clinging to the wreckage

Don't take everything so seriously. Don't take everything you read so seriously. Don't take yourself so seriously. You will often find that you're not as good as you think you are or that you're not as bad as you think you are. Often you will find those who believe themselves to be good are actually pretty bad and those who believe themselves to be bad are usually quite good. Consider creativity. Consider art. Consider art for art’s sake... as Wilde once did. If my eye bleeds it's probably down to the conflict inside. If I torture myself it’s because I’ve lost something and art often resembles it or reminds me of it even if that art is your naked body, your lips, eyes and hair. I write for I must. Calm down. We’re exploring. We’re exploring the mind. We’re exploring the limits of our minds and of society and of our moral consciousness and of our bodies. Everything must be done to test the limits of rational thought but also to test and to push the conservativ

I often feel like I transcended to the dark side a long time ago and that it gradually pulls me deeper and deeper into its depths. It is like I have become a darkened soul so eroded and tormented that all shreds of innocence are lost. I cannot even discuss the majority of things that I witness and experience because I cannot cope with the drama of people discovering the truth of their hopelessness. Sometimes I think that I should be locked away in a place for the extremely unstable but then I realise it is the masses rushing around excited about something endlessly just out of reach that need to be locked away. Everyone expects so much. Everyone wants so much. Everyone is a victim of their own greed. 

Beautiful writing left to us by authors who penned their thoughts and troubles are often so electric and joyous that they are enough to help us through the dark night. Often when there has been negative communication or a hopeless breakdown or even just a hopeless, cold longing... the wonderful words of another human being put to page many years ago are like a guiding light for the heart and mind. Tonight, as I read Dusklands , I found myself thinking ‘wow’ mid-page and wanting to start again just to try to absorb more of the incredible poetic prose and imagery as it oozed from the page and filled my mind like a tiny vessel.                 These words written for the sake of one’s own sanity are so much more rewarding than those death words sent by ex-lovers and friends. Death words... the only words I know when it comes to love. Never the less, these are the words by which we learn and suffer. And through suffering and learning comes greater understanding and creativity. The s

I dreamt about you again, this time on much more favourable terms, and when I awoke I got out of bed and took my shorts off to put something warmer on in the freezing cold morning. As I stood, naked, at the foot of the bed, I suddenly recalled the times I’d do the same whilst you lay in my bed and, upon those mornings, as I took my shorts off, you would say ‘ooh la la’ with enthusiasm. I thought you were insane but I, naturally, loved it. I remember the time that I got out of bed the moment I awoke and you said ‘wait, you can’t get out of bed yet.’ I asked why and you answered ‘because we can’t go to work without having sex... that would just be wrong.’                 And so I sit here feeling better, almost revelling in my better health, sipping a glass of wine and eating crisps, cursing the lack of exercise I have had during recent times and yet feeling good because my memories of you at this point seem only to be sweet and the bitter pain of losing you has faded. I’m not sur

Even in my dreams you no longer offer me solace. For some reason we fell to the pavement together and I joked that you wanted me... you said ‘I wanted you once, many years ago, but that has passed and you need to let go.’ You went on to explain why it was that I wasn’t attractive any more but I can’t recall the words... something to do with the fact that I was still clinging to what it was we’d had all those years ago. It’s not as easy to let go when life is spent in books and films and music and lost hope.                 Alas, as of this morning, I am now officially registered to begin my Master’s Degree in September of this year. It is something to challenge the mind and has already introduced me to a couple of interesting new books – both of which arrived yesterday as the first couple of about a million that I have to buy – the first of which already has me ensconced; Dusklands by J M Coetzee.                 Anyway... life lingers on for now.

Why am I incapable of sleep? Why am I not consumed by sleep the way I am consumed by thoughts of those I have loved and lost? Such an innocent thing as a short afternoon nap eludes me for I am haunted by thoughts and ideas and recollections of events and conversations. I work through the patterns of words, try to make sense of your choice of grammatical effects and of tones. I recall all of the things that were worn, the way we embraced and how what we had was born and how it died. I try to clear my mind of all once more in that elusive search for sleep’s sensual grasp but all attempts fail and I find myself disturbing the cat as I turn one way and then the other before pulling up the covers and moving my legs. I reach out for a book and begin to read but four or five pages in I am too tired to continue. I realise there is no use and so I get up, step back into the pile of clothes that I left on the floor no more than an hour ago, and walk downstairs. The silence of the house scre

In sickness I am not able to do much other than lie here and think about you and the things that I’d like to say to you. I wonder why it is that you even gave me the time that you did before you disappeared. And, I suppose, that is the answer as to why everyone disappears. I wouldn’t spend a massive amount of time with me either if I had a choice.                 I’m at a loss in life. Perhaps a mid-life crisis? Yes, I think that is it. I attempted to cut my hair, it sometimes seems to help when I’m sick to make me feel more alive again, and I used the wrong clipper setting on the back of my head leaving it almost bald. I had no choice but to match that level all over. So... now I am hairless too.                 Reading updates on social media makes me feel even more sick. People ranging between their amazing/incredible/fantastic/wonderful lunches and dinners to others longing for Morrissey to retire. It’s often like that when someone has something to say. People want them ou

‘All alone I’ll be an Empire’ were the words once wisely uttered by Doctor Greg Graffin. There are oft times when I long for those I cannot have and build myself into a state of morbidity over a lonely weekend in my home but then I realise the potential and the unbridled joy of being single. One message from a friend could lead to anything from a brief trip to the pub for a few drinks to a night out on the town to European trip. These trips themselves are fraught with potential for what may happen; a discovery of an incredible place, the making of a friend, or a romantic fling with a relative stranger. I often wonder what it must be like to be a single woman being approached by men in almost every place they visit, being bought drinks when out in pubs and clubs, and being begged for a secret kiss or a moment’s chance. Never the less, I have been very fortunate to have visited Europe, America and Africa as a single person travelling alone or with a friend and to have experienced so