Today is the second day of my writing. I have decided I will write as often as I can. Maybe even if it's just thoughts. A documentation of a life.
I slept at an unearthly hour, with a feeling that isn't leaving me. It's a pain, an emptiness. I woke up not wanting to get up. No, it was not because it was extremely cold. It was because I felt like melting into my bed and never wanting to wake up. It perhaps comes from my fear that one day I will forget how to breathe at night and I will die. It's a comforting thought. Just stopping breathing. It'll fade like a dandelion blowing the wind. Think of grey skies, clouds and a field with a single dandelion, white and delicate. And one by one each little feathery piece floats into the wind and never really comes back. I want each breath to also fade like that till the last one remains. Then that too floats away calmly. The wind carries it away like a soul breathing in the snowy winter. Light, soft and weightless.
The sun is white against the grey skies. I want it's warmth to touch my eyelids as it dapples the way it does in movies. Or the way I'd wake up in school, the sun shining through the windows on Sunday mornings. Instead I watched the blue printed curtains become pale in the greyness of the morning. From pearl grey, to a darker grey like the skies of England. I snuck in further under the covers and breathed in my own scent. It mixed with his, a faint reminder. It never seems to leave me. I desperately try as I spray on stronger perfume but in random hints he appears like a shadowy memory under my covers.
The day seemed most uninspiring as I went to open the curtains. It seemed like the sun was promising to come out but in its resistance it hid. Sometimes I wonder if everyone has their own secrets. Do all living things live with the guilt that I live with? I sat in bed, wanting to hide again, refusing to fold my quilts so that I could hide. I wonder from what I'm hiding. Myself? My mother? Work? I answered all my messages and listened to my song on repeat for the 30th time in the past two days. The feeling of lonely dread captured my senses once more. I want to shut down. A song from school echoes in my head like the memories. The ghosts of my mistakes ripple through my head, down my skin, I can't decide what I want anymore.
I snap, I work like a robot, obeying instructions, move, every piece of me independent from the last. I feel like I've been broken down to fit into the system of Taylorism. My feelings are being forced to be that as well. Un-cohesive. Colours, musings, vibrations, solutions to my desires to have sex again, to be loved, to crave an affection, to have meaning, purpose. Then there's the feelings. All those feelings I get when I listen to a piece of music. The sadness in that one song.
I can't explain why I feel that way. I hear the words. They're so familiar, so real. I feel like it's a movie. My life plays out in similar ways. I can see the washed out colours, the blue tint, the grey tint. The dirty clothes, the musty smells as I smoke a cigarette and walk down a street full of heroin addicts. I see them spin. I stood in my room today evening , craving someone to dance with me. Instead I just spun in circles. Around and around, letting it flow. I see myself as a child. Content but lonely. I know I have constructed these feelings. But the blue tinted colours of my life refuse to leave. It feels like a polaroid, a time in which I see my mother living. A time I see myself fit into perfectly.
I spent the day watching a movie, watching tv, not really feeling much. The movie made me feel a bit. The flitting from memory to present to back. The shadows. The yellows, the soft lines, the small parts of a larger scene. A picture, a photograph, time stills, I stop breathing, I watch closely, I hear a voice narrate kindly. The movie makes me think once in a while. The beauty of discovering something new. The joy I might have felt. The fear as well. The intense love for another person. Would i ever be able to take that risk?
Will I always think of myself as someone whose difficult, unresponsive, scared. Someone who thinks she can't reveal but is so brutally honest in reality. I tell myself I'm holding in but I tell so much. I don't want to. I hold in tears, and the colours rush. I see blues again. Whites, I'm not sure where I'm going. I want to stumble around. Cry. I desperately want to cry but I can't. And now here I sit listening to piano music, writing. Typing. I t makes me feel like a writer. The keys clacking away furiously. I feel satisfied now. I feel the pain. The sweetness of it. The hurt in my chest, in my shoulders. My neck and back. I want someone to understand this so badly. I can't explain why.
I can't decide why I'm writing. I listen to the music. I see stories. I see myself. Things that will happen to me. Things I want so badly. Happiness. Pain. Clarity. Love. Why do I want these things when I don't even know what they mean and why I want them? Things don't make sense. I will go to work tomorrow. I will strive to fix my broken relationships. I will advice my friends, think of the bottle of vodka at the back of my cupboard, think of ways to go for the party on Thursday night. I will listen to more piano music maybe, compose a dance, a scene, an emptiness, a blank space as I close my eyes in the metro and listen. And I will ask myself why I'm really alive. And it will happen the next day. the the day after. And I will not know why.
