unforgiving september...
Its a strange time of year, a time of the year when everyday feels like a sunday. Quiet house, clock ticking, mind-numbing television acting as background noise; Today is the first day in nearly 2 weeks that I've been up before 5 in the evening (I've been given new meds to help me sleep and they've worked but now all I seem to do is sleep)... I went out last night though, with an old friend, we got horribly drunk and played pool all night then just before kicking out time we performed an incredibley off key rendition of "My Way" to rapturous applause (we were definitely more Sid Viscious than Frank Sinatra). On the way home though, he told me what my ex-girlfriend had been up to and now I can't get it out of my head. I'm sure he didn't do it maliciously, there aren't many people who actually realise how fragile I am, but what he told me was very distressing anyway. I won't go into it but every time I think about it I feel like... Well, I can't really explain it but needless to say, it isn't a nice feeling.
I can see the depressed thoughts in my head, clear normal thoughts, unconfused and pure; and the dark jumbled up thoughts, they feel like misery, like cold and empty streets, black and white in my mind... Ah, I wish I could explain what I was thinking, it always seems so pointless to even try. Anyway, the point is that I can recognise despair in the tone of my thoughts and at the moment, right now as I type, everything seems black and white...
Sometimes there's a sense of destiny in the way the insanity and neurosis hits me, an almost prophetic knowingness... Its like a bus trying to run me down, but instead of moving aside or running away I just keep on walking straight towards it. An instinct for self-destruction is what my mum calls it... Seems like a good expanation (or excuse maybe) for my self harm. I don't know though, why does my brain force this torture on me, what is it about me that makes me dwell on the intricacies of my demons, pick away at them until I can't stand it anymore and break down? I don't expect any answers, there are never any answers; in fact, I don't know what I'm expecting from any of this.
I see my life shattering like glass when I start to think about what ifs and maybes. Its then that the dark thoughts stop being dark thoughts, they become clear thoughts, crystal and unconfused... Thats when I wish I was dead, when the depression becomes vivid and real... My mind tricks me, lets me believe that the despair is clarity and that clarity is the despair...
The books I read fuel my obsession, full of psychosis and analysis, Chuck Palahniuk, William burroughs, Kathy Acker; All authors whose self-professed mania has driven them to write the most amazingly insightful novels... I feed on that misery and decry those who believe that they know the ins and outs of the sickness, its not clear cut... its a jumbled mess of confused signals and static that no one could ever decipher. You see the pain behind the words not in them, its a conscious purging of the subconcious for no-ones benefit other than the author. These novels seem almost contemplative to me, not real expressions of what the writer feels but reflections for analysis, raising the questions but never once even hinting at the answers... Its not the same in movies, movies aren't personal enough. If I'm watching a film and something sad happens, or happy even, I have to turn it off, I can't deal with that directly impersonal emotion; American Psycho and Fight Club are the only exceptions, both of which were originally novels that I'd read loads of times while growing up... Ahhh, I've forgotten the point I wanted to make, too caught up in talking movies dammit!
Man, I'm shit at writing, always letting the compulsion to bleed my heart onto the page take over. I don't why I've written this, just venting I suppose... Another singularly futile exercise... Oh well, whatever, nevermind...
PF
I can see the depressed thoughts in my head, clear normal thoughts, unconfused and pure; and the dark jumbled up thoughts, they feel like misery, like cold and empty streets, black and white in my mind... Ah, I wish I could explain what I was thinking, it always seems so pointless to even try. Anyway, the point is that I can recognise despair in the tone of my thoughts and at the moment, right now as I type, everything seems black and white...
Sometimes there's a sense of destiny in the way the insanity and neurosis hits me, an almost prophetic knowingness... Its like a bus trying to run me down, but instead of moving aside or running away I just keep on walking straight towards it. An instinct for self-destruction is what my mum calls it... Seems like a good expanation (or excuse maybe) for my self harm. I don't know though, why does my brain force this torture on me, what is it about me that makes me dwell on the intricacies of my demons, pick away at them until I can't stand it anymore and break down? I don't expect any answers, there are never any answers; in fact, I don't know what I'm expecting from any of this.
I see my life shattering like glass when I start to think about what ifs and maybes. Its then that the dark thoughts stop being dark thoughts, they become clear thoughts, crystal and unconfused... Thats when I wish I was dead, when the depression becomes vivid and real... My mind tricks me, lets me believe that the despair is clarity and that clarity is the despair...
The books I read fuel my obsession, full of psychosis and analysis, Chuck Palahniuk, William burroughs, Kathy Acker; All authors whose self-professed mania has driven them to write the most amazingly insightful novels... I feed on that misery and decry those who believe that they know the ins and outs of the sickness, its not clear cut... its a jumbled mess of confused signals and static that no one could ever decipher. You see the pain behind the words not in them, its a conscious purging of the subconcious for no-ones benefit other than the author. These novels seem almost contemplative to me, not real expressions of what the writer feels but reflections for analysis, raising the questions but never once even hinting at the answers... Its not the same in movies, movies aren't personal enough. If I'm watching a film and something sad happens, or happy even, I have to turn it off, I can't deal with that directly impersonal emotion; American Psycho and Fight Club are the only exceptions, both of which were originally novels that I'd read loads of times while growing up... Ahhh, I've forgotten the point I wanted to make, too caught up in talking movies dammit!
Man, I'm shit at writing, always letting the compulsion to bleed my heart onto the page take over. I don't why I've written this, just venting I suppose... Another singularly futile exercise... Oh well, whatever, nevermind...
PF
