Hello my lovely screen. I'm singing to you, do you like it? I thought not. I shall stop. I have finally turned the page on my bitchiness. Poor little miss Therapist. Yes I am silent because I am not 'completely satisfied' with our arrangement. Deal with it, missy.
Anyways, trying to learn some lyrics.
August 2010
I think I have finally found some purpose for this little page of mine. I know we all have our stories to tell and so, I have mine. It doesn't have a clear beginning, nor does it have an ending quite yet, but it grows out to stretches miles away from my real mind, exploring continents rather unknown. I do not know whether it will interest you. I know for sure that it has done well in bothering me and tearing me to pieces. How about you decide for yourself? All names and places will be changed, countries, shops, you name it. It shall be the truth, though, open honesty which has for some time been too foreign to me. I lie in the guise of honesty and sincerity when it comes to coping with trouble that I have not caused. A lie is sometimes much more believable than the truth. But this is what I wish to delete. What I am hoping to forget.
The memory is protective, like a prison cell with bars. But within these bars is still a flow of energy, something is taken, something is given back. Something so small it will fit through. Like fingertips or my nose. One of the reasons why I wish to return to the past is that I could, somehow, remember it again in a better way. Not the depressive, angry and regretting tune in which it all it was played but merely the events that took place and how it really affected me. I can tell you know that once I am honest I can be horrifying, disgusting, scary even. This is me. I am opening up just for you. You're free to feel special.
My real life began when I was about thirteen years old. Thirteen and three quarters to be precise. My ways of living were quite normal then. I remember a day when I suddenly stopped when walking to school, looking at the sky. I was normal. But why? Why was I not fatter, why was I not thinner, why was I not a vegetarian? I'd seen all this. In the mind of a child which I think I partly was back then, being ordinary was safe. Then you see things, hear things. Some people are special, I had been told. I remember my fifth grade teacher had once taught these twins who had a certain disease. No hair grew on their body, no eyebrows, no eyelashes. I saw them once while grocery shopping and didn't think them weird at all. I thought them special, like I'd been taught. They looked so calm.
The same thing happens to a school kid every year. At least, this is how it went for me. I always wanted to be better in this and that, to be sick less --- I almost always was --- and to pay more attention, and in the end, to receive better grades. I had my first setback that fall when I became ill and had to stay home. I remember this well because I was working on a biology project. While I was still a little sick and we had this special day at school during which we were supposed to go to our parents' workplaces in order to raise money for charity, my father decided I was well enough to go with him and while working look for leaves and such that I needed for my project. English isn't my first language but I'd fallen in love with it ever since I was eight years old and, knowing this, my father let me take part in some of the university lectures that were in English. I loved how it felt to be among all those people. They seemed like my people for a reason I couldn't understand. We talked about leadership in business management, advertising, the media. I remember signing the worksheet that we had to take to school while drinking tea in the university café. My mother came over to pick us up. I sat in the backseat, holding a maple leaf between my fingers, spinning it around as I looked at the giant trees outside the car. The spinning of the leaf made me realize something, more like remember. I had discussed families more than once with my friends. I felt so proud as to have a family that I called whole, with parents and nice relatives and my sister. All the other girls' parents had been divorced except for me and one girl, the one I was the closest with.
My birthday was coming up within a week so my mother and I went shopping, she told me I could buy whatever I wanted to wear. This was not like her but I ignored this little foggy feeling and shuffled from one shop to the next. I found a backless, white dress that I loved but once seeing the look in her eyes I was ready to give it up. But without a word of protest she bought it for me, saying I looked very grown up and very beautiful. And even though it would usually be out of the question even to wear a sleeveless shirt to school, she let me wear the dress without a bra so that my back was fully exposed. I remember the wind blowing on me that day, how it felt different, liberating. I could not have known how different it all would be within another week or so. And not at all liberating, more like a cage. A very small, crowded cage.
Good day. Whoever you are. Nobody maybe? I am starting to think that my head has permanently turned itself inside out as my mouth only tastes blood as liquid enters through my very dry, parted lips. How on earth can water taste like blood? Water turning into blood. How awfully familiar... I have tiny little bruises on my thighs from slapping them during an improvisation session at choreography class. I also have one huge bruise on my other thigh 'cause, me being very dangerous to myself, I knocked it onto the armrest of our sofa. I should do some French homework but my mind is blank, blank in all languages and forms. I shall put my feelings into a little poem then.
when it is time
I will open my eyes
and let the light in
but right now
I cannot afford
to be dead
I am here
with my left hand
held up high
it hasn't hit me this bad
before
how cold it feels upon the floor
when my exposed body
collapses onto the linoleum
my disease has finally gone
and here I am,
on the floor
very dead but loved.
