Filthy Glasses, Filthy Eyes?

It's pretty impressive we have the ability to change our lives, just in the way we are thinking.

It's all in out heads it's all in our heads it's all in our heads.

I'm following a girls blog, Alice, who talks about whether she will still be alive at christmas time because she has been fighting cancer for the last 4 years. She's 15. I'm 7 years older than her and I walk around aimlessly wondering If i'm going to die from heartbreak, why do I get in such a piss about things?!

I keep thinking, what are we all searching for? Do we ever get to that common place where we finally feel chilled. Sometimes I wonder whether life is all about a constant chase. It would seem we are all in need of a place to strive too. A constant chase, but without the chase what would we do? Would we ever anticipate again-would adrenaline exist and would there ever be exhaust?! And then again I go over this in my head, realising that the only thing that creates this is our minds-and it all feels so silly again.

Whether it's overwhelment, whether I need a plan. I understand we all need a purpose in life, i'm sick of saying 'but', so how long can our own personal spirals continue for?

What will happen next? and the next thing and the next thing and the next thing...

Sometimes there are just too many questions, we fight for answers. I know what simply makes me happy yet achieving this in mind seems impossible where as on paper completely attainable. There is a feeling of being incomplete.

With mum, I think I was always in denial. I was always thinking  she would get better and coast along. Now I think at some point she is coming back. I have to tell myself, she's dead, and my mission this week is to organise her photographs into a book of what was...

I suppose we all treat cancer or any illness that someone we love, suffers with, in that way. Of course we would, why would anybody want to think the worst. Assume the worst. Believe the worst. But then, is false hope the biggest killer of all?

I'm pretty sure in the bliss of a walk along the river what my answers are, some perhaps too personal to even write on here. Though, one of them is:

'I can't use you as a safety'

Even though my smudgy glasses I can see that.

I don't think I had the chance

To properly say goodbye.

I mean, looking at photos of you is hard enough. I long to give you a hug.

The strangest part is, it's almost like you are on holiday. You've suddenly taken off and i'm just waiting for you to get back from a long trip. In the reality of it all, I know my hopes aren't going to be met.

I still have your text messages. I still have your things. It's weird because I look at me and see you, i'm a part of you. I wish I had one more day with you, even if we were just sat down in the house doing nothing, I wish I could make you the perfect cup of tea. 

I miss seeing you with the dog. I miss our stupid jokes. I miss your whiney voice moaning on about nothing whilst I sit and nod and smile.

I hate coming back to my flat and not having you to text. Even if it were between the foggy coughs, hearing your voice was still great. It's strange not having the person i've known the closest, gone, already. At least I got to know you a bit better than dad.

What we had was magic. Who knows if anyone else had that kind of bond, perhaps this is why i'm feeling so lost. Although the diagnosis was 6 months ago, you were taken in 12 hours. I feel like I have been robbed, a part of my heart has gone.

These words aren't exactly beautiful or poetic, but only some that can be simply put. I just don't know what to do with myself knowing you are gone, I have placed too many distractions and this is day one of pace-a personal rehab.

I need to concentrate on the simple things, things which make steps clear. I've lost certain parts of me which establish that and so there has been too many adaptions. I can't keep chasing around wondering where they are-I think I need to leave my flat alone, and not be scared to why and what if. I'm tired, but falling asleep is only too easy-I need to challenge myself with the outside world.

I've just had enough.

Lemons

I can't not, post this song and lyrics:

I don't want to go out there,
I don't want to know what you're wearing.
There are black diamonds in your eyes,
and just so you know your skin is scaling.

Have you fought all those dragons yet?
They're their sleeping in my backyard
they're just looking out for no one.
Except to smoke and have some good fun
with their dogs and wives and new sons,
and they probably never will hug
'cause she's never really found love.
Just a woman who will always love.
Just a unhappy with a man

and what I, and what I found is that we
we're all just sleeping around.

His daughter used to come here
with her daughter and her husband
now no one sees her husband
'cause her ass has caught the harvest
and her pants have got a good fill
I know the suns beneath the window sill.

Well I was joking with my lemonade
I told him to get fucked and then get laid.
Now what do you say to a man who's got no taste,
who's really got no potential
except to procreate so inessential.

and what I, and what I found is that we
we're all just sleeping around.

All we really want to do is love.

Something has been lost

'Fear is a destructive emotion that can hinder your ability to heal, so the more you can reduce your fear and increase your confidence, the better.'

I've heard recently 'too much for young shoulders'. Which, sounds alien when I feel my shoulders feel about 80. You can tell when muscles weak. This year has been all about heartbreak.

I sit in my bed cold sun blaring in, I know this week I need to create my own rehab. With pastry crumbs scattered across the sheets, a pathetic representation some could say only pathetic fallacy, with the emotion in crumbs. They are in bits, just like me.

I stare to the walls, my hands, my face, looking for answers when really they are too obvious to be looking for. Is it reassurance? Is it a belonging? More so, I think it is acceptance. My mum has died. I have lost my rock.

I'm rubbish at pouring drinks, lemonade, beer, wine-they all seems to over flow or spill a little. I can't quite seem to round the top off, there never is a perfect head. 2011 has been volcanic. I've been dormant for some time about it yet only now the lava begins to spill. My glass has overflowed and nothing can keep it inside. Rehab begins with pace.

'Take care', 'look after yourself', 'don't take life too seriously'. Can someone click their fingers and do this please? I know that is no option, and if anything I have learned in my 22 years is that we all need pace to learn from. I wouldn't be who I am this second If I had clicked my fingers and all be gone. That would make me a shell, hollow.

There is an overwhelming state. Finally though, I am by self and fear seems to be less obvious lately. I think I have become a constant stream, my heart begs for the waterfalls in Wales and to go back to that day where returning home would greet me with mum. Her curly hair, blue dressing gown around her and dog by her side. I remember her movements, her sounds, he voice. It feels like a sting to the eyes thinking about it, but at least now I am in a safe place to think about it, the finger in the canal wall has come out. It has all splurged.

We can keep thinking about the practicalities of things, who could blame us-it seems to make our existence, exist. Though, in this pace I know full well my practical side has got the better of me. I cannot fight any longer, i'm drawn out and a scribble. I'm ready to get it all out now, the pain, to feel exhausted, drained. I want to scream and kick and kill and punch and throw and run until something knocks me flat on the floor. But. Heartbreak gets in the way. I feel too worthless to even speak sometimes. I'm stunted by this pain. My rock has gone. My beautiful mum and others.

I can only seek solace in myself now. I mean, who else will do it for me? If someone could turn some light bulb on so I would cry, please let it drain me. I have to think the saddest thoughts for it to come out, fear stunts me. I feel invisible and lifeless though I know I have all the colour to show them all. I want it to come back. I need it. Self can't be trapped for much longer.

I need to get creative

Whether it's going to be using my body and moving about, or putting something together. There is urge to make something of.

It's just then, what do I do with it? Is there a place to show, tell and seek?

It's time like these I want to cover my hands in paint and make blobs.

Song

tramour

In a years time, our troubles will be glamour. Though right now they are just a head fuck