Pseudo-Artistic Masturbation

Freedom is to play. To create from within the self. 

[royalofthecoast]

Feeling the need to pour my heart out again. Feeling very strange and lonely at the moment as I sit in my room with nobody else in the house. Family has flown off to their holiday until the new year and will be almost entirely out of contact. 

Ashton isn’t responding to my texts, but I don’t know why I’m stressing because I feel I’m losing interest in him anyway. The problem is, I am not satisfied with him sexually or emotionally, but I’m afraid of what life is like without him because he is what stands between me and the realisation that I am alone. He is the only one I can be truly open with. I feel angry at myself for wishing that he could be somebody else. I really don’t know what to do, other than waiting and hoping that my feelings for him will grow again.Is it fair on him? If he wrote these words and I read them, would I not wish that we just rip the bandage off already? In my mind, a break-up is set in stone, so why do I prolong the inevitable?

I’m spending a lot of time in my room by myself. I hate that. i used to love it as a kid, but that was when I kept myself occupied with internet games on YouTube. Now it’s a lot harder to keep myself occupied. I’d like to spend the time reading or watching good films, and I do, but often I get this feeling like the walls are closing in on me and I need to get the fuck out. This cold, these streets, this city is keeping me trapped. 

I don’t know what to make of all this. I’m having some anxiety, obvious by what I’ve just written, but I don’t know how to answer any of these questions yet. Lately I’ve been admiring spiritual people. I remember being spiritual. When I abandoned Islam and was just moving to this country. Everything was so exciting and the universe seemed huge, and open and mysterious and full of opportunities. I would go on non-stop rants about our vast universe, but now I’ve become so dull and pessimistic. The worst part is that I don’t want to feel so disillusioned but I can’t help it. 

We all tell ourselves stories and I think that the stores we tell of ourselves shape us. I don’t like my current story, the one I have just told of a hopeful young man who moved to London with dreams and aspirations, only to have them crushed and fall into despair and disillusionment. I want to tell myself a different story, but It’s going to take time. I’m gonna keep trying. I will get back up.

[royalofthecoast]

There is certainly no need to be worried, they have definitely brought gifts and kisses. There is a strange smell in the air and I hear that you can feel it to, the way that it opens your pores and and all you can do is scream. Nobody can hear you. Elsewhere or here it doesn’t make a difference for the camera. There’s sugar in the air and licorices to be tasted. Fuck it taste so bitter I can’t see shit without my eyes. Where are they? Give them back to me, or the yellow constenoples will know what true sacrifice means. Dance for them! That’s all they want from you, they don’t think you deserve to sprint, no matter how much you need to. You sneeze and they cut your nipple off, it’s disgusting! But there is hope. It lies between the lines and if you can find it then there’s no saying who you will be. Or who you were. Do you know? It doesn’t matter who sees, it only matters who looks. And they won’t look, that I can guarantee. We all witnessed when they swore on wormy graves, spinning and spinning and spinning until they’re dizzy love.They can’t help it, those poor creature’s. I only want whats best. But I don’t know what that is, and I’m trying so hard to find out, day after day, it fucking sucks when you can hear the toilet flushing, but there’s nobody there. It’s terrifying and this time nobody will hold you, because the truth is that they don’t care.

[royalofthecoast]

Why is there a part of me which loves to torture myself? Why do I keep getting high if not to bash myself? I feel my head tightening; cringing in pain. 

[royalofthecoast]

SURREALISM IS DEAD, LONG LIVE ITS CARCASS

[royalofthecoast]

Surrealism cannot be an advertisement

Surrealism is the feat of doing the undoable

Surrealism must break the rules of nature

Surrealism imposes no ideology

Surrealism is hidden deep in subconscious

Surrealism can be achieved through digital effects; denying this is to restrain Surrealism from evolving

[royalofthecoast]

I feel alienated from the music I listen to every day. My pocket isn’t snug. I don’t have designer bags, I don’t want designer bags. I am tired of being told that I can’t be happy until I achieve expensive clothing or any other material thing for that matter. How can I step away from consumerism when I’m surrounded by advertisement?

