back somehow.
Cos this isn’t normal.
My understanding was always as follows, more or less:
I don’t. Not in the slightest. The ground seems to fall away beneath me whenever I attempt a nervous, wary step forward. As for security, I long for something — and yes, occasionally someone — to hold on to.
I am overwhelmed and absolutely terrified by the lack of certainty in everything — absolutely everything, I promise you — that comprises my life. Home/accommodation, family, friends, work/career, finances. I don’t know which way to turn, mainly because I’m not entirely sure I really have a way to turn. If even just one of those found some balance, some sense, it would help.
Rootless, groundless, searching, lost.
And that’s why, as now, I so frequently don’t sleep, but instead lie awake in the darkness, exhausted by tiredness and bewildered, virtually imprisoned by those all-consuming fears.
I need peace.
[Confession: I’m increasingly leaving messages scattered across the web.]
[Like this. In square brackets.]
[You won’t find them, though. Because apart from being bracketed, they’re also hidden.]
[Because I’m wary. Careful. Withdrawn.]
[In this way, I talk to everyone. And various someones. But also to no one.]
[I babble to myself, under my breath, as I write the words, frequently berating myself for the sheer idiocy of my actions. Why am I doing this? What do I expect to happen from it? For people to somehow sense the sentences, even though they’re invisible? For the words to somehow provide a sense of release, of relief? Neither occurs, of course. Don’t be ridiculous.]
[And yet I go on writing. Hidden conversations to many, yet to no one but myself.]
[Blather, blather, blather. And close brackets. Done.]
It’s a realisation I’ve had before. Many times. It targets me, dead on, and I see it slowly journeying over the horizon, ready to break over my head and darken my skull.
After its dawning, its splitting, its cascading, it lingers for a time — I never quite manage to calculate the length of its stay — before one night, while I sleep, it dissipates. Where it goes, where it hides, I don’t know; all I’m aware of is that its disappearance is only so it can replenish itself, ready itself for an inevitable return on an an unknown date, at an unknown time.
I’ve seen it approaching over the last few days, aware that it’s going to arrive and shower me with its toxic truths, make another onslaught on my feeble mind. I’ve wanted to run. I’ve tried sleeping more, hoping it won’t notice me, that it will pass me by. But no, it always senses my presence.
It’s here. Here.
And so. And so. and so. [That last is a secret reference.]
When I was young, when I was growing up, when all that stuff was happening, I always thought there would eventually be an escape. I didn’t know when. But I was sure of it, I told myself: sooner or later there would be an end to it, a halt, a finish.
It was as I got older — though not yet at the point of independence; older, yet still young — that I realised I was wrong. This would be a lasting blight. The equivalent of worms infesting wood, concrete cancer, asbestos remains.
Older still, and the blight paid its first visitation. Its been returning, off and on, to its own catastrophic calendar, ever since.
“Hello. Go on then. Go on.”
“You deserve everything you get. You deserve everything you don’t get. Every hand you’ve been dealt. Every hand that’s been withheld. Suck it up, because it’s your punishment, your fate, your destruction. Because. Because you didn’t stop the things that happened, you didn’t protect yourself, you let yourself be sullied, ruined and corrupted. Coward, worthless coward. Moreover, you didn’t protect that person. You didn’t stop that happening either. You did nothing, absolutely nothing. You just cowered and wept and blinked and tried to disappear. And this, all of it, is why you are where you are and aren’t where you should be. Where do we begin with you? With your ending, that’s where. And I don’t stop there, either. I’m going to make you remember the later times, the people you let down, the people to whom you passed your poison, the people from whom you should have kept your distance. All of them. Every single one.”
I don’t know how long this latest visitation will last, but I dearly, desperately want it to end. I want this ghost to vanish. I want the whispering, the incessant and breathless whispering, to stop.
