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.

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.

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".

Models I Want To Look Like

Cravings For Bleached Hair

After a few months of colourful self-experimentation, I want to be cleansed of it all now. A clean slate.
(Below is not me, but I have a similar hairstyle/length.)

So I'm going back to my favourite salon for some serious pampering; this Friday March 22nd.
Full-head on-scalp bleach, a toner (perhaps), and split ends trimmed off. I'm going to feel wonderfully brand new and I can't wait. Gone are the days where I'd rather colour my hair myself; going to the salon is such a rewarding experience.

Perhaps it's my way of wiping away mistakes I no longer want to try and solve on my own. Perhaps it's a delectable treat that stings like a wasp (literally). Perhaps beauty is pain, and perhaps none of this matters, and I just want to feel beautiful.

This is how I can feel beautiful. Works every time.

Lonely Day

Indecision

Do I want to continue writing here? I do and I don't. Do I want to write at all? Yes, with a flaming passion. But....

Lately my streak of perfectionism has gotten the better of me, and I have ceased writing for a short time (I hope it's short, anyway). I want to write it perfectly when I do write it, and I don't feel I can do that at the moment. I need to write my novel and I need to write it fast, is what I keep telling myself. And it does not happen. I cannot keep pushing myself to force things. I have to take a breath, and stop.

I don't want to write about my current dreams just yet. It doesn't feel right. My head is clouded and messy and my brain is lagging and tired and birds are constantly chirping and I need more sleep than I am getting. I have a list of excuses, it goes on for miles. I have a list of things to do that I haven't done yet, but the preparation is just as important as the action, isn't it? In some cases. I have a list of wonderful and terrible things I would love to write about. Colourful, fun, bright things. It's just, I can't.

I can. But I won't, and I don't.

All the writing I have really been doing lately is writing about writing.