Flames

With a paintbrush I used primaries and a brilliant orange to recreate the fires in my mind.

~

Each rain drop is a blazing light.

The night is a fire,

Flames leaping all about me.

I am caught up,

Tossed about,

Explained,

Expanded.

On the outside I am entirety.

On the inside I am burnt out, hollow,

Emotions warring vicariously through me.

A world unknown to the world,

An artist’s paradise.

15/04/11 Sickness.

What is this place?

Where am I?

Normally I write into the vast technological void of my computer writing files. My words flow in, are registered, sorted, and mostly never see the light of day. They remain unread. But if I do not share something I feel I may explode. Existential angst, perhaps? I am sinking into this strange void. A vacant space within myself that is quickly replicating outside of myself. I wish I could say I was afraid of this void, but I seem to be embracing it with little more than calm indifference. While the outside world rushes on with art, friendship, study, YouTube triviality, insomnia related complaints, I am frozen in this twilight zone.

There is nothing more to say. There is nothing within me that can be expressed. I do little in a day before the need for sleep overcomes me. I am thoroughly disinterested in any form of conversation or learning. I want nothing, but I cannot embrace nothingness with a calm or dignity that would become me.

At this time I have reoccurring thoughts of my grandma, in the final stages of her illness with secondary breast cancer. I remember how, even upon her deathbed, she never uttered a word of complaint. She embraced her sickness with positivity and good will. She lived out her last days bringing only joy to others. She died with a smile.

I feel she is a good role model to me. But I am struggling to find a reason. To see only the good in badness, to feel only joy in sadness, will this ultimately mean something? Or is denying even your own pain a final outcome of nothingness?

I am here. But for how long, I do not know.

28/06/10 If I could see through you.

If I could see through you, like a pane of glass, I wonder what I would see. Would I see the inner workings of your body, blood pumped from your heart and through your veins, lungs contracting, expanding? Could I see the colours of how you feel about me? Can emotion ever be seen, or known?

You are mysterious to me. I just don’t understand you. Sometimes I feel like we could have a lifelong intimacy, yet you are closed off in ways inexplicable to me. The way you touch me makes me feel loved, in a way foreign and new to me. Your touch feels real. But when we speak our words fall into an invisible chasm, and I don’t know this is deliberate on your part, or you are straining and it is deliberate on my part, or whether we are both straining in opposite directions. Right now, I believe you have closed yourself off, and with good reason.

I have made many mistakes, and I continue to make them despite my past knowledge. I don’t know if these mistakes occur for good reason, due to unseen feelings, or whether they are simply mistakes and accumulated will lead to the biggest mistake of my life. Are we meant for each other?

24/04/09 Death flows.

Death flows in every alley,

In every artifice,

Gentle flowing waters,

Of broken glass.

05/04/10 Easter.

Down deep I feel a fool,

The safeway bags full of Easter eggs,

All the ones they love,

Stuffed in the bottom of my fridge so they won’t melt,

A waste of money, time.

I register my loneliness with a startling clarity,

I am the only one living in past days,

While they have moved forward,

Disconnected from all I knew.

Why when I stand still, why when I’m alone,

Why do I dream of the past?

My present and my future melt away,

Like a vaguely registered dream,

When I wake in the morning.

With startling clarity,

I am alone, completely isolated,

And I realize when I am with others,

I am more alone than when I am by myself.

The Easter eggs were another distraction,

I spent hours in the humid, sweaty afternoon,

Starving hungry, striding from supermarket to supermarket,

Looking to save a dollar here, 20 cents there,

Searching for the perfect Easter.

I constructed an elaborate fantasy movie,

In which I, the hero, brought together the people I love,

In joyous celebration,

And felt the warmth, connection, belonging that exists in my imagination.

The truth hurts.

Families drift apart as children grow older,

Children form partnerships, and create a new universe.

Parents find themselves again in one another.

I am the only one left living in the past.

29/03/09 Alien.

The internal chill comes over me again,

Seeping through my veins, my skin,

Friends around me become blank faces of strangers,

I separate myself from their warm embrace.

I’m not damaged, I lie to myself,

Just deluded and self pitying.

When I see the faces of strangers,

I pretend it’s just a game I’m playing.

I look into their familiar faces,

And see the tormenters of my childhood past,

I cringe away from their inclusive smiles

I somehow see only hate and insidious lies

Eyesight stained red with infected wounds,

Body twisted in on itself from fear and abuse,

Words that don’t matter only seem to hide

Manipulative power games I cannot abide

I’m messed up, and I’ve said this before,

Sometimes even I don’t believe me; the attention whore,

Stealing my own integrity for love or affection,

I don’t know what I believe, or if I’ve sold my soul for their attention.

I pretend I’m like them.

But inside, I’m alien.

24/03/09 The world is big and I am small.

The world is big and I am small

I don’t know who I am at all

Everyone seems to know their way

I get more and more lost each passing day.

My words have come alive, flowing back onto the page like a flood after a desert storm.

Life is truly a strange and beauteous thing. A friend, once walking, laughing with you on the way to school could be dead tomorrow. An enemy you thought was soulless turns out to be more three-dimensional than you ever expected. A new love, comes into your life on a stray summer breeze, and blows out again with a devastating cyclone of wild wind and rain.

You’re left alone, in the mess and greyness behind, but even in destruction there is new life and you begin again.

Writing is the documentation that keeps your soul alive, for without creativity, you might as well be dead.

Falling dust,

In my hair,

Words on a page mean little now.

Sometimes I think,

It’s others that stare,

But I know it’s my face,

Pressed to my deceptive reflection.

My persona, it embodied me,

Snatched my breath away,

Now I am living breathing dying hollow,

For all to see.

09/09/07 Afraid.

I’m afraid

Minutes pass into hours are you’re still here

I’m so afraid

I’ll slip

And you’ll realise

You can do better

And I’ll lose you

My mask is beautified

Such that it catches the light

And is desirable in the eyes of others

But when I talk to you now

I am my true self

So blunt and flawed and hurtful

And afraid

How much will it take

To push you away

You’re like a dream

The best dream I’ve ever had

But it’s real

And I’m so afraid I’ll wake up

I don’t deserve you

But somehow

You’re here

And we’re becoming us

I know now

That when I was diagnosed at age 12

They said this would never be possible for me

And I would live life alone

So

Maybe this is in my head

28/04/11 A beginning.

To begin my blog I will post a selection of journal entries from my computer files in chronological order. These are as follows.