I’ve changed dramatically. I can feel it, or rather I can feel the absence of what once made me passionate. Now I feel empty. Every emotion I convey is a mimic of what I already know. What joy still reaches me is bird-boned and malnourished. It’s disintegration is expected. Nothing can stay alive in the barren wasteland of my mind, my body, my soul. It was a hilarious expectation that this blog was going to be for book reviews. Even if I wanted to read would I be able to find an opinion that hadn’t already been said? I don’t know. Everything I write feels like garbage. Everything I draw feels like tracing. All my talents have been trodden in the mud and what am I left with? A few mental fuck-ups and the ability to colour code my room.
I’m glad nobody knows about this place of mine. It lets me ramble endlessly about everything that I find is destroying me and not being fearful of friend of mine stumbling onto my blog and approaching me like ‘yeah do you still think about killing yourself, that’s kinda fucked’. I’ve booked a doctor’s appointment in order to speak to someone professionally about being a depressed, anxious piece of shit.
How, in this state, am I supposed to be this aspiring writer? I get up in the morning but my mind stays in bed, digs further into the mattress to nestle between the springs. Actually, that sentence there reminds me of many years ago when I wrote for four days straight about a persona of mine. I was in grief over loving a boy who had moved on from loving me (I was always terrible with timing). In those four days I wrote lamentations that spiralled on page after page, metaphors deeper than the holes in my head. Of course, now, it’s all a crock of shit. Nevertheless it’s important that I did that.