Tuesday, September 3, 2013

. . .

This blogging thing isn't really working out. So goodbye, you may see me later, you may not.

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Bad and Good

I had a bad week. I don't want to talk about specifics here. I've cried every day, I've felt so much stinging pain in my soul that I don't know how I am going to recover if this problem does not get resolved. I'm accepting what's happened more and more every day, although it still burns. It burns and it burns and I am powerless against it now.

My mum and I are going away on a short trip in early July, which should be really good. I'm looking forward to it; I need to get out so I can breathe, and she does too. I miss spending quality time with her, just the two of us. This house can suffocate me at times, and I know she feels the same.

There are some things that need to get done which haven't, and soon. I need my roots done so that my white-blonde hair is perfect again and not tainted by a dark band of regrowth. I need to write more, and not just here, but in all places that I write, online and offline. I need to exercise every day, or if I can't, then most days will do fine. I need to wake up earlier and go to sleep when I am tired, not when I am finished what I am doing. Of course, all things could be improved, but that's not realistic at the moment. I can only do what I can do at one time. I am always moving, though, and this means promised progress. I must keep my head up. I must believe I can do it.

My boyfriend and I are having a combined birthday party next month also, soon after Mum and I get back from our trip. It's in between both of our birthdays, and we are both at significant ages so this has to be a big celebration. It's going to be so good, I know it. Bring the old times back, when friends got drunk together without caring about the next day or what time it is or if the cops will turn up yet, if at all. We need to stop worrying, and enjoy ourselves. That's life's essence.

Sunday, June 9, 2013

Made Up My Mind

I know it. It's true, and it's so simple. My life is an unbalance of abstinence and indulgence. I don't care about finding the balance any more; instead I will go with the flow. I won't put up a fight against what simply is. I won't carve my own words into the stone, I'll write my name in the sand and watch it blow away on the wind.

It's my birthday tomorrow, and I want it to be perfect, but I know it won't be, although I can try my best to make it how I envision it. I have lovely people to spend time with, fun things to do, my favourite foods to eat, lots of coffee and flavoured milk to drink, presents to open and future wishes to be made; you know, all that usual birthday stuff that practically melts you into a pool of cheesy ridiculousness. I've been dreading this day, but maybe I won't any more. I'll enjoy it, and I'll smile all the way through. I won't think about my age. I won't think about how I'm getting older, how I'm not a teenager any more. I'll just decide to give in and enjoy myself to the best of my ability.

Isn't that what we should be doing every day?

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Shaky Weather

Rain, cloud and sunshine. Black metal and dizzy spells. Sweaty headphones, long walks and smoking. Pukekos prancing knee-deep in the grass in which I sit, coming closer to check if I've brought any bread, then sidling cautiously away when they realise I haven't. If I had, wings would be aflutter and voices would be high with excitement. The pond nestles there below, down there which I overlook on the crest of the grassy bank, and rain falls all around as I struggle to hold my umbrella upright and light my cigarette simultaneously.

There are blackbirds darting about nearby, and little sparrows, hopping to and fro. There are tuis voicing their musical calls high in the trees up there, and there are ducks lazing sleepily beneath the fringes of garden bushes, without a care in their carefree world. They look beautiful without even trying; without lifting a wing-tip. All glossy feathers and bright eyes, I wonder how one like me has to work to become that happy, that... free, and it saddens me how I never will. It motivates me to try my hardest or die, though. As long as the sun warms my back on this humid day, I will look to the horizon with new hopes and wishes.

I'm done today. I'm done.

If you didn't know, there is a difference between surviving and thriving. Right now I feel like I'm merely surviving.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Not Enough

There are not enough hours in the day.
There are not enough hours in the day.
There are not enough hours in the day.
There are far too many hours in the day,
And I am fast running out of time.

A silent stomach grumble thought heard by alien ears stifled by a clenched, clawed arm around the waist. A lightness, a dizziness, a euphoria achieved by none other than a seductive habit eroding me slowly. Walking on water, feeling nothing but chilly air and a slight breeze with the force of a gale. A gaggle of geese, a horde of ducks tossed bread at, snapped up in a flurry of angry flapping wings and flight feathers loose and soaring. Snatched away on the wind scented like the milky way. Putrid stinging pollen dampening my eyes as if their beauty captivates me so that I am driven to the brink of breakdown. And the ducks waddle onward, the geese hissing a terrible warning song furiously and I wonder why.

Is there time? Will I make it? How long to go now? Perseverance, discipline, hunger and longing; dedication. Writing up a storm in my head, a swirling rainbow of colours and ideas blooming bright and swift in their arrival. Hours at my desk, the clip-clap of keys rapid, an aching backside and a thirst unquenchable. Sights, sounds of the world around forgotten for just long enough to sink into a place more to my own liking -- softer, calmer, the cluttered calamity veiled and unveiled at separate intervals. Chaos is organized, enjoyed, even. And I am content to be out of this terrible state of writer's block I have painstakingly endured for the past several months. Joy to that!

The high of running on near empty. Tips of my toes almost lifting from the ground, forearms and fingers dissolving to be replaced by majestic wings that catch the wind. Obsessed with flying, with feeling light. The chatter of my pair of cockatiels delighting my spirit. Torn between being myself, accepting all my flaws, and abandoning this life to become a bird and live in the treetops unseen and free. Just a speck of matter in a dust-cloud; a raindrop in a downpour. And this I am happy to be.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

A Short Update Of Things

I've picked up chapter Seventeen of my novel again. (It's actually called Sytten, because the chapter numbers are in Norwegian). I guess all I really had to do was just sit down, stop procrastinating and do it. It's going well, working in small chunks and thinking out each detail carefully. Sometimes when I'm daydreaming I get fresh ideas about the plot, too. I'm excited, to say the least.

My hair is so white right now and I love it. I swear to myself I will keep it blonde but then end up deciding on a whim to put bright colours through it, and always I get bored or change my mind and try to go back to blonde, usually having to make a trip to the salon to fix it *sigh*. Maybe I'll learn someday. I feel the most confident about myself when it's how it is currently, though, so that's a positive sign to keep it the way it is.

A confession: there's many topics and issues I crave to write down here, yet I hesitate because of a lack of trust and faith in my blog and the eyes that may be reading my words. I long to write out my deepest, darkest secrets here, for you, for myself, for anyone and for no-one. A part of me doesn't care who reads this. A part of me wants to shout and rage and swear. And a part of me knows all too well the triggers and causes and reasons for things I have done and am doing, and therefore avoids any and all references to them in a desperation to keep them in hiding -- in the dark place where all my secrets hide. A chest full of treasures and where might the key be? Oh, why does it have to be so black in there -- so black that I am unsure whether or not to let it out.

I used to write about my secrets. That was a long time ago, and I am changed now, and grown. A part of me does wish I had not deleted the rest of my entries, diseased and hate-ridden though they were.

"She decided to free herself, dance into the wind, create a new language. And birds fluttered around her, writing 'yes' into the sky".