A/N: I wanna put a warning on this one because it might trigger some people, especially on the themes of grief and loss (unspecified, besides breakups and identify). That said, I hope some of you may find somewhat solace in recognizing themselves in this and thus realizing that we are, in fact, not alone. <3
18.20
How does one grieve? Just let the tears flow freely, or is there more to it?
It dawned on me, recently, when I was in therapy, that the cause for all my ‘lack of motivation’ or rather inaction, may just be that I am still grieving. Grieving a relationship I thought was ‘a job well done’, the breakup, I mean. We split as friends, still cherish each other as human beings, and agree that it was the best possible outcome, this decision.
But as my therapist said, there’s still the loss of all the dreams I had, the person I was … The identity I fought and simultaneously clinged on to.
That all may be true. What I didn’t tell her, which may be a cue for another session, is the massive load of grieving due to other things that I might not, either, be through.
I wish I could say that I’ve come out stronger, but I’m more inclined to say that after all this loss, I simply feel alone and older. I don’t have the confidence to say –inherently believe– that I’ve ‘got this’. I realize that as humans, we’ve barely got shit. And “that’s alright”, “that’s perfectly fine”. And, “there’s no wrong or right”. There is just this state of ‘human being’: An utter mess in a moderately conscious attempt of gathering meaning and understanding.
I’ve said it so many times before and I don’t think I have a below average IQ, but I simply don’t know. I feel so incapable… dissociated. The word neglected came to mind, maybe because it rhymes, but maybe because I’m scared to face that there might be some truth to it. Grieving the losses. Abandonment. What am I really left with?
I know, this is incredibly pessimistic and rationally I don’t really mean it, but as I’m sitting here alone writing these words, looking at my bookshelf, dark painted walls as I desired, on my inherited victorian sofa and listening to trance music… everything could be so good, if I would just let it. Essentially there’s nothing wrong, it’s just perception. Essentially there’s nothing wrong, except my perception.
18.30
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I do freewriting sessions in 10-minute bursts. Once the 10 minutes are done, I will either go back and edit or continue on another route depending on my flow of inspiration. If I happen to find it shareable, well, I will. Like this one. That said, I won’t be sharing every one.
I hope you enjoy reading these scattered thoughts.
I don’t even know. I don’t. I really don’t. What is there to know, you say? You ask. I don’t know that either. I am at a complete lack of knowing. Maybe there isn’t anything to know, I say. Maybe that’s the point.
Pocket poetry and musings from a… madman. And also, a girl. A tragic comedy. That’s what my life feels like, these days.
20.58
I neeeeed. I desperately need. I’m so desperately needing. So desperately needy. In desperate need.
For and of, things. So much. All these things I don’t know of. Don’t know about. The constant suffering. Suffrage. Suffering rage. Rampage. Age. 30. A sharp corner. Ah. I need a miracle.
What is there to say? To think? To believe? To be? To be obsessed with? To let yourself become obsessed by? To obsess over? I’m over, I’m done. I’m all out. I’ve given all I’ve got.
That’s not true. It’s hardly enough. I’ve got more, I have it. I have it right here. It’s at my fingertips. The pointy tips of my fingers. My nails. My stiletto –not heels– nails on my fingers. Piercing and stabbing at the keys. Writing these words.
Urgh. I don’t hate you I just need some time alone*. Is that my words to my creative process? My muse?
Noooo, he’s found me. I’ve found him. He… strikes me, I want to say. In many ways. Not in the way that counts, though. Well, I mean, in the way that hurts – WITH HIS BIG, FAT COCK – sorry, tics.
Oh god. I don’t know. I simply don’t know. I might have given up. I might have let loose. I might have dropped it all to the floor. I might have vomited and puked it all up. Maybe eaten it all raw again, just to see if I can make the same number tomorrow. The same show. Theater.
I’m so tired. Exhausted. In love. It’s horrendous. Horrible. An endearing endeavour, that I’d never be without. Oh, to be wild, to be free, to be home, honestly, him with me.
