March

It's been a while, I suppose not only because my time is very nearly exhausted, but because when I write on here it makes it true, it makes it concrete and I have to face it. When I write my thoughts onto this page they no longer can be turned over in my mind with a label that says: uncertain. On here it's certain, I can't lie to myself when I write.

I'm not only lost, although lost describes this feeling of hopelessness very well, I'm angry. So angry it's past the point of rage and shouting, it's reached that point of quiet near acceptance. It's the bitter and twisted sort of anger. I'm angry at the way life keeps testing me, and when I think it can only get better in the next stage it doesn't, it stays the same, or it feels worse. I'm haunted, that's the word, haunted by a thousand ghosts rattling their chains every night and every day, ghosts of dreams and hopes that were once substantial figures and are now fading into mist but their terrible cries linger on. I'm haunted by the knowledge that I'm not supposed to be here. If I didn't know better I'd say I was a lost time traveller who's machine has been stolen. Or I'm a soul that hasn't moved on, but has been left behind after the angel took the others. I'm not supposed to be here, I know it inside and it's ruining everything else.

I can't talk about this to anyone, not really. It's easier to explain with a pen than with my voice but there's no one I can really talk to about this.
Not even Jones.
Maybe it's because he's older or he has a more logically wired brain, maybe it's just that he's experienced enough to know some things wont change, and as they say "That's just life, get used to it"
Well I can't get used to it. I won't! Inside of me is the 5 year old who wanted to write stories and who spent the next 16 years being certain, absolutely certain that things were going to change. I've been pumped with too much expectation, too much hope to just accept this that is now. I sound naïve, I sound like a little girl who hasn't yet realised you can't grow up to be a princess. I don't care. Because there are some people in this world who won't accept the norm, they wont lie down and let life do to them as it will. I am one of those people. I wont be unhappy most of the time, the least we can hope for in this life is happiness and health. My health is shot to pieces...every day my arthritis aches and burns. I wont let my happiness suffer the same way.

I have to believe that there's more to life than this. There's got to be more than this mundane miserable routine.

I'm a writer. One of my lecturers said to me in his office before I left university:
 "Don't forget you're a writer, because in the real world it's easy to forget that. Write everyday, force yourself to remember you live to write. Otherwise, you'll go mad"

I'm a writer. I'll write myself out of this. I will. I'll always be a writer

Losing Count

I've lost count. I feel like all I do is count...the minutes of the day, the days in the week, the weeks left until another year has passed and I am closer to what I want. It's nice to lose count and it not matter. I'd say 30 at least, 30 hopes and dreams I've sent my details to and will probably end in nothing. At least I'm trying. Trying so hard.
   I'm genuinely uncomfortable right now. Depressed is overly dramatic, upset suggests a fleeting feeling, so uncomfortable is the description I'm giving this situation, uncomfortable and sad. Other than keep looking and trying I can do nothing, which angers me. I want out of this situation. It's unlikely I will ever be eaten alive by anyone, this is the closest I imagine to what that feels like. I am metaphorically being eaten alive, one skin cell at a time, one drop of blood and mucus a day, one chip of bone and gristle with every damn passing week.
   On reflection...uncomfortable isn't a strong enough word...sad and painful. I'd say this is painful. Being eaten alive is painful. I could cry. Every morning I am not being who I want to be I feel that gut wrenching choke as if I need to cry, the way only women ever seem to understand. But I don't. I get on with it. That's another thing we women seem to do, get on and mend. Grit our teeth.
Because so often we don't do what we want to do. We do what we have to do and pretend it's what we want. I can't pretend forever, I can't pretend for a year. I give it until the sky darkens again, the next time the leaves have turned...that's my deadline. Longer than that I'll walk away anyway, despite the weather outside.
Grace?
I Promise.

Valentines Day. Poem

We have a plan,
My heart, it's keeper and I.
Yes we have a plan
that is nothing whatsoever to do with you!
No roses shall wilt on my window
No chocolate will dimple my thighs
No false love shall be shared around
for everyone's benefit, but my heart, it's keeper and I.

We loved each other yesterday,
we still will tomorrow I bet
there is no need, on this one day
to prove, or fuss or fret.
I love you?-yes
you love me-of course!
We don't need a Valentine
My heart, it's keeper and I

christian grey poem

Christian Grey,
what can I say?
You've captured us all
whether with love or disgust
most have admittedly gushed
you're now on the screen
every woman's dream?
I think not
because in this film,
there's no C***

Tired ramblings

I'm forcing my fingers to play the tune of creation against this laptop keyboard, occasionally rubbing my palms up and over my face as if I could wipe away the weariness. I'm tired and it's early, and it's my first free night alone in a while, in my god awful room, behind these god awful four walls. Save for a few half hearted notes during breaks I haven't written my books in over fortnight...I'm already sinking into a glazed-eyed, monotone sound of a heartbeat, thumping like an engine, just running but there's no one driving off down a long un-travelled road-The driver has passed out, having inhaled ten minutes of the fumes that recoil against the four walls and curl in through the open car windows.

   I'm so ridiculously tired, but it's not exhaustion, it can't be....it's more that I'm tired because it's difficult not to just slip into a coma of sleep and waste the remainder of the week away as quickly as possible until the weekend...when I come alive again.

  It's certainly no excuse to have not written in the last passing weeks, no excuse at all. I've let that disappointment and anger push away Grace and that's not right.

   Grace, I made a note about your story the other day. A good one. Such a slow progress, we've been together on and off for the last...?... nearly 7 years. But your story unfolds like the pages of a very old, very secret diary...I can't rush through it because the pages might crumble and all will be lost, I have to trawl through gently, letting the truth come out to me when it's ready.

We have a plan, my heart, it's keeper and I...we have a plan that seems very far out of reach right now but its there, waiting for us to catch up with it. It keeps me awake, in a world where sleep seems to be the most enticing place to be.

The Luxury of Thought. Poem

Sat in the mindless clock that pushes my time away like
an unwelcome lover in the tangle of soiled bed sheets;
   I reflect on my ever changing disappointment.
It moves and morphs from one area of distress to another,
 but although its different,
it's still a disappointment.

And thinking has become a luxury, that
pays for nothing and accomplishes very little,
 yet the only luxury I have.
Would I rather be without thought? A mechanism of action,
 dead behind the eyes and ignorant
of this programmed torment that is average life?
are my thoughts keeping me sane?
or driving me slowly mad?
thoughts remind me of what isn't.
they also offer the smallest escape
 into a world where hope hasn't yet given up
...and packed his bags.

Fudge from the snow

I have a steaming cup of tea and I'm sucking the lingering sweetness of fudge from my fingers after every creamy bite. Things are changing, our group is drifting as expected, I have too much troubling me already to worry myself over this, it's only the natural order of things after all. I do miss my friend, it seems strange that you can maintain a bond with someone who is four hundred miles away but drift from those who are less than five minutes from you in any direction. I guess that's proof for you...that some people are linked to us through time simply because 'it's meant to be'.

I hate to think of how much might be different in September, who may have chosen to forget, what choices will have been made, I do hope that good changes have happened by then though. I hope September will come and I'll be settled. It would be nice that in the eventuality of a full years changes we'll still be as close as ever and I will have some happy changes to report along with the difficult ones.

   I write this blog to put things into perspective, because too often I feel lost if not alone. But this fudge, it tastes like cream and butter, cocoa and vanilla, it also tastes like concern, support, friendship. Friendship that's miles away and half buried in the snow but as powerful as it can be. I needed this reminder. I love fudge, it's one of my favourite things in the world. I'm on my last piece, but it tastes like support and it's support I feel like I need. :-)