Voice of the Unspoken

It has been a long time since i wrote in my blog, and a lot has changed. But i guess that's the beauty of life. Today the scars on my hands and arms total 10. It seems like a landmark. I am in love, painfully so; it's a long distance relationship with someone who plays what i believe to be an important part in our safety as a nation, as an international community. He is an individual, with astute and original thoughts about anything you could imagine. We talk about all that matters, and we guard each others happiness with our lives. Then why did i distinguish a lit cigarette on my arm this evening?

Is it possible to be too in love? I lost contact with my love for a number of hours this evening for a reason i cannot divulge, but in those few brief hours i ceased to exist. I was floating in indefatigable darkness, i felt as though if i were to disapear into nothing, that not a soul would notice. Why do i feel that i am nothing without him? A woman with a good job, her own flat, good friends, good intentions, and yet i feel that if he were to forget about me i would be extinguished, like a flame under water, to ashen uselessness.

The blister on my arm is growing; it may seem like i am seeking attention, but i know none of you that may or may not read this. Not one person in my life knows about the self harming, or even seems to have noticed. I once broke down in-front of my mother, i told her i was unhappy, maybe she thought i was hormonal. I guess it's a good excuse for crazy late night ramblings. Can i burden my love with more of my inexplicable emotions? I should be on top of the f**king world, but still these holes in my hands and arms keep appearing. What the hell is going on?

Evening friends. I thought it would be more appropriate to write a more up to date log as well as presenting you with my rather morbid and lovecraftian journal entries.

Today has progressed with a certain gothic charm, not far removed from the original zombie movies of the 1970's. I currently reside near Canary Wharf, and area so heavily populated with the mindless drones of central london's most prestigious souless corporations that often it is hard not to be sucked in by their incurable malady. As i paced my way back to the bar i attempt to manage i noticed with a rather moribund facination that everyone walked in the same rhthym, the same blank expression on their city carved faces. It was as though a superior being (probably Bill Gates or Alan Sugar) had sucked the soul from each and every one of them leaving them nothing but canvasses, created for the profitablity of capitalism. I have no issue with these men and women making money and living their lives but it begs one question; if they are all so very dissillusioned with the state of their being, as they appear to be, why do they continue to put on the same pin striped suit every day? (I of course wear the same suit everyday, but that is only because i can't afford to buy a new one!)

The reason i have entered into this particular diatribe is because i deeply care for a friend of mine, more than i think he realises and every day he goes to work, weeps into his coffee and promotes something he doesn't believe in, in a manner he doesn't believe in. This is a man with so much soul and passion and intellect, so many dreams and visions that it destroys me to see him so lost, so unhappy. But what tethers him to his current existence at 23? Stablity? The simple life. The whole notion rests before me encased in a large question mark.

I think i may have run out of steam and as the sun sets as does this particular issue.

Love, good luck and a smile to each and every one of you.

Quoth x

I cannot fight this restless feeling, although i havew found a direction, i have cleared the rubble something still holds me back, stops me from embracing all the opportunities that have spread themselves like a peacocks plume before me. I feel like something is missing, my knees continue to quiver over something or someone lost and i want more than anything to return to my usual self. But then i desire mystery, a tall dark oddity to enter my life and drive me to destuction. I have felt more, good and bad, in the last few weeks than i have in 22 years and it is as liberating as it has been constricting. I am taking in too much oxygen so my mind is alive but my breaths are shallow and i become confused with a thousand memories both real and false. I long for artificial clarity, more than i have before, it produces an exstatic freedom from the boundaries of everyday life, and, although it does not produce any workable solutions it dissolves day to day concerns like falling into a lovers arms to be held in sweet contentment through the night.

To be numb because you refuse to feel causes you to question your own humanity - your own human heart - but to be numb because the world is larger than your humanity, larger than the object of your desires, larger than your very presense in the room in which you lie: is euphoric.

I have woken from a nightmare only to find that the dream has manifested itself in reality. I am fighting to control the female emotions that ravish my fragile body, infect my already stretched and overwrought imagination. It as though the events of the last 8 weeks never happened and yet the memory is so vivid and powerful. The nightmare has ingrained itself on my psyche to the point where it demonstrates itelf on my physical being. I am exhausted from holding back tears, exhausted from smiling and planning so enthusiastically for an uncertain future. I have talked so emphatically about the prospect of not knowing, the prospect of allowing the world to guide me in whatever manner it sees fit; but now the uncertainty is real, has become dangerous and i fight against the fear that lies with such verocity in my already churning stomach.

I cant remember what i enjoy. I cant remember what makes me happy - everything has taken on a morbid and confusing reality that i thought would only make me stronger. The truth is daunting, that i have no clue what i want, what draws a small to my lips. Even in the midst of a family night in, tears of laughter streaming down my face, my heart was distant from the mirth, my thoughts never far from what the end of the weekend signified; from what monday morning may bring. I thought uncertainty would make me happy, but it is a no more enjoyable experience than the prospect of settling. So now i travel, back 'home', insecure in my thoughts and dreading the answers that tomorrow may divulge.

I am being slowly deflated, like a ballon with the smallest hole at its edge, a balloon that begins round and high, a balloon that smiles from its vantage point above the heads of those striving for contentment, working, resenting their lives, their positions. Then, without warning, words are said, an action or a glance pierces its smooth edges like a knife through the heart and it feels itself falling; falling till it rests on the minds of those ithad just moments before been so free of, so unaware. Soon it rests upon the ground, its air has nearly escaped form its innards and it lays, still and dejected, forgottn and crushed. It's a tear thats easy to mend, it knows that it can be re-inflated, but the prospect is low, and this belief tat has overcome all others causes the final breaths to course from its bright exterior until it is nothing but abandoned material, scooped uo and binned.

My heart has sunk, like that balloon to the roof of my stomach, where it remains, heaving a shuddering like a small child, chastised and lost. My body is still, heavy and numb; weak and longing, sad but acceptant. It's like the end of a fantastic weekend, or the morning after the arms of a new experience when the aggressive come down to reality leaves you crossed leg in the rain in an unknown place, thinking, re-playing and analysing every move, every word to search for meaning in the sudden change of mood and circumstance.

I cannot handle these ups and downs. My heart spends it days thumping against my throat or resting in my gut, being worn away by the acid in my stomach, leaving it partial and torn. But why give in to it? Why allow your physical being to be affected by such mundane occurences, such small niggles of self doubt that cast a shadow over your soul.

The ground is cold and hard like an ex lovers heart and no words are needed when their actions are loud and obvious. It's these actions, insignificant as they may be, that freeze the blood and harden the heart. Your thoughts are muddled and self accusatory, you have said something, done something, that has affected not only your present relationship on a physical level, but the manner in which he says you name or catches you eye. But the question remains: why does it matter? We live in a society where we measure our character by the manner in which we are percieved by others. When we are measured negatively in an area such as physical attraction or 'love' then it affects how we feel about ourselves. It changes our features on reflection, the manner in which we walk or carry out day to day tasks. There is no way to monitor your character without the reaction that your individual characteristics invoke in those around you. Every mindful glance or purposeful gait means far more than it should and it drives you mad. Your skin tingles and your toes curl, your teeth clench and your mouth contracts against the words that bound around your tongue until you are choked by the sensation of swallowing a thousand conversations, most of which will never be spoken.