Three more minutes. That’s all you’ll ever see of this scripture. These last few minutes to see. See what there is to see, to feel, to try to be, one, with the earth, air and grass between the toes on my feet.
I run my fingers along the edge of a leaf. The sides are sticky. I try to wipe it off my dress, to no amed.
2 minutes left.
I love you, I love you, love you, I love you, I mean it, And I don’t care, no, no… Mine… you’re… mine. I’m … Yours right now. **
Ooooh. So tired. I… put a spell on you. But not before, not before you put a spell on me too. I love you.
20:08
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* Lyrics from [YT link: Introverted - Elita]
** Lyrics from [YT link: Alice Smith - I Put A Spell on You]
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I have taken up freewriting in sessions of 10-minute bursts. Once the 10 minutes are done, I will either go back and edit or continue on another route depending on my flow of inspiration. If I happen to find it sharable, well, I will. Like this one. That said, I won’t be sharing every one.
I hope you enjoy reading these scattered thoughts of a young woman.
Nothing, today, has really worked out for me. I’ve been frazzled and feeling like a ticking time-bomb. Well aware that I haven’t eaten much nutritious food or anything that supports my body in general. I haven’t been able to put my head to it. Whenever I’ve become aware that I should go ahead and eat or do something productive, I’ve felt overwhelmed and blank, in a way. Unable to make a decision and actually do any progress, let alone meaningful progress.
I love, I absolutely adore beautiful things, but it seems I must come to terms with … my type of beauty; a rugged sort. Battered, torn and broken, what was once fine, pristine. Delicate, sure, but that comes with a tear and stains. The prick of a needle, a rose thorn, a chipped nail. The unevenly applied makeup; blotchy, and the messy bun. The blouse is always slightly askew, the skirt has a hole and the leather boot has a rip.
Ffffffuck.
And then I finally found my guide sheets and such for Copperplate calligraphy, and in my rage of hunger, remembered how irritated and frustrated I become when I try to write in this style; it’s supposed to be ‘oh so pretty’ and elegant, and it PAINS ME to realize and accept that I just don’t have the temper to do that kind of thing.
In some cases it’s fine, I’m perfectly happy with the indecent result, but other times I cry that I can’t raise myself to this other… height. One could argue that it’s a glass ceiling, but in reality, the one that’s only my own, it’s a sure-fire sign of what I must do. I must turn left or right, take the unbeaten path, follow my inclination, no questions asked. I must follow the uncanny, what’s rightfully mine. This obscure insanity, the blissful and sublime. It’s a wondrous fairy tale with nooks and crannies and shadowed corners; cobwebs abound. It’s my perfect sanctuary, it’s from now on where I can be found.
This is my emotion manifest. This is my aesthetic.
I must learn to adore the imperfect, the gothic and macabre; embrace it fully with my dark and bleeding heart. It is so much a part of me, I just need to accept it.
It is with calligraphy and my attire as it is with the design in my vocation; It is pretty and it is harmonious, it is mine; because there is always added to it a slight wonkiness, something I can’t help myself but apply. It itches within me to turn something slightly askew. Tip it slightly out of balance, so to say, illuminate the stain. It’s a natural occurrence and I can’t explain why. This is simply the way I do things.
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I have taken up freewriting in sessions of 10-minute bursts. Once the 10 minutes are done, I will either go back and edit, or continue on another route depending on my flow of inspiration. If I happen to find it sharable, well, I will. Like this one. That said, I won’t be sharing every one.
I hope you enjoy reading these scattered thoughts of a young woman.
My deep inspiration –no– that's not the word, motivation? No? Interest? Passion? Conviction? Dwelling into… Invisible Monsters.
It just strikes me as a story – and writing style – of which I can really, truly relate! The spontaneity, the revulsion, lol, the … weirdness of it all. I am really drawn to it, I love it. I enjoy it. I feel that I can reflect in it – both myself, my life and my wiring? Writing style.
Ah. To be a friend. To be a writer.
