REPORT A PROBLEM
It seems horribly appropriate for the New Year to have started like this. Kicking off with a blank slate, a new beginning. Except itís the beginning of nothing at all, only the end of something wonderful. Something that made me smile upon waking, that kept me from harm. But, no longer. I cannot change the way I feel, I cannot force feelings that are there no more. I wish I could; I would make time go backwards if I could experience those butterflies and that spark again. Sure, psychological walls were broken, but they were there for a good reason.
I wish to be blank. I would start all over again, though I do not know how I would make myself happy; I do not know how this is supposed to work. Iím not suicidal, not completely; I donít give up so easily. I just canít think of a single thing to make things right. I have done so many bad things and I have made so many wrong decisions. I have had phases of being happy, so happy that it knocks the wind out of me, but they never last. I donít have a clue what I am doing.
ever truly know what they want? I certainly never seem to. I was so sure that this kind of thing couldnít ever happen again. I find someone amazing, someone seemingly perfect, and eventually end up constantly switching between wanting them completely out of my life and wanting to never let them go. You canít have it both ways. Thatís why itís best to stay away. Thatís why I shouldnít get close. Is it insane to throw away perfection? Some days I felt smothered in bliss. The further you pull something in tight, the harder it will bounce backwards.
Iíve spent the last three days mostly watching a candle melt. The dripping wax hardens in unique twists along the side, the impression of a waterfall frozen in time. The candle folds in on itself at the top, always threatening to cave in and push the wick into liquid wax. It has a different kind of beauty to an unlit candle; itís ever changing and surprising. Whilst you may wish to preserve it at one moment, waiting for its next transformation is far more appealing. Candles bring comfort; a small glimmer of light and warmth, isolated from the surrounding darkness.
The flame no longer stands tall; I am continually draining the liquid wax to avoid the wick becoming fully consumed. The walls of the candle tower over the pitiful flicker. It is obvious that there is too much wax and not enough fire to melt it. The frozen rivers are no longer natural in their beauty but manmade, forced by my own hand. Yes, there is still a sense of fascination, but now it is in the destruction. The varying shades and unique texture of the wax will be the only remaining clue of what once was sculpted to perfection.
Iím placing everything on you. You fantastical creatures, you unreal beauties. You may become my life again; you may take over every thought, every fiber of my being. In return, keep me afloat is all I ask. Itís not healthy, itís nowhere near as fulfilling, but it works. I trade my reliance on one thing for another; you cannot fail me. You cannot hurt me, unless I make it so. Beings of imagination, they keep me company every waking hour. Iím always thinking of you. I can make you everything I am not and everything that I long to be.
The one question Iíve always wanted to be asked? Itís not in the question, itís in my answer. People ask a lot but I never answer truthfully. Iím always waiting to be asked, just one more time. Next time, always the next time, I will answer truthfully. One word, just one word. Thereís no need to elaborate, no need to answer further questions. One word and you can walk away. How much weight is there in that word, that one syllable, those two letters? A tremendous amount. Too much for my tongue to carry. Not enough for me to crack.
I never seem to stop waiting; drifting aimlessly, Iíve been filling my days with shoes, belts, telly and alcohol, but nothing ever feels purposeful. Nothing ever feels weighted; no amount of food could fill this hole. The only time I feel contended is when Iím running. I can imagine the treadmill is lush grass beneath my feet, carrying on endlessly. If I ran to the horizon it wouldnít be far enough. Whether Iím running away or running to, I donít know. Maybe itís both; if only I could run to you and away from myself, perhaps then everything would fit.
Being alone is so very draining. I never realised how much energy it took, and yet I did this for sixteen and a half years. They werenít always the happiest of years, but I donít remember feeling like this. Like when you delete something really important and then accidentally empty the recycle bin as well. A ridiculous analogy, but I
ridiculous. Part of me thinks that the only thing that has changed this time around is the knowledge, the memories, of what life could be like. I have to wonder; would only a fool or a madman choose this?
Daydreaming takes up so much time in the day, though itís not necessarily counter-productive. Sure, it can be distracting and you might forget where you are or what youíre doing, but itís such a wonderful safe haven to retreat to. Especially when your mind is flooding with much more distressing thoughts and memories. Thatís when fantasy takes over. The only drawback is returning to reality and coming face to face with the truth of it all. If only you could be whisked away through time and space, to keep running forever. Imagination is the next best thing to running away.