Drain all my blood,
just suck it out, suck it out
so that nothing but a wound
is left behind
I'm just a puppet,
come and pull my strings,
pull my strings and give me something to do
give it back when
you're merely hurting,
misery loves company
but mine is over,
turning,
pouring out,
screaming loud...
Give me some more.
I'm just a puppet,
come undo my strings,
lie on top of me and do
a million things
Suck all my blood out
'cause I'm craving for less
drawing pictures on
your wedding dress,
with dirty fingers
give it back when
you're merely hurting,
misery loves company
but mine is coldly burning
I never pictured you to be of
the sadistic kind
force-feeding the illegal truth
and pokin at my eyes
With roses, pretty roses
I zoom in and watch them die
as a composition of yours
is playing on repeat,
I'm stabbing to the beat
Of your purple heart
You tear my legs apart
open wide
cut them off and leave my side
and because the truth is a crime
we're all buying time
to kill
bleed it out and return
for a re-fill
Your agony is mine and I shall
consume it with pleasure ---
you taste so good that my
eyes turn white
with lust.
(this I cannot trust.)
give it back when
you're merely hurting
misery loves company
but mine has stopped working
I find myself talking to white walls again. How like me. Today has been a day of song, I suppose. School merely consisted of singing during this music course I'm taking. I hope these days begin to settle down, for with this kind of medication my dreams tend to travel into the days, out of the nights. Why is it always dead bodies in spirals of concentrated water, spirals of light and me running far, far away into the distance with no legs at all? The way my brain likes to taste fantasy never ceases to amaze me. Anyways, poetry is my thing. So here it is. All rights reserved to moi, understand?
If you tell me to, I will. But then again... No
drive me down
sinking so very low
down below
seems the correct place to live
spin me 'round
again and again
sleepless and vain
my limbs silvery icicles
and to think,
that all along it was mine
stolen and yet so divine
that blanket of guilt,
with teeth-marks on it.
outside you were
unthinkingly enchanted
your lips cold and blood-red
an apathetic spectre in the
distant future
years and years
again and again
blindly I shall remain
encircled by motionless shame
and to think,
that all along you were mine
stolen but oh so divine
your perfect skin,
with teeth-marks on it.
sinking so very slow,
down below...
wake me up when it's over.
'Ellow. Here's a forgotten mirror I saved from being burned. It had no mirror anymore, so I added a little picture I'd made into the centre. It still lacks a glass, so it doesn't look that great but I thought it might be worth mentioning.
Bad photographs again, I apologize. My room isn't the best of photographic studios, I must admit. So, all in all, I made this from that old mirror, some cardboard and some pictures and words/phrases cut from magazines. I also found this half-broken powder-box or whatever from around the house, so I took off the mirror of it.
So my world is small. That is how it seems today as I look out the window and see two apartment buildings exactly the same as ours. So I've started a blog... my, oh my. Now this is interesting. Has my incessant over-thinking finally got someplace to stay? What can I say, this feels rather normal as my daily dose of exercise is mostly for my fingers. Me and my speed-typing. Writers sure can become weird.
I have yet to discover what the point of this shall be. Maybe we'll find out soon enough. I am hoping it'll float to me from somewhere around my subconcious. My head feels very empty today, so who knows, maybe it has already made its way out --- purpose.
So I thought I'd share my latest creation. You see, I have a thing for creating things, in the form of thought and in the form of something real, something you can touch. Now you can take a wild guess what this very badly photographed piece consists of. I made this for my old youth worker at this youth home I was staying at, just to say thank you. I am not one of those people who buy presents, I prefer making them.
In the middle, on the top is this part of a contact lense container I clipped off with scissors. I tied some metal wired around pretty much every visible surface of it, and when that was done --- it took me weeks just to finish this part, actually --- I sewed some purple plastic pearls around the middle with some white thread. The rest are buttons from the flea market and some pearls from my no-longer-stepmom's old sandals. You can try this too... Though I'd suggest leaving the contact lense freak-show out. I'll post some instructions later on =)