I want to start a blog. Shut up, be serious. Talk plainly, talk clearly, talk honestly, most of all. Write honestly. A reader can tell if you aren’t being honest.
Here goes my honesty, all cards on the table. I write and I already have a blog. My instagram keeps growing stale, stagnating. Stagnation. Another page grows to fruition. Bears fruit. Bear of fertility? Bear of fruition. Bear of wonder. Bear of creativity.
Black cat of wonder.
The eagerness, the rebellion. The John Travolta – Danny – of cats.
To write is to live. To love is to die. Crash. The air is blossoming. Blooming. Pollenation. Pollution. It has dropped in recent times, irony. It’s due to a virus. People are forced – some say guilted – to stay home. Just as the weather got good and the sun came out and the sky turned blue and the birds started singing. And the joy arose – as quickly as it had to be hidden away again.
I wonder how long it will take. How long we will suffer. And I’m not even thinking about the people who are actually sick. I’m thinking of the people who are at home, and would rather not. Then we have people who’d rather be at home, but are not. Now, of all the times in the world of her 28-year life; Now she gets a contract for a full-time job. A year of scanning products and pricing and repackaging and putting alarms on Lego boxes and pantihoes. What a mess.
Can I take you into my mind? Can I swallow you whole, make you taste my experience?
It was never my intention until I found out that I could – then I stopped.
It’s a bad habit I have, one of many. Another is promises. I hate promises, mostly because I can never keep them myself. It’s as if as soon as I make one, something triggers inside me that makes me break it – it forces me – no, it lures me into hiding. To succumb to rejection, to… hostility, to… isolation. Self isolation. Distraction and… abandonment. I can’t help it. Has it always been like this? Have I always hated – despised – commitment? I don’t think so. I’ve committed to plenty of things before. Perhaps it has just gotten worse, as my life has grown into even stronger uncertainty in general. Why can’t I just rest in the uncertainty?
Or can I? Is it what I have managed to do, without noticing?
- Actual 10 minutes of freewriting starts here -
I want to write? My bicycle, I want to write my bike… what is this nonsense?
What is it that my can cat has just found under the rug, only to quickly hide it away again? Followed by a loud, demanding meow and a stare.
Kitties are strange, when they are strangers… faces look ugly, when they’re alone… That’s not it, lol. An ugly demeanor. What a word. Ugly word.
This is gibberish. Is that how they wrote the lyrics to that song? Ji--ji-gibberish!
Have I noticed any peculiar people lately? No, not really, I’m in quarantine…
To be honest, and I shall, I’m one of the few people who are not in quarantine. Lol. I have, as a matter of fact, been among people. Not that it’s my first priority. Any day. At all.
My best place is among my cats, spiders and stuffed (taxidermied) birds. That’s life. How… gruefull. Domesticated cats. Spiders in little glass boxes. A dead bird perched on a branch, bedazzling our wall. Not even in death could it escape and be free of a cat's claws. It looks as if I –no, it– had a wild and crazy night out. The worst hangover ever. Staring down at me with it’s still, blank eyes. Dead eyes. Plastic or glass or whatever they’re made of now.
And I’m supposed to be a person. I pretend to be one, with my clothes and my makeup and four walls with furniture inside. Looking through the window at nature outside, the sun shining upon it. Leaves whistling in the wind, but I can’t be sure. Maybe it’s a ghost. These windows are new and isolated well, so I can’t hear shit anymore.
I would have been able to tell you whether we still can hear the children screaming in their lunch break, but then again, quarantine. The school’s closed. School’s out for summer! And spring too, apparently.
I wonder, are these things fun to read? Would – do– people enjoy reading this stuff? Bewilderment… random flows of thought, unsolicited. I don’t even know if that’s a proper word for that context, but it’s the one my brain gave me. Gifted me. The one wrought out of my memory. My poor memory.
So much is expected of it, it seems. But then it’s not even cherished. Get’s cast away, to the side, like a piece of wrapping paper.
