Had the weirdest dream ever in which basically everyone I’ve ever known and loved and fallen out with showed up in a haunted house. It wasn’t the pleasantest dream while it was going on (there were also some mice and a couple of gory deaths involving parents), but when I woke up I sensed it could be in some way cathartic.
A Post-Fairy Tale
Blood and sugar
Spiked the hunger,
And hunger blossomed
Into a fever.
The slow treacly burn
Of basic desire.
And soon it was dark.
And then it was darkest.
And then it was darker.
Black and purple and green and blue
Deep red welts and a faded bruise.
Give me your fists will you
So I could stay its pummeling –
If just for this moment
But you say –
Give me your lips will ya
So I could kiss you back
Never quite got the hang of writing poetry. Despite my love for the genre, I’m a prose person all the way through. (I think because poetry requires not only a sense of musicality, but also a passion for truth, which I don’t have)
But sometimes I do make occasional, brave forays into the land of verse. And ah, there’s nothing like bad poetry to lift the spirits on an autumn morning, eh?
It’s on nights like this that I miss S with a ferocity that equals the shock and awe of romantic love. Then it passes.
The last words she said to me as she sailed out of my life (unwittingly) were: There’s no way we wouldn’t see each other soon, anyway.’ It’s been 10 years, counting.
Trying to rebuild a burnt bridge with A, in the form of a mini book-club. Reading Capote’s In Cold Blood. Great books always make me tremble slightly, to the extent that I end up not reading it at all. Let’s hope it ends happily this time, and I’m not just talking about the book.
Sometimes when I look as if I’m very far away, I am in fact trying really hard to be present.
Being present has never been harder than it is right now. Sometimes when I open my eyes, I feel like the apocalypse is upon me. But then all that’s before me, in reality, is merely a plastic bag and some kids running around in a park.
Finally on the edge of finishing a shit-tonne of work. I forgot that it’s actually rather pleasant to work hard, provided that my brain can function moderately and that said work is not so challenging as to be crushing. Ah, one more day and freedom will be mine again! If only for a week or so.
A lot of unpleasant characters at work, but what can I say. I am somewhat reminded of the time my friend delivered this verdict on one of my oldest, bestest friends: ‘She’s not a bad person, but that doesn’t mean she’s a good person either.’ I suppose that’s where most people lie, in those morally grey areas of shade.
Too busy to think these days. Even forgot the lipstick yesterday and felt really shitty and somewhat naked as I sat through the morning MTR rush of pretty ladies and doddering old men, thinking to myself: My, there was a time when to go out fresh-faced and make-up-free was a viable option.
Am very annoyed with several things in my life, but don’t feel particularly compelled to correct them right now as 1. Feel enslaved to somewhat shitty job + shitty freelance and 2. Pride’s getting in the way. One day I will potentially feel sad and ashamed instead of annoyed but right now all I feel is a profound sense of irritation, with myself, with other people – both close and not-so-close.
To sum up:
As the heart grows older/It will come to such sights colder
(I had this pinned up above my bed when I was at uni, which says a lot about my mental health I daresay)
Wish I could be more like the bunny in question and less like the current slothful, lethargic me.
Need to find find viable ways of ‘meaningful distraction’ – be it long walks or non-fiction books or new video games.
It’s a beautiful Sunday morning, joggers are whizzing through the neighbourhood, the trees are filled with birdsong – but here I’m curled up on the couch, staring into space…
I wish words like ‘spring’ and ‘action’ could yet apply to me.
Picture by Paula Rego
When I get depressed, the ambition and the spikiness gets pushed back to a very deep place. Rough edges get blurred out by tears. Somehow, I always come off as nice and chill and more beta than usual when it’s heartbreak season. My feelings of defeat gets misconstrued as softness. Which is misleading, perhaps most of all to myself, because I start to doubt what sort of person I really am. Even more confusing when I look back at history!
The Girl Who Had Everything by Cecily Brown
And the wall is made of light – that entirely credible yet unreal Vermeer light…light like that does not exist, but we wish it did. We wish the sun could make us young and beautiful, we wish our clothes could glisten against our skins, most of all, we wish everyone we knew could be brightened simply by our looking at them, as are the maid with the letter and the soldier with the hat.
The girl with the music sits in another sort of light, the fitful, overcast light of life, by which we see ourselves and others only imperfectly, and seldom.
From Girl Interrupted, by Susanna Kaysen
I sometimes think to myself what a glorious and traitorous thing the body is. It’s all you have, this bag of skin and bones you live in, yet so often it betrays you with diseases large and small, by sprouting hairs in unlikely places, by drying up when you need it to be wet, by building up layers of blubber when you want to whittle it down to the bone.
Key words of the day: beauty, shame.