readmewritin-blog

[readmewritin-blog]

walking home from the dart

The circle turns green, I push the button and the sharp sea air catches my throat. I breath it in, deeply. Once I reach the top of the stairs, I know the sight will calm me down. A giant expanse. the horizon a calming constant while the waves below chop and batter the pier. I breathe in the sight as I breathed in the sea air. The tears which I had manage to bury for the journey peeped out, as if drawn out by their kindred ocean. They are not real tears. I am sad because I know I should be sad, but I am not really sad. And I don;t know why, it scares me. My feelings no longer make sense to me.

  I hurt her. And I don;t seem to care. But I love her so why don’t I care?

I turn and cross. Down the stairs again. The beep of my leap card against the machine and I’m out. Walking briskly towards the village, my jumper although it makes me feel safe does little to stop the chill. I think about him now. The one who doesn’t know me. I think I must be crazy. I daydream obsessively about boys who know little of and care little for me, yet I cut those close to me. I need help, I know I do. But I don;t like to talk about these things. Its embarrassing. I don;t know why.

Home and tea, and tea and tea and tea than bed and a while before sleep. Then work and the dart home and my quiet, lonely walk.

[readmewritin-blog]

Connecting the dots

I need to connect the dots, but they’re mixed up all wrong. 

My sense of self does not follow my past as easily as two follows one.

I am jumbled up. Opposing ideas and feelings.

Too many contradictions wear me down. I don’t know who I am because I am too many things.

I try to connect any dot I can, with no reason to the method.

Desperate attempts to form a coherent self leave me fragmented.

By trying to connect everything, I feel like nothing.

[readmewritin-blog]

  The room is too cosy. Tv prepared me for dark, bare and with one of those one way mirror windows. But thats America. This is like a waiting room, cushioned chairs and artwork. they have a fucking kettle and digestives, stale though.  The door opens, its the man before..whats his name.

“So I have the papers, are you sure you didn’t see anything?”

“Nothing, I told you I was on my phone”

“You do understand the severity of whats happened here?, and this occured barely four or five metres from where you were sitting. You know what, tell me again”

“I’ve already told you everything”

“I don;t care, now tell me again: why did you go to the fountain?”

  People wished at the fountain, throw in a couple of cents and make a wish. It seems to be the nature of fountains, I don;t know why. This one isn;t even old. Like people putting locks on every fucking bridge they can. People are cheesey. But yeah I sit there and stare at the floor lined with faded cents. There was the occasional couple of euros which I fished out. 

  The fountain’s always been my place, we used to live not even ten minutes from here. So its habit, I guess. Thats why i went there today and yesterday and the day before that. Its just my spot. Today I was on my phone, playing linerunner. So addictive. I’m pretty stressed about college work at the moment so I was just trying to forget about that. I like kind of noticed the old lady, but not really. I didn’t hear her fall or scream, I was on my phone and not paying attention. Its not my fault, i didn’t do anything. 

  I said all this again to whatshisname. He doesn’t even care that I need to get home. Like I have college in the morning, although I could probably get out of it for this. A lie-in would be fucking nice. 

[readmewritin-blog]

  I have always been a good writer, but I’ve never written. I just knew, assumed it would be easy. That once I decided to do it I would pick up a pen one day and a masterpiece would just happen. It wasn’t until last year when I actually started trying that I realised I am in fact a fraud. Writing it appears does not come naturally to me. This is a shock, because although I had never put pen to paper before (finger to keyboard might be more apt) it just seemed natural to me that i would write.

   I live in my head. Making up stories is 70% of my conscious thought, and I assume 100% of my subconscious. As a child I read everything. Nancy Drew to cereal boxes to brochures shoved through the door. It was how I avoided boredom but I was not a sideline reader. I put myself in every story. I created an entire subplot to Harry Potter which I daydreamed about obsessively. Yet I never wrote, I created stories like a writer but I would perform them. I was an actor, and I didn;t dare show anyone so I did it alone. If it was just me then I had no need to write. 

    Now when I go to write my ideas dry up. Ideas come so naturally to me, so its scary. I don;t want to force it, this is against my nature. But what other form of expression is there?  I am going to use this page to force myself to write. Every day, just something. Because I am currently fooling myself.