Wrap my head in memories, figure that. A face full of wrapping paper. Or was it a fist? A head… stuffed in my mouth. I could choke, if it weren’t because I’m suddenly the human manifestation of this weird monkey toy I had as a child. You could just force paper into its mouth and it’d vanish. Like into a black hole.
That’s where most of my memories go. That’s where most of my thoughts seem to come from, too. Fishing in a black hole, you never know what you’re gonna get. Where you’re gonna go. Where does a goanna go, when it wants to go on a trip? Nobody knows where a goanna goes, ‘cause only a goanna knows where a goanna goes.
Is there a current in the black hole of streams? A stream of black holes? The stream of a black hole? Let’s find out, Fail forwards, someone once said. Let’s fall into the stream of a black hole and see where the current takes us. It can probably only be a horror. A surrender. A cruel, although blissful ending.
I also need to draw. That’s one more thing I keep putting off. Especially the drawings I’ve promised to do for people. Especially the drawings I take payment to do. Damnit, I don’t want to. But still, I do. Because there’s so much potential and possibility! But does it even matter if I don’t put my heart into it?
Or is it that I do, but fear and uncertainty and fear of my own not-enoughness keeps me from it? The good old feeling of imposter syndrome? Or is it just a coming to terms of my honest insufficient skills? Which is fair – it’s good to know your own shortcomings! Don’t knock yourself on the head because of it. Have fun with it – do what you can do. You’re too far in to say, “I can’t. Get someone else to do it.” Also, that’s a bitter relief. It won’t make you happy.
Also, you don’t know what you can do, if you really push yourself.
Actually, you do. Look at Gandhi cat. That thing is a-m-a-z-i-n-g. It took serious hard work and dedication, and NOW you know what it takes, and what good it can do. How you can utilize it. Make some coin. Dollars.
Thank you for trying to get back into the habit of writing again. Being creative. It gives you so much value, Mie. And remember to share it. Write on stage. Draw on stage. <3 It’s only about you, and it’s not about you. It matters, and it doesn’t matter. It’s holy and divine, and it isn’t at all, all at once. It’s beautiful and meaningless and ugly and meaningful. Which is why it’s so damned necessary and crucial. For your life. For a un-creative life is not worth living, at least not for you.
And your divine honesty and horny-ty is essential and beautiful and should be cherished and not taken lightly, but also, at the same time, should be taken very lightly. So be it. <3
Four minutes.
Take some time to work on your text for your website tonight. But also to draw. Please draw. Can you draw for an hour? An hour every day of this week. See how far it will get you. Push yourself. No guilt, no shame. No worries. Just draw. Try. Be happy. Enjoy it, have fun. Try. Make mistakes. Flaws. Be flawed. The faster you put in the work, the faster you get better. The better you get. Noone ever got anywhere amazing without being flawed. Without making mistakes. Without making a complete and utter fool of yourself, without laughing at yourself. Without taking the steps. Without taking the steps into fear. Step alongside fear. Take fear by the hand, or the balls, or the pussy, whatever works for you. You put fear in its place. Don’t let it rule you. Have fun with it, and then shake it off.
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I have taken up freewriting in sessions of 10-minute bursts. Once the 10 minutes are done, I will either go back and edit, or continue on another route depending on my flow of inspiration. If I happen to find it sharable, well, I will. Like this one. That said, I won’t be sharing every one.
I hope you enjoyed reading these scattered thoughts of a young woman.
You're so beautiful but I can't recall your features. Only vaguely; banal words like "blue eyes", "strong brow", "high cheekbones", "scruffy beard".
I’m remembering, remembering, trying to remember your face, but you’ve glanced away so many times it’s hard for me to recall …
Ah! There, there it is. Still beautiful, yet now I see the dark circles under your eyes. Your beautiful blue, deep set eyes. Yes. Steep, very masculine brow. Oh, how I love your brow.
Your nose… your nose is small. It fits the rest of your features very well. It doesn’t call much attention to itself. It simply is there. Perfectly there.
