Diary #1

There are days like yesterday that still feel like today and spill over on to the next. There are days like now which won't start until I wake up, and days that won't end until I collapse.

Today has been particularly stressful though; I can't leave the house because I feel too much. I have a few drinks to try and regulate everything; a carlsberg, a bit of wine usually goes further for me than most other people. Its great; you can feel it. There's a hit each time that increases with intensity, that provides an inner warmth that continues to burn brighter and brighter; so long as it is fuelled. And that distraction, that feeling of grabbing another is just a temptation I can't stop submitting to. At times like now, I know that the quantity is making me ill; headaches, nausea, a pervading dread, weakening organs and a sickening feeling that I know it can't and won't last forever.

And that is exactly when I think: 'I don't have to do this anymore'.

Apparently, thats the first step of freedom. What a load of shit; that thought flits about my brain like a moth to a flame. Eventually it gets consumed and turns to dust, but returns later on. And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Everything seems far away; emotions, motivation, victory. Feelings can quickly come to the fore in almost nuclear outbursts. Its like I'm recklessly slashing a sword to cut through anything that strays into my path knowing fine right I'll be suffering recoil damage. Knowing somewhere at the heart of intoxication I'll regret it.

But thats the thing about feeling like someone else; you aren't you. You don't want to feel like you; I want to be the bottle, and I want to be empty.

The 'L' Word

I've never experienced love and it scares me that so many people I know to throw it round like a basketball. They know they have conviction in their passt, but I'm worried eventually I'll have to catch the ball and expect to score a goal. Exactly. It feels that overwhelming. I could be in the middle of the court, I could be near the goal, but scoring that basket feels like a very epic battle for me.

My feelings have always been under question since they fluctuate on a whim, almost uncontrollably. They can hover over me like an umbrella; trying to shield me from all the piss that flies out of everyone's mouths and sometimes flood my insides like a deluge of drowsiness.

I mean, What am I supposed to do if someone utters that word before me and I'm not there? Perhaps that word is just something that is relative to each person - each feeling can never be exactly replicated for another. For example, I love my parents so much, and some of my friends so much too. In different ways. Maybe that is the way too. But if someone says it to me and I don't feel it, or don't think I do, have I fucked everything up?

Its a constant anxiety because for me, someone to love me would be perfect. If someone can look me in the eye and tell me that they will be there for me through good and bad, it would make me ecstatic. And happy. Then low. Then angry. It would be like spinning a wheel of fortune and everything thrown at someone at once. I'm worried. God, I'm fucking worried that I would just ruin it. It would make me feel far too much to be able to cope with it. I don't want to love someone if I'm just going to burden them with an explosion of emotions that I'm unable to contain.

I guess that's why I'm attracted to the idea of sacrifice. Like Jean Grey, or Jesus... I guess I wonder whether I'm going to have relinquish that kind of intimacy so that I can exist like a relatively normal human being, and so I can't hurt anyone, or so I can save everyone from a potential self-destructive downward spiral.

But isn't that something that is in love? Hurt? How do we love if we don't accidentally inflict pain upon someone? I've been hurt a lot, but I still don't know the diametrical opposite. I don't know what its like. People ask me if I have ever been in love, mainly because I've slept with a lot of guys and frankly, I haven't. I just feel self-depreciated and dried up. I'm worried that I'll simultaneously fall in love and live in solitary confinement for the rest of my days.

Love. Its a scary word. Its not 'lovely'. It fucking scares me so much. So fucking much.

Recovery.

Opening up my blogspot again was almost like trekking up to the attic to get a box; swiping away the gossamers into snowflakes of dust and opening it up to see what was lurking. Its been well-over a month, nearly two in fact, since I've posted. 40 posts and 3 drafts in the pipeline. God, how do I get like this? I end up making something with the full intention of using it, only to fail to sustain interest for more then a week.

Like Pinterest. I like the idea of it; I've got a men's fashion board, a book board, a creativity board... and then I realised that Tumblr basically caters for all of those. All I need to is tag each post and create links to filter everything I need. I guess it just didn't fit into my life. Twitter for a while was like that, even Tumblr, but now I actively use both on a daily basis. And this is always stuck in the back of my mind; I always think 'if I feel like this, I should just post.'