As with most nights, I don’t recall what I dreamt
But this morning I awoke with thoughts of arson
My face flushed, my hands hot
Clearly, I’d been rejoicing beside the fire
I can barely, faintly remember such warmth
I felt almost human, feel almost… but no
I want to be an arsonist, that’s my goal
My desire is to burn everything to the ground
Reduce myself, reduce you, reduce this and that
To a pile of still warm ashes, flecked with shards
My last act will be the petrol and the lit match
I want to die an arsonist
Burn it all down
Burn everything down
Burn me, melt me
Reduce me to dust
Given the more the near ten years of writing here, albeit with some long pauses, plus the five years of words that preceded this place, the paragraphs provide few distinct memories. I wrote too many thoughts and not enough of whatever was happening — because, to be honest, most of the time very little happened. This place is certainly no kind of diary; in that, it’s deeply flawed.
Sometimes, though, there’s a flickering recollection — especially during the aimlessness (and yes, the loneliness) of a weekend where exhaustion means I can’t bring myself to work and my mind looks too far inward — and I turn to this disastrous archive to try and remember if not what was going on around me at the time, at least what I might have been thinking.
And then there are the people. Those few, those very few — not even requiring all the fingers of one hand to count — to whom I became very close, much closer, closest. With whom I spent significant periods of my life. With whom I suppose one might say I shared love — though as I’ve stated here before, for many years I wasn’t sure what that emotion meant or what it felt like to experience.
The first: the person I never met, though it felt like I did; the person I would eagerly have travelled the world in order to say a simple hello; the queen who vanished; the subject of the search that lasted years; the lack of answers that caused me many a sleepless night and haunted frequent nightmares (and does so even to this day, in truth); the person to whom I confessed my love.
The second: the escape from reality; the person with whom this place, where we spent so many weekends, became a blissful cocoon, whereas it now feels like a prison coated in filth and grime; the encourager of ideas, of fantasies, of crazier moments; but also the person with whom I experienced some domestic normality (and found myself enjoying it, too).
The third: the immediate ‘click’; the joyous, exciting, even captivating discovery of like minds; the secret understanding that seemed to be there from the very start; the impassioned debates contrasting with the black humour; the all too brief times together; the desire for more minutes and hours of warmth and presence, which were pulled from underneath me without being told, and which I don’t fully understand; the confession that I kept hidden for far too long, all because of stupid, stupid cowardice; the fact that, for me, those feelings remain.
These memories, it’s true, offer me some form of companionship. But I can’t survive forever just looking back. The past goes cold, and I find myself feeling sickened, needy, vile and worthless, for raking through those layers of dust time and time again.
I don’t believe I will feel such closeness again during my lifetime. And I sometimes wonder whether the prospect, if it existed, wouldn’t scare me witless.
I need to steel myself. But I’m too tired to build a fort.
I’ve been estimating my net worth again
Discovering how much I amount to
But not financially
In coldness, I am in profit
So I have come up wanting
Not owed by anyone
Checking out the figures
Calculating the future profit
Result: I’m broke(n)
But not broke(n) enough
Rip me off, beggar me
Break me more, I deserve debt
I’m trying hard — though failing — to fight all the demons tonight: the demons of utter loneliness, the demons of abject failure, the screaming demons inside my head and the domains without (the noise, the fucking noise, the traffic and the damned sirens).
I feel ashamed, even childish
When, as now, as tonight
I simply crave love and warmth
The thought of holding a companion’s hand
Just that, nothing more
Grow up. Fucking well grow up
Get some strength, weak, feeble creature
Miserable, pitiful cunt
I’m so ashamed and embarrassed by what I’ve just done that I don’t know if I feel as if I’ve been brave, or whether I’m just sickened and nauseated by my utterly pathetic weakness.
I’m sorry you had to be involved. I should have stayed talking to myself.
And then. Then it descends.
A silent scream. Sucking in air.
Hand clutching arm. Hand clutching arm.
