Diminished.

I've always considered myself an extrovert. Always. Despite the fact I have tendencies to lean almost equally to both introversion/extroversion I always felt that I was happier around people and became easily bored with my own company. And its not just me who agrees - people have often said I have a low attention span, I'm easily distracted and never really shut up once I've initiated conversation. The first time this ever dipped was when I went I started secondary school in Northern Ireland: Instead of being chatty and social I became a bit of a freak. Apparently listening to whatever music you wanted, not doing sport and having an interest in the world was something that wasn't socially acceptable. Despite this, in my group of friends I was always considered very much social, chatty and inquisitive in conversation. I'd think with my mouth as it spat out everything going on inside my head. Even now, even on impulse, writing this out I'm quickly calculating, considering what to write next as its flowing on to the page.

Despite the resurge a few years after, I've recently felt my desire to be around people, my desire to be social, has diminished greatly. Life has always felt like one, big impulsive ride but now I'm starting to feel a lurking uneasiness when I'm around people. As a writer I've always had periods of introspection where I will spend a day or two correlating my thoughts and ignoring anything trivial with other people but recently I've felt drained and strange. For example, on a night out a week ago I wanted a moment to myself but kept encountering people, people who I had met since I'd returned to N/Ireland, who would also regurgitate these appalling lines:

• How are you? Are you off out tonight? - I wouldn't be standing in a pub if I wasn't.
• How is University? - You've already asked me, but thanks.
• How is your course? - I've just said that.
• How is life? - I'm bored. 
• Still drinking then? - I wouldn't be holding this pint if I wasn't.
• How is blah - Much better
• How is bleurghhhh - Please leave.

Ignoring the last two I felt like I was being interviewed by a novice journalist who was reaching for straws. I did my best to prevent any tension; elucidating on more information and replying with questions that would enhance the conversation. I don't mind it being quiet, but it becomes awful when people start saying 'God... isn't this awkward.' Instead of making it light hearted and funny it actually ruins the entire atmosphere.

But as I looked around, I realised that it wasn't their fault at all. It was mine.

Still, even now, I'm a bit confused. My identity has generally revolved around being quite outward, chatty & honest with people, and now? I feel like I'm washed out, faded. Any kind of image that resembled the old me has diminished to a ghostly transparency. I know I've changed; believing otherwise would be completely ridiculous but I keep asking myself. Its strange feeling this after thinking you've known yourself for so long.


I thought I'd use this to ask people - would you consider yourself an extrovert or an introvert & why? Has this ever changed?

I left my heart in an empty room.

Since I've been back home its been a rather hectic, self-destructive time. It feels like whilst my body is in N/Ireland my heart and soul are back in England. Functioning properly and feeling good here are, unfortunately, not possibilities that I'm rewarded with. Around every corner in the town is another pair of eyes who are more then happy to latch their obsessive, gossiping mouth on to your business. Then the religious zealots who are happier being a part of some oppressive past. And everything, and everyone encompasses this cheery disposition that masks the years of political and religious fighting.

I've lived here for 7, nearly 8 years and my friends who are 'comfortable' with other denominations and people always prove otherwise. There is always some bitter words when a taboo topic is mentioned. Its unbelievably fucking frustrating.

I hate living here and I'm starting to hate everyone else as well.

I feel like I'm constantly catapulted between moods -- happy, sad, frustrated, calm, hyper, sensitive - and it doesn't help that I'm also getting constantly irritable by talk. You don't need to sit next to someone to know their breath stinks of shit - the smell lingers on their words. The repetitive phrases and topics are regurgiated for social acceptance, to not seem rude or ignorant and I can easily fake a smile.

So I've rambled on. I'll shush myself for now, but what am I going to do about all of this?

• Exorcise some people out of my life
• Get some more medication from the doctor
• Read More / Write More
• QUIT ALCOHOL FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE
• Get a job
• Return to Winchester refreshed

I'm on a mission now. If I fall at the first hurdle I'll have to get up again and again until I'm breathless. And when I rest, I'll finally be satisfied.

The 'perfect' writer

Something that has annoyed me for the past year, since I got to university in fact, is the idea of 'the perfect writer'. Its what we, as writers, strive to be; cradling our achievements at the end of our lives and realising we have written something that has had some kind of impact on the world around us.

But do we ever get to this point? Is perfection even possible? In the words of John Sublime from New X-Men: "Every diamond has its flaw."

I guess for me I'm still struggling to find my voice; how do I write? what have the books of the generations before me given to me? Has their writing heralded any advice, any wisdom? It seems when I try and think of 'the perfect writer' I answer myself with a myriad of questions that make my quest seem murky or vague. Where am I going?

I guess the question I should be asking myself is; 'what writer am I?' - and generally this means 'what do you write?' I've always written poetry and toyed with the idea of becoming a novelist but I've never written one. I aim, by the end of this year to have a draft finished for publishing in my third year. The idea is still blossoming and however much miracle-gro I sprinkle its end result seems further and further from manifesting.

I've noticed, especially in my course, what sort of writers some people are. Some absorb books on touch and use their writing to advance on their own technique, others take a relaxed approach and let their thoughts guide them. Some I never see, and I often imagine that they are locked in their rooms till they begin to starve, fuelling their emotions in to a blazing masterpiece.

I feel a bit lost whenever I think of this.

But perhaps, possibly, maybe I don't need to pigeonhole myself in to one of these categories, but I often get quite pissed off because I never have a consistent pattern of an idea. Usually its stream of consciousness (whatever comes to the fore), but with a university project, I came to find that my sub-consciousness was actually a provider of my inspiration. We were asked one day to bring in a dream journal filled up with notes and details of our dreams over a few weeks. I poured over mine and realised they were either too obscure and nondescript or complete and utter bollox. They were nonsensical and, despite the only person at the table who was interested in surreal writing, I found the task of choosing one to be more arduous then the rest of my group.

But there was one that stuck out and actually, right now, is chaining itself to my idea for my novel. I was standing alone at the edge of a driveway whilst the autumn leaves collated messily along the road in front. It was a driveway; a long path that stretched far out as if it touched the horizon. A man, a stubbly older man, was standing in front staring back at me with a sweet, sad smile, apologetic. He looked towards the open road which was now a house; a cabin. Childish noises and laughter began to grow louder and louder until two small children ran up. "Daddy, Daddy!" they shouted in excitement. He turned his head back one last time and consigned himself. He picked up the smallest child, a young girl and walked towards the house. I felt my throat grow heavy, more prominent then ever before. I didn't even realise how hard I was crying; I didn't know this man, but he was of great importance to me and, bereft of him, my heart began to grow weak, my energy deplete. As he walked slowly in to the blazing light he kept shooting glances back until the horizon consumed him.

And then I awoke.

That dream itself... Well, to say the least, struck a cord in me. I couldn't even remember writing it down. The handwriting was messy, so it must have literally been when I had been aroused from sleep. But fuck! What an idea!

And even though I'm far from discovering what writer I am and what 'the perfect writer' is, I have found a path. A hazy, often bleak path. But its my path and mine alone. I could say 'And that made all the difference' but then this would be a giant cliche. I'm just going to shut up now. Phew.