I guess I should reveal that recently my moods have gone from controlled to almost completely unstable. Life can feel like winter; frozen, stagnant and bitter. I feel emotionally cut off, reserved or numb and then without warning, its summer. Everything just radiates joy and desire and fun with this raging undercurrent of negativity. These switches between moods have pushed me over the edge a few times and sometimes, bad thoughts still linger. It's like the shadow of a figure on a dark night following you home, but when you turn to catch them, they dissipate into thin air. The reminder, the cruel feeling of knowing that I've felt like that, and knowing that everything may just melt into obfuscation and disorder again is something that scares me all the time. Its this fear of feeling transient that has stopped me posting. I mean, what if I post and its crap? What if I post and I get comments I don't feel smart enough to reply to? How can I have conviction in anything if I have to say if my feelings are just going to do a 180?

How can I post something if I feel like I'm becoming more and more transparent?

Things have returned to some kind of equilibrium and occasionally slip. I've been slipped lots of leaflets on moods and alcohol which are resources I'd rather not indulge, Lifeline numbers and a frustrating amount of times talking to 'health professionals' who ask questions like 'if you feel sad, how does that make you feel?' - Which is perhaps one of the most ridiculous things I've been asked. But yes, I guess I'm recovering. Slowly, but surely.

So I guess this was just to break the silence more then anything, but I also wanted to ask myself - What purpose will this thing serve? Do I want to use it purely for prose/poetry, reviews, stream-of-consciousness diary entries? - I decided that I'll use it for everything. Yup. I hope I'm not being too optimistic here because just writing this post has exorcised a lot of the pent-up anxiety I've been feeling lately. I can do this. Yup.

So, for anyone who has read, thanks again.

PS - I don't know how to end this, so I'm just going to end it with this beautiful woman. Her music has helped me the past month.

#amwriting

I actually am writing; yes readers I have managed to conquer the borders of procrastination equipped with the tools to write and have permeated the wall surrounding me with the nib of a pen. It feels so... unexplainable. Not something I won't be able to put on to paper, but a feeling I'll try to replicate in my writing. Flushing out everything that is building up like awkward tetris blocks is one of the most satisfying feelings (also was that a weird simile or a good one, I honestly don't know). Writing isn't a game and if it were, it'd be to just do it. When your tools become dusty, your losing, but when your typing away at times of the day when people aren't catching commuter trains or even thought about sipping their morning coffee... That is a sensation I will never get tired of.

Even now on my post-caffeine high, watching the world bloom outside my living room window. I don't know if any of you have ever watched the sun rise and if you haven't, its something you need to experience at least once in your life. I've watched it numerous times, due to problems sleeping or because I've been pulling an all nighter and each time it fills me with energy. It feels rejuvenating to just bask in the world waking up and as I plug myself into Morning Mood by Grieg that feeling swells between the oboe and the flute and the strings and it is just so inexhaustible. I can play it each time I witness the sunrise and still know that each one is different; incredible.

So for the moment I've been working on three stories; my fairytale The Bloody Syrup which is a tribute to Angela Carter and a rewriting of The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Anderson, The Seventh Veil which is my dissertation piece and novel idea & finally The Enigma which is my dystopian environment piece. I've realised how in the past I used to try and spend individual time writing one piece at a time and never multiple pieces but I guess I've evolved. Its difficult not to adapt when the situation changes; I'm a second year student with piles of work to be finished and I can't always work the way I wanted to.

But then it makes me think: "This time, next year... I'll have written my ECP. I'll have applied for PGCE courses. I'll have a month and a half left of my tenancy before I pack up to go."

When I was 17, I was told I would (and I quote) "never be able to make it into a University that asked for higher then CCC or CCD". I achieved grades well above what was expected, I became extroverted and I decided that I wanted to become a writer. I just think its so strange that I managed to get here and when I'm feeling low and shit, I try to remind myself of my career advisor smelling of alcohol, telling me I wasn't good enough. And now I'm here.

