i haven’t written in a while. actually i think it was only a week ago, but i no longer feel the same level of connection to the version of me who wrote all those things. i am grateful for who she has been and what’s she’s done to get me here.
i hope i make her proud.
i feel pressured quite often to keep everyone updated about ‘who i am’ because it fluctuates so frequently. and i get anxious when i think that other people are seeing me as disparate from how i view myself. which is silly cause it’s inevitable right? nobody else is going to understand the depths and intricacies of me as well as my own self.
i’m in a little groove at the moment (like a groove carved into wood, not a groove at a disco) and honestly just waiting until i finish semester so i can spend the time i need to care for myself. proper care. not just a face mask and a bit of meditation. not just staring wistfully out train windows. but actually sitting down with the darkness inside me to confront it. to understand it. to listen to what it has to say and then let it go.
i think all i need is just to restore the flow.
the following: a collection of journal entries from the past few weeks
I love you more than you could ever know and I am so proud of the person you are. You have achieved so much and suffered so deeply and I recognise all that you have been through. I will always be there for you. I forgive you for everything. There is nothing you could do to make me love you any less.
I am so proud of you.
It’s about 6:30 in the morning and I’ve just woken up and I’m going to try and do this thing called morning pages where I just write. I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. My alarm went off as soon as I had the thought “I wonder when my alarm will go off”. I’m trying to form new habits. Charged my phone on the other side of the room so I can’t scroll through social media in the morning. Need to do yoga and meditate every morning. Need to make an active effort to live more mindfully. I am barely keeping my eyes open. Everything is just so quiet at this hour. It’s still and calm and I feel at peace even though my bones feel heavy; I know it will pass. When you think about it this moment only happens once and I’m either awake or asleep for it. It happens regardless, and I may experience it or I may not.
I think my soul is black but not in a sordid way, just because it absorbs everything around it.
If energy was light my soul is a black hole, consuming it all.
This isn’t poetry it’s just the first thing that comes to mind I feel like I’m performing half the time this body is a costume I’ve never really grown accustomed to and the stage exists in my own fucking head. What next. I feel like I’m constantly slipping down the sides of what life is ‘supposed to be’ struggling to keep up with constructed fantasies of reality. I think I’m 70% water and 30% dreams, always running in my sleep but can never piece together what it means. Don’t know how other people can think about me when I can’t think about my self, everyone just uses the Other as a mirror for themselves. People looking into my eyes and seeing nothing but their own soul in disguise – maybe it’s because it all comes from the same Source (God or my own head?) (Great, now we’re back here again…).
I promise this isn’t poetry my pen’s moving too fast to dot my i’s and I haven’t got time to process whether these words are universal truths or universal lies. Make up your own damn mind. Crazy how one person can be a million different people existing at once and changing with the weather and people always gonna think they know you better cause of that poem you posted on instagram at 3 am they’ll think they’ve got the right to observe your soul again but you don’t owe anybody anything you don’t need to explain what it means you don’t need to explain it you don’t need to explain you don’t
I start the morning empty and slowly accumulate water until I’m filled to the brim. Don’t know whether this liquid comes from without or within but it’s always shifting never stagnant, bordering on empty then replenishing, overflowing until nothing is left. Life is a cup. This is the Test.
all my dreams are nightmares cause my biggest fear is to miss reality
the hours on the clock become suspended arbitrarily
i swear i’m not running away it’s actually quite the contrary
but til the hand stops ticking in odd disjointed ways
and the oceans stop swelling into tsunami like waves
and the book no longer ends mid sentence on the last page
this is all you’ll find contained within your days