[royalofthecoast]

Today I feel very sad. I’ve started smoking again. I’m easily overwhelmed by loneliness and a sense of clinginess. Words don’t leave my mouth when I FaceTime Ashton. What I want the most at this moment is to be held by somebody. If not Ashton, then someone who too longs to feel. 

I have less than a month left of university. I am 15000 words behind. I wish I could zoom out and see my life from afar, re-ordering people and priorities. I dare wonder what an older Me would say or do in this moment. 

I have met a mind which above any other I’ve known contends as a “soulmate”. This judgement is formed after many phone calls and just 1 trip to Tate. The way we open up to one another is nothing short of miraculous. We share the same curiosity and dry humour. He adores me.

Yet despite all of this, I cannot love a mind without the body. He is a fine looking young man but my passion for beautiful flesh outweighs my desire to end the soul-shattering solitude.

[royalofthecoast]

a reminder

I am writing this because it seems that I forget once the high wears off. It is very simple: When it comes to weed, the negatives outweigh the positives. Every time. I have tried short breaks, I have tried long breaks, every time it has been the same. Weed clouds my focus. It shortens my attention span. It makes me doubtful. It makes me forget. It confuses me.  It tires me. It bounces me up and down uncontrollably.

Sobriety is stability. When sober, I have the energy to do things effortlessly. I still struggle and suffer, but I learn and I grow. When was the last time I smoked without a sense of regret? Freedom is the ability to see my behaviour and choose what’s best for me. Quitting was a good choice. That means quitting for good. I stopped for almost 2 months. Then I smoked a couple times. Today I smoked some more. And so I write this in order to nip the problem in the bud before a relapse. It always starts this way. When I am smoking despite my will, I have lost control. I quit to reclaim control. 

[royalofthecoast]

I smile when you’re getting dressed in the morning, And I smile when you text me.. And yes, I still wait a few minutes before replying to your texts. I don’t love you. This has nothing to do with love.  It’s about learning to let go with you.

[royalofthecoast]

I have not smoked weed since the beginning of the new year 28 days ago. It feels good to be proud of myself, and I am relieved by the lack of urge to smoke. And although the first week was one of the hardest in recent memory, I now find that I am surprisingly ok with sobriety. My mind is sharper and as a result, so is my wit. 

Creativity was one of my main fears about quitting weed. It feels silly to write this now, but I genuinely believed that my creativity would not flow without the drug. In reality, the ideas formed during a high dribbled out of my mind, often non-sensical and confusing. Now my creativity is focused. I feel equally, if not more excited about creating. I no longer just want to dream, I want to make.

[royalofthecoast]

I haven’t written anything here in a long time. Frankly, I think it’s because I feel good. Most of my posts have come from a deep level of anxiety and despair. I usually write at nights, when I’m alone and vulnerable. But now it is day, and I smile much more easily. The clouds are particularly gorgeous at the moment.

[royalofthecoast]

I feel as though I was a cat, trapped in a heavily furnished home where memories take form as old books and framed photographs. A monstrous pile of stuff. The walls smell of piss yet there seems to be no-one home. 

But every night I make my way to the top of some pile and I look out the window. Stars, galaxies, entire worlds swallowed by black holes. Time and space lives and dies out there, but I am in here. If only I could reach out and disappear into it.

[royalofthecoast]

I feel myself dripping out of reality. I’m aware as I bounce between truth and lies. The trick is to breathe in... 2... 3... 4... 5... Out.. 2... 3....

[royalofthecoast]

His mouth His shoulders The hairs on his belly The way he covers his face when he’s embarrassed He says I make him laugh I adore his smile

[royalofthecoast]

I woke last night. My arm did not. Nor the rest of my body. I could feel it; death.

The following morning I reached for a glass of water . and for a moment I did not know what I was holding. Cold. smooth.  But what?

The coffee was noticeably bitter that morning and my cereal was tooth-achingly sweet.

I then looked into the mirror.  Couldn’t see shit.

[royalofthecoast]

If he is worth fighting for then I will fight for him I fight against myself to show him that a life together is not a tedious climb but a soothing stroll.

[royalofthecoast]

I am here I am now