And now I'm writing three stories simultaneously, watching them hatch into the world.

writing, writing, wrating, wcrastinating, procrasting, procrastinating.

Yesterday was a glorious day in Winchester: the clouds had dissipated, the sky was beautiful blues and there was an airy breeze that was a nice respite from the weather I'm used to back home. I never really get to appreciate it because I usually keep myself locked up in my room scrolling through vast pictures of men, hipsters smoking (men) and meme's (hahaha, no I just look at men) on Tumblr.

So I go out with my housemate, bask in the weather and get on planning my novel; and it was great. I got some ideas, character appearance  setting and considered different influences for my characters, plot and the like. Fantastic! So I think I'm going to start writing today, but I think 'Well, no point if I'm going out tonight, I'll definitely work on it all day tomorrow.'

And guess what, guys? I did SWEET FUCK ALL.

I've been sat, stuck scrolling through Tumblr and music videos and impulse buying Azaelia Banks' weird new track 'YUNG RAPUNXEL' (or whatever it is) and now I'm procrastinating even further just by writing this post.

Here's a picture OF A HORSE.

Seriously though, I'm finding it bloody hard to actually motivate myself. I've got this great idea and it has so much potential so unfortunately, I've just let myself do other menial tasks in order to not do it. Why, do you ask? Because I've been struck by a lethal case of self-sabotage.

I mean, why write about it if its never going to be as good as it is in your head? Why present it to everyone else if it may not live up to my expectations? Its like a baby that is ready to be born and I think 'wait, stay in my uterus! I'm not ready for you yet!' - Thankfully I have neither a baby or a uterus, or a vagina otherwise that would be some crazy shit. But if I can't 'birth' my idea, so to speak then it just builds up and up and feels ready to burst from my head.

So the best thing I can think of, and it scares me a bit and I'll panic and cry and whatever, is just to let it happen. Write it out. If I don't exorcise this baby it'll become a demon and, I don't know, make me use ouija boards and like country music or something.

So here I go. To Tumblr. Tumblrrr, Tumblriting, triblriting, wriblrting, writing.

"There Is No Cruelty Without The Beast"

One of the first times I tried to 'speak' to one of my characters I decided to tap in to something that I was barely experienced in; a ouija board. Some people out there will consider my decision stupid or irresponsible, but I was more concerned with trying out a novel technique then the lurking dangers of the supernatural. I'm not one who believes in ghosts or phantoms, in fact I've never had any experience with that kind of phenomena. So I gathered a bunch of my friends and we set out to try and find one of my characters.

It didn't yield any kind of result; we lit candles, got a board and a cursor and started to play. I thought of it as a game; an innovative and interactive ploy to create a character, but after half an hour of everyone not taking it seriously I decided to leave it, so we said 'goodbye' to 'hedgehog' who wanted 'Emily's boobs' and I never touched it again. In retrospect, it just wasn't going to work and I would just go with my original plan.

After a while I finally concocted an idea that was born out of cruelty; a character rich in decadence, pleasure, sensations and rage and although then it felt I was pulling the strings, it was merely the other way around. Character's are born out of us; we give them a face, characteristics, hobbies... But what we constantly forget, or ignore, is that they can manifest themselves in dangerous ways and not only on the page. I noticed this when I started to write the character of 'Salome' for a possible novel idea and found that she was trying to break out of the confines I had placed her in.

As Wolverine says in the (not-so-great) film X-Men 3: "When you cage the beast, the beast gets angry". They find a conduit in which to hate, they begin to obsess over ways to find their own way out of their situation but once they break free, they don't know what to do. I found when my emotions were unstable or life was difficult, I would mirror some of the traits of my character or ask myself, what would she do in this situation? And that is where I began to become my character more then I expected.