The sewer of thought. The well of what.
Not knowing where I am. Though I’m here.
The mind is empty. Yet bursting with.
This isn’t what I would call a life.
Live inside me. You wouldn’t.
You wouldn’t call it a life either.
I’ve lost my bearings.
Slackened my fingernail grip.
If you’re the murderer. If it’s you.
Please come for me tonight. Do your worst.
The door is unlocked. I’ve invited you.
Remove me. Delete me. Erase me.
I’m ready. I have been for a while.
Don’t ask me if I can do this anymore.
Because you know the answer. You.
You just don’t want to hear it.
The door is open. Come and end me.
I don’t have the energy to beg.
Though I will if you kick me.
I will if you hit me hard enough.
I will if you gouge out my eyes.
I will if you slice out my heart.
I will if you cut my throat.
I will if you eviscerate me.
I’ll beg. Then I’ll beg.
I’ll beg you to finish me.
I need to be rid of anger, genuinely tormenting anger, for a while. Even if only temporarily, just to give me some space to breathe. The constant underlying fury in everything I do, think or (virtually) say is making it near impossible for me to function. The only way to make it cease is to switch off almost completely, so that all I can manage is to stare at a screen, stare into the middle distance, stare at nothing. I just want the anger to leave me. Leave. Please.
Right now, there are words I want to write here. And yet, even though there’s barely an audience for this place (and thank heavens for that), I don’t dare.
But I don’t dare to write the words to myself, either, to step away and put them down in a notebook or a text file, for fear they’ll turn against me and spit in my face.
And so. Here I am. And so. I don’t know what to do with the words. And so.
(I didn’t mean to use the phrase “And so” — it has connotations from the tumultuous past for me, even though the connotation was written “and so”, defiantly lowercase, when I first glimpsed it many years ago. As for me, I’ve gone by many different names as I attempted to live lives other than this one — half of which I now forget. I still don’t use my real name here, even though most now know it, for fear of being too easily discovered. I wouldn’t expect concern, more derision and dismissiveness.)
I want this long weekend to be over. I loathe bank holiday weekends even more than the standard two-day variety. They seem interminable.
Maybe I should try and sleep. I should, yes. I should try and sleep.
The rain’s not helping tonight. As a result, I’m becoming angry and frustrated. The rain is always supposed to help, just the sound of it, allowing me to close my eyes and temporarily drift off, step out of myself. All that ridiculous psychologibullshit stuff, you know. Don’t you?
I tried to work earlier, to take my mind away somewhere else. But I was just moving items around a screen for an hour, trying to busy myself. I realised then that I don’t, in fact, have any work I could usefully be doing right now, as I’m waiting for clients to get back to me. Aimless.
I tried reading, getting lost in a novel, but I couldn’t find the way in to disappear. The words pushed against my eyes, but no further. The same with attempting to immerse myself in a film.
I feel cold, I’ll admit. I’ll also admit that tonight is one of those long nights when I yearn for some human warmth, companionship, touch; a break from myself, being immersed in others for even just a little while.
I could have been
You could have been
We could have been
They could have been
It could have been
It all could have been
Everything could have been
Absolutely everything could have been
You, me, they, it and everything
I need a ‘will be’ or two
I need a few welcome certainties
The only one I have right now?
Tomorrow will be Saturday
That’s certain (though I don’t want it to be)
I need more than that
And I’m not just being greedy
I’m being necessary
Envy is too kind a word, too soft and poetic a word. It doesn’t convey the full strength of what I’ve experienced today. Or the full horror of the distaste I feel for myself.
For today I’ve been overwhelmed, riddled, infested and scarred by jealousy. It’s filled me to the brim, to the extent where I’ve wanted to tear and gouge at myself to release the poison.
I haven’t. But I can’t deny it’s been close.
Jealous, ungrateful, vile, despicable cunt. He should be put out for torture, he really should. Hateful, putrid insect.