I slept at an unearthly hour, with a feeling that isn't leaving me. It's a pain, an emptiness. I woke up not wanting to get up. No, it was not because it was extremely cold. It was because I felt like melting into my bed and never wanting to wake up. It perhaps comes from my fear that one day I will forget how to breathe at night and I will die. It's a comforting thought. Just stopping breathing. It'll fade like a dandelion blowing the wind. Think of grey skies, clouds and a field with a single dandelion, white and delicate. And one by one each little feathery piece floats into the wind and never really comes back. I want each breath to also fade like that till the last one remains. Then that too floats away calmly. The wind carries it away like a soul breathing in the snowy winter. Light, soft and weightless.
The sun is white against the grey skies. I want it's warmth to touch my eyelids as it dapples the way it does in movies. Or the way I'd wake up in school, the sun shining through the windows on Sunday mornings. Instead I watched the blue printed curtains become pale in the greyness of the morning. From pearl grey, to a darker grey like the skies of England. I snuck in further under the covers and breathed in my own scent. It mixed with his, a faint reminder. It never seems to leave me. I desperately try as I spray on stronger perfume but in random hints he appears like a shadowy memory under my covers.
The day seemed most uninspiring as I went to open the curtains. It seemed like the sun was promising to come out but in its resistance it hid. Sometimes I wonder if everyone has their own secrets. Do all living things live with the guilt that I live with? I sat in bed, wanting to hide again, refusing to fold my quilts so that I could hide. I wonder from what I'm hiding. Myself? My mother? Work? I answered all my messages and listened to my song on repeat for the 30th time in the past two days. The feeling of lonely dread captured my senses once more. I want to shut down. A song from school echoes in my head like the memories. The ghosts of my mistakes ripple through my head, down my skin, I can't decide what I want anymore.
I snap, I work like a robot, obeying instructions, move, every piece of me independent from the last. I feel like I've been broken down to fit into the system of Taylorism. My feelings are being forced to be that as well. Un-cohesive. Colours, musings, vibrations, solutions to my desires to have sex again, to be loved, to crave an affection, to have meaning, purpose. Then there's the feelings. All those feelings I get when I listen to a piece of music. The sadness in that one song.
I can't explain why I feel that way. I hear the words. They're so familiar, so real. I feel like it's a movie. My life plays out in similar ways. I can see the washed out colours, the blue tint, the grey tint. The dirty clothes, the musty smells as I smoke a cigarette and walk down a street full of heroin addicts. I see them spin. I stood in my room today evening , craving someone to dance with me. Instead I just spun in circles. Around and around, letting it flow. I see myself as a child. Content but lonely. I know I have constructed these feelings. But the blue tinted colours of my life refuse to leave. It feels like a polaroid, a time in which I see my mother living. A time I see myself fit into perfectly.
I spent the day watching a movie, watching tv, not really feeling much. The movie made me feel a bit. The flitting from memory to present to back. The shadows. The yellows, the soft lines, the small parts of a larger scene. A picture, a photograph, time stills, I stop breathing, I watch closely, I hear a voice narrate kindly. The movie makes me think once in a while. The beauty of discovering something new. The joy I might have felt. The fear as well. The intense love for another person. Would i ever be able to take that risk?
Will I always think of myself as someone whose difficult, unresponsive, scared. Someone who thinks she can't reveal but is so brutally honest in reality. I tell myself I'm holding in but I tell so much. I don't want to. I hold in tears, and the colours rush. I see blues again. Whites, I'm not sure where I'm going. I want to stumble around. Cry. I desperately want to cry but I can't. And now here I sit listening to piano music, writing. Typing. I t makes me feel like a writer. The keys clacking away furiously. I feel satisfied now. I feel the pain. The sweetness of it. The hurt in my chest, in my shoulders. My neck and back. I want someone to understand this so badly. I can't explain why.
I can't decide why I'm writing. I listen to the music. I see stories. I see myself. Things that will happen to me. Things I want so badly. Happiness. Pain. Clarity. Love. Why do I want these things when I don't even know what they mean and why I want them? Things don't make sense. I will go to work tomorrow. I will strive to fix my broken relationships. I will advice my friends, think of the bottle of vodka at the back of my cupboard, think of ways to go for the party on Thursday night. I will listen to more piano music maybe, compose a dance, a scene, an emptiness, a blank space as I close my eyes in the metro and listen. And I will ask myself why I'm really alive. And it will happen the next day. the the day after. And I will not know why.
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