I based her on the anger and hatred that human beings feel when it is left to fester. I think everyone, even if they do not actively hate, have had this feeling at some point in their lives and I know I definitely have. Its dangerous to feel that way because its so powerful and absorbing and once it starts, it needs to stop as soon as possible; hate is a nihilistic emotion that ends with nothing but malice and misery. When we find motive and reason and pleasure within this negativity it begins to form, almost, a personality of its own. Like Voldemort splitting his soul to render himself immortal, we feel the need to do the same just to survive. But it needs energy and fuel to keep on thriving and so we nitpick, or target. We use every inch of our body, exhaust ourselves to try and satiate an almost unlimited force.

We've all done this before and once we stop and look back, we realise how obsequious we have been. Our actions, though deplorable, need to be justified one way or another by ourselves just to try and reason with the side of us that is no longer static, but transient and faded. We kill ourselves a tiny bit and end up monsters.

What do we have to left to go back to though, when we discover this? How can we return to how we feel when we've been pushed to breaking point with our emotions? Do we deserve it? Can we ever redeem ourselves? - I'm not so sure. I wish I could answer this myself because its a question that I've been asking myself for so long.

I remember reading The Satanic Bible by Anton LaVey and his experience with christians: "On Saturday night... I would see men lusting after half-naked girl dancing at the carnival, and on Sunday morning... I would see those same men sitting in the pews with their wives and children, asking God to forgive them..." - Once we are in the cycle is it possible to break free? Can we relent the forces control of us and stop the cycle? If not, what levels of degenerance will we slip to and how long will we fall before we hit the ground?

How far do we fall before we can't even forgive ourselves?

A Tiresian Tragedy

I haven't blogged as much recently, partly due to the fact I've been blogging here, but also due to the fact its been difficult to write about a particular subject. Well, anything really. I mean, I have so much to say that before I can even go all ninja finding writing materials that I've forgotten what I wanted to say. I'll sit and ponder for ages what it was that I was thinking and another idea fades like a shooting star.

It really is starting to become a problem (ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ

Recently though I've been working on a new story for my Textual Intervention module. We're studying fairy tales; their dynamics, how there is underlying intratextuality and how ANGELA CARTER BASICALLY WROTE LOTS OF PORN (yup). But I love her work, and it actually influenced my decision for my assignment piece, which also takes its form from my favourite fairy tale; The Little Mermaid.

Now, I know what you may be thinking, "Oh I love it! I've watched the Disney version!" - NO. Stop, please don't go on because to me, it just takes the essence away from the original story. It just polluted the story with unnecessary characters and campy villains and oh dear I really can't go on any further. But the original by Hans Christian Anderson, is a tale of unrequited love, self-sacrifice and humanity. Yeah, it probably sounds like a misery machine and do you know what? Perhaps it is. The first time I read it I felt melancholy; I guess, since Anderson's original reader was for a man who would never return his love, I can sympathise. But there is something I was fascinated with: the notion that even though we come from different places and speak different languages these cannot hinder us from tearing down barriers and escaping our roots. But when we tear ourselves from the past, we can't go back. When our hearts are set on something we can't persuade them out of it. We should follow what we want and if it leads to misery, then we can proudly say that we did what we wanted to do. That, in essence, is what I find to be one of the most poignant messages within the tale.

Although my retelling of the story is actually intentionally supposed to be depressing  (〃￣ω￣〃ゞ Here is an excerpt from my piece called A Tiresian Tragedy:

But Warren and I were aware that none of them were like us. They had a linear path that was set for them, whilst ours was twisted and bent, marred by transience and uncertainty. When my family saw me stray from what they wanted they left me to the obfuscation and retreated. To them, our family was a machine and I was a broken cog that should be replaced. Now, their lives functioned like clockwork.

We had planned that day to take a walk down to the beach in the hope that we’d either be able to pull or get hideously drunk trying. As I pulled myself onto a chair at the beach bar, I felt my skin sizzle like the electric wires that stretched across the city. Even in this weather the scarring, though barely traceable in normal weather, felt as if it were suppurating. The glints of glass that remained embedded in my skin felt as if they shimmered as the rays of light danced upon my cheeks.

I'll be uploading it to my blog in the near future, once I'm entirely satisfied with it. Hopefully I'll be posting more regularly now~