Hello my loves,
I haven’t written in a while, properly. I seem to have kind of stopped doing that lately. I’ve currently been writing everything in my physical journal as of recent, because it feels better and like it does a better job of purging my feelings that way, though it seems I can only ever do one at a time – I can never have both. Either my journal suffers or the blog does, I can never manage to maintain both at the same time. I’ve been reading a lot of Bukowski recently, he makes me want to be a writer. A real one. Or, he makes me want to just write for the hell of it, like I used to. Like I had to write or I couldn’t breathe, like I had to write or I would go insane. I’ve a feeling I heard people saying there were problems with Bukowski, but I think he’s brilliant. They don’t make writers like that anymore. Modern day writers, or more so, poets, will never be that good. And that’s just the way it is.
Some days I feel fine and other days I feel like I’m in a depression. A trance I fall into as everything glazes over, and I’m not even in the room. I acknowledge my thoughts, but they don’t hurt me, because I’m numb. They can’t. They just reside within me as I sit with the weight of the world on my shoulders, this numbness seeping into my bones until I’m twice as heavy as I was before I sat down. I could stare out of the window for hours and feel nothing. Otherwise, I constantly think about everything that’s ever happened to me and am in a continuous state of panic. I don’t know what’s worse, feeling so riddled with anxiety I’m afraid I’ll go insane and rip my brain out of my skull, or feeling nothing at all, unable to become affected by anything because nothing can hurt me now apart from myself, only and always myself.
There’s that saying about the tree in the forest, if it falls and no one hears it, did it make a sound? Did it even happen? I often feel that way about myself. Do I exist if no one is there to see it? All of these things happening within me, to myself only, but do they even exist if no one was there to hear them? That’s what writing is. Writing is my tree, the sound it makes as it falls to the ground. It happened, even if no one was there to see it. I happened, even though sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. I don’t strive for happiness anymore, happiness is unrealistic and I don’t think it exists. Now I strive for peace. Within myself and the things surrounding me – are these thoughts helping my peace? Is what I’m about to do going to aid my peace? My therapist tells me I can’t be expected to deal with things I’ve never been given the tools to be able to cope with, I often think about that. I’m not sure I’ve been given many tools over my time, which is why I go to therapy now. I want those tools.
It feels like I’ve lost my passion for life, I’ve not the motivation to do anything at all. I’d rather laze around and do nothing or, I’d rather not, but I don’t have the energy to do anything about it. I’m basically just reading and waiting for the year to end. Looking out of the window and waiting for the year to end. For no particular reason; I don’t believe there’ll be anything great at the end of the year, I’m just waiting for it to happen, I suppose to at least mark the passage of something, to feel like at least, I’ve lived through something, I’ve gotten through it. A small achievement in the hands of time. If I could sleep until next year, I’d probably take you up on the offer. It’s strange. I don’t really feel anything at all, but I would like to shake myself awake, if I could be bothered.
“Another letter to August. Sealed with hope and mystery. Thanks for being you this year, I wonder what I’ll be saying in twelve months’ time when you come around again. How different will my life be, what will have changed? Maybe I’ll talk about it. If it doesn’t hurt too much. I hope it doesn’t hurt too much. I hope August holds me up for at least another twelve months – I hope it can continue to be good to me because of the hope I have for it, I don’t think it’ll let me down.”
Past Chlo, it didn’t hurt too much. Well, it did, but it doesn’t now. You’re working through it. It all turned out for the best in the end, you’ll be stronger this August than you were back then, it held you up for another 12 months like you asked. Here’s to another 12 more. Strange how that post feels like a week ago yet things that were a week ago feel like they were a year away. Lightyears, even.