Hangovers are so mind-boggling; the pain, the inability to move without feeling like the bottom of your stomach might fall away, the despair, and yetÖ Theyíre somewhat enjoyable. One last reminder of the previous night; the more your body hurts and the less of the night you can remember, the better a time you had. Which is clearly delusional, yet it often does hold up. Of course, it might not be that you had such a brilliant night, more that it just appeared that way through your alcohol-tinted glasses. Which, when all is said and done, is just as good.
Today I went to college six hours before my first class started. My friends call me nuts; I call it Ďterribly disorganised yet eventually motivatedí. Tomorrow I am resitting one maths module from last year and today was the start of my revision. Sure, Iíve been attending classes since September even though Iím not enrolled for them but, I think I need a last-minute cram. I sat in the library and worked my way through three practise papers. I love maths; I wish Iíd been able to continue with it this year but itís best to stick to your strengths.
This is my thirteenth day alone. Itís been a few days since I cried like my life depended on it. To be calm and collected so soon; does that make me heartless? I think the truth is that Iíve just accepted things the way they are and that I had the best eighteen months of my life. For that, I can be grateful. Iíll bet a lot of people never get to experience something like that. I wouldnít trade it for the world but there are so many things I would do differently. Maybe everything could have worked out better.
Today I felt like a schoolgirl all over again. Admittedly, I only left school eighteen months ago, but the last three years I never felt like a schoolgirl. Today, I felt like I reclaimed that innocence and naivety to an extent. Back to the times when boys made my stomach flutter and my smile widen, and when my evenings werenít filled with the anxiety and despair that came hand in hand with self injury and depression. Iíve long left those difficult things behind, but every now and then something reminds me that Iíve been granted a new lease of life.
Thereís a point where exhaustion becomes comforting; eventually you let everything pass by at its own speed. Just sit here and be content with existing; itís amazing what a high something so simple can give you. Sitting, doing nothing. Of course, at this point a Ďhighí is somewhat relative. Just be thankful to be back to normal whilst tiredness washes over you. It feels cleansing, when your eyes feel like theyíve been rubbed raw and one side of your body is threatening to surrender to gravity and plummet to the earthís core. The other side holds up, in stout defiance.
In this state, can you really ever give a specific answer when asked just what it was that made you smile so much? Not one thing could create this reaction of intense joy and carefree period of blissful existence alone; itís a mixing pot of numerous factors, all balancing in such a way that your day becomes fabulous and to be savoured. Such a small gesture can contribute so much; I danced across the car park when you waved at me. Of course, I waited until I was out of your sight; I do have a certain amount of self-restraint.
Oh you lucky, lucky thing. Youíve become the object of my attention and thatís no laughing matter. I think about you a lot; my brain exclaims that I love you every now and then, but Iíve been
to convince it thatís not true. You see, I know that I go overboard with these matters. A small wave across the room and weíre practically hitched. I wish I could warn you, but youíd probably run away. And then I wouldnít have a chance in hell; at least allow me my little fantasies. You poor, poor bastard; youíre keeping me sane.
I ran with you in my dreams; the perfect companion. Itís stricken me, again and again, that even these blissful encounters wonít last forever. You find
and words fail you. Only the gasp of choked happiness can convey, to yourself and no one else, just how much they mean to you, how much they have not only saved your life, but made it.
And then, it crumbles. It wasnít an illusion ever, though it feels that way now. I never learn; Iím still yearning to run with you. Your flaws so apparent; I treasure each and ever one.
When I die, I canít imagine Iíll mind how fat I am. I doubt itíll be first and foremost in my mind; the size of my thighs, the curves of my body, how sculpted my face appears in comparison to yesterday. Eventually Iíll rot and Iíll be thinner than I ever dreamt. Tonight, Iíll resolve to remember this and try not to spend every day counting calories and figuring out how far I need to run to outbalance them. I wish I could celebrate my figure, instead of loathing it. I wish I could enjoy the life this bulge represents.
Imagine if it was easy to simply tell someone you like them. That you canít help but stare at them during class instead of listening doesnít need to feature; no sense scaring the poor boy away whilst youíre only getting started. If only people walked around with their feelings stamped on their heads; then youíd know whether to approach enthusiastically or back away, dejected. I can only imagine itíd be the latter. Sure, you take the time to talk to me, but the pleasure I get from this is far out of proportion with the actual significance of our exchanges.
I canít do anything in small amounts; if only I could have a nice, bite-size crush. I get obsessions; not just with people, with telly and with music. I spent the past month working my way through the entire four seasons of the new Doctor Who and ended up dreaming about it on a regular basis. I have over a dayís worth of music of a few select bands whose music I canít help but make my life and soul. I have a one-track mind, though I leap from one track to the next, always going in the same direction.