Your lips. I don’t picture your lips so clearly. But your smile, as you divert your eyes … I think you take your hand up to hide your smile, as fits of giggles tend to overwhelm you, but I think … I think you have teeth that like to bite.
And your hands…
I’m imagining, imagining, imagining your touch.
I imagine you have a tender touch.
Tender, soft, gentle… Timid.
I imagine that I can corrupt you. I yearn for your touch, yet something in me wants to ruin it; ruin you. If I can’t have you and something tells me I mustn’t, I must … do damage.
It’s not that I want to ruin you for other women or men for that matter. It is just … I have never seen you with someone. Not that this is an excuse, but I need an explosion of sorts to keep me from you. For me.
"What is done can not be undone", but must my imagination really live alone?
Disheveled. That is how I feel now.
I want to dominate you. We see eye to eye, absolute eye-level, yet I have a sense in my gut telling me that I can overpower you; your small frame. Delicate, subtle … I don’t mean with much force, I believe you have an inclination toward this kind of relationship, too … letting yourself get … pulled along, pulled away. Can I pull you away? With me? I don’t mind leading the way, although I don’t know where we shall go.
You like adventures, don’t you? You strike me as spontaneous. Under the right circumstances, I can be that too.
Ah, now your features shiver away from me again. Slightly hunchbacked – or is it just your hoodie that deceives me – you leave me.
16:31
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I have taken up freewriting in sessions of 10-minute bursts. Once the 10 minutes are done, I will either go back and edit, or continue on another route depending on my flow of inspiration. If I happen to find it sharable, well, I will. Like this one. That said, I won’t be sharing every one.
I hope you enjoy reading these scattered thoughts of a young woman.
Actually, you are a boy I once knew. Well, I still know. I saw you yesterday. Beautiful as always and more beautiful than ever.
Petit and rugged, gruff beard but the softest skin beneath and the most piercing blue eyes one can imagine. Or try to imagine, because nothing compares.
I don’t understand much of what you say. Your accent is one thing, but, maybe it's because you were a bit drunk and high or maybe because you weren’t drunk and high enough.
Nonetheless, you said hi and stood besides me, asking me how everything is. It’s always awkward that way, but it’s so nice. You laugh so much. You’re a shy little boy in many ways. You even confessed this last night; that Covid has pushed you out of your comfort zone. You can’t get as drunk and be as “out there” as you are used to; as you want to.
You’re a crazy mo-fo, and you know that. That could be what I’m attracted to about you, besides your staggering looks.
You told me that you’ve begun to meditate and do yoga, just to spend your time, and I guess… To find some relaxation and sanity in this … Wonderful world … isolation-ridden time. You also told me that you spend 3-4 hours a day working out. I couldn’t possibly tell you that I could see it on you, because you always, always, wear clothes many sizes too big, thus hiding any trace of your figure.
But as I have already said, you were more beautiful than ever, so perhaps I could see it in your face?
My boyfriend later told me that he thought you looked healthier. I was pleased to hear this, and so I agreed.
Speaking of my boyfriend, he came over and ruined all the fun; stole your interest from me. I guess he understands you better than I, or he just acts as if; just assumes what you’re saying and continues talking, whereas I pause to think, pause to ask, pause to understand. Maybe I’m just slower. But the confusion gives me space to laugh with you, share those moments of your precious giggles as you awkwardly continue talking gibberish. I could hear you talk gibberish for hours, try to learn your peculiar ways, laugh back, giggle some more with you.
Maybe this is a fascination that will continue to just be that; fleeting moments of interest and bewilderment, laughter and misunderstanding yet somehow… mutual understanding. God knows I speak gibberish too.
9:52
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I have taken up freewriting in sessions of 10-minute bursts. Once the 10 minutes are done, I will either go back and edit, or continue on another route depending on my flow of inspiration. If I happen to find it sharable, well, I will. Like this one. That said, I won’t be sharing every one.
I hope you enjoy reading these scattered thoughts of a young woman.
