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.

First Snow

Its day one of Semester two. I'm officially over halfway through my degree. It feels like it hasn't been long since I started and in reality, its true; I'm halfway through my second year and in the coming months I'll be making some massive decisions about my future. I haven't even had my first class and images of the future are flickering in the forefront of my mind like a broken projector jumping between hazy possibilities of where I'll be going. There's no signposts, no path laid out by some friendly deity and no tour guide to show me where I need to go. Where do I need to go? Where do I want to go? I often find in the early morning, especially when I'm feeling under the weather, that the nagging at the back of my mind that was easy to dispel has pushed its way to the front of my mind, refusing to relent and unphased by my attempts to cast it out.

The roundabout of roads becomes overgrown with flora that tower oppressively far above and space feels claustrophobic, tight, compact, sealed off. Walking any direction brings me back to the same place I started. Trying to purge the thought makes the hedges burn bright and fierce. I feel like my lungs and time is the smoke waiting to snuff me out.

And whilst this array of choices becomes a raging internal battle, the snow is falling softly outside. The cold is seeping in and the chill is the lick of nature trying to lull me into a respite I've been seeking for hours and hours and hours. The hours that pass feel like they have stealthily sneaked away to some unknown shores and the unknown shores are where I'm currently treading water. The maze becomes the sea and the sea becomes me. The sea swallows me up and the maze is still me.