I just bleached the red out of half my hair. Iím now blonde, orange and red; mum laughed at the unevenness, but Iíve always liked that effect. Perfectly coloured hair is boring; I like the variation. I like not knowing exactly how Iíll look. If I could have tie-dye hair, I would. Iíve seen various attempts, but they werenít quite what I wanted. Perhaps I should shave my head and wear a different turban every day. I think itíd be itchy though; I find I can only wear a hat for a few hours before it starts to get uncomfortable.
Sweet Jesus, youíre driving me insane. To say that you are completely oblivious would be an understatement. Of course, had you a clue about me and the way I feel, no doubt youíd run a mile. Iím all of a flutter if you even glance my way; heaven forbid we converse. When we do, itís a wonder I donít start dancing with joy; mentally I am already, but I can just contain myself. I can also contain the jealously; I felt like crying as you walked out of class today. I must belong in an asylum; I barely know you.
Deep down I know you can never be
dashing hero; youíre so much more than that. I donít know if you can ever truly be a one-person kind of guy. Not only do you have a back catalogue so extensive it even seems to surprise you, but itís just not in your nature. I flatter myself; am I the closest you can get to exclusive? The way you look at me sometimes, I could believe it. I could believe when you came back; you kissed me so fiercely that all of the others may have well as never existed.
Thereís nothing remarkable about you at first glance. The coffee boy, the one who stays behind whilst the rest of us risk life and limb to keep the world running. And yet, you astound me. Youíre the one stable thing in a world ever-changing; youíre what I returned for. I can never be everything you desire, but I can try my hardest. Sometimes I even think thatís part of the attraction; the challenge of finally tying me down. If anyone could do it, itíd be you. Both unremarkable and astounding at once, youíre the foundation that keeps me from crumbling.
Despite the constant, jarring thud of trainers against the black rubber belt, you could be gliding across rainbow sheets of satin; musical notes brushing against your hair, the shiver of bliss contentedly running down your forehead and shoulders. Warm sweat will later tingle in the cool breeze and youíll be overstretched plasticene, smooth and disappearing into the ether; atoms of air will embrace your skin as it dissolves and youíll finally be at rest. At one, with particles of sunlight and birdsong at the very same time; all this from a raised heart rate and an incentive larger than life.
Saturday night, I was convinced Iíd go home only to top myself. Itís rare for me to feel such strong conviction, especially about that. I may be weak, but Iím stronger than killing myself, to paraphrase a particular hero of mine. A particular hero of mine whoís been missing for years and has legally been declared dead. What an icon to aspire to, of all the people I could have chosen. As you can tell, I didnít top myself. I got drunk and realised just how lucky I am; my best friend stroked my hair whilst I moaned in agony.
Tea is magical, splendid, and comforting. Itís far more reassuring than red wine, though you can always rely on wine. Warmth spreads beneath your palms and a heavenly scent reminds you of hangovers spent with best friends. Friends youíd walk to the ends of the earth for, friends who know just what that exasperated groan means when you emerge from a class shared with your crush, and friends who guide you calmly through parking your beloved car because you lack bi-ocular vision and, thus, depth perception. I love the three of you more than I could ever attempt to say.
Recently, Iíve been feeling a whole lot more comfortable with myself, like I suddenly know a lot more about what makes me who I am. I can revel in the things that make me tick; Iím seeing the world in a somewhat altered light, and itís fantastic. In some ways, this also provokes some anxiety; Iíve been given plenty of food for thought. I regularly feel I just need to take that final (or is it Ďfirstí?) step, but I donít know if Iím completely ready yet. That time will come, and I know everything will be fine and dandy.
The worst phase of musical tastes is when you go for days and weeks not knowing what to listen to. You stick something, anything, on but donít really connect with it. Sure, you might enjoy this album, that song, but what you really need is a craving; at this point, youíd settle for a simple desire. And when you finally find your footing, itís bliss. You feel like a kid in a candy store; a few choice artists to choose from, but an intense love for each and every one. It feels like your secret, the soundtrack to your week.
Itís funny; you think your secrets are a huge deal and that your friends couldnít live with your mistrust and betrayal, but surely they have them too? Itís comforting to think that they hold back too; we tell each other everything but there are certain areas we just donít go on a daily basis. If I can act, so can they. It only occurs to me every now and then, but I appreciate it. You never know, the four of us could be the same person and weíd never know it. Iíll get around to telling you all one day.
The Tip Jar