Monday, September 26, 2011

Dear Sir.

(Image by DragonSpark)

Dear Sir,

Emily believes (and I agree with her) that Jane Austen suggests that if you've ever got anything worthwhile to say, you should say it in a letter. I figure that way you will never be misheard, and neither party can feign the opposite.

I wish I would write more often. I used to be able to sort things out in my head when I wrote them down, but somewhere along the line that stopped happening. I think that maybe it's because my life is so full of things I need to consider. I make sure that there's always something happening. I need for there to always be something to talk about. I can't stand the silence.

On nights like these everything seems to stop. There's nothing to do. No – there's nothing that I want to do. I feel like I could be anywhere in the world right now and I still wouldn't feel the desire to move. I am static.

And then there are those times (the ones that seem to occur more and more often lately) when I feel the urge to just do anything. I want something to happen, and I often get half way through making a change before realising how ridiculous I'm being. I can't count how many times in the past few months I've thrown my phone at the pavement, hoping to smash it into pieces, before sheepishly running to retrieve it. I find myself constantly walking out of rooms; picking a direction and continuing to move until it dawns on me that I have nowhere to go. I can't go back, so I will sit in a park, in a primary school, on a street corner, at a bus stop until my fingers are numb and my nose is running and I know I have no choice but to go home. Today I went into a pet shop with every intention of buying a particular animal. They had just sold the last of them, and I walked out asking myself what I was thinking. I can barely take care of myself, let along another living creature.

I don't know if I'm ever going to be okay. Sometimes that's fine. I can live with that. But other times it's not. I feel useless and the weight of my worries seeps out to touch the people around me. I don't know how to stop that from happening – and it really shouldn't. Because you don't have to think about the things that I do. What sense is there in both of us being unhappy, when it's only one of us who really needs to be?

I'm a pusher. I poke and prod at you constantly with no particular intention. I don't know why I do it. Maybe I want proof. Proof that you really do like me and that you're not going to leave. I can tell myself over and over again that you are my friend, that you have no ulterior motives, that I can trust you, but I still feel the need to test. I don't understand. It doesn't make sense. Most of the time you treat me better than I treat myself.

Yes, I'm a pusher, but I've been told that what I need is for someone to push back. Someone who says, “No, I want answers. You will explain this to me,” and who doesn't back down when I'm mad or when I try to shut myself away. Sometimes I need so much just to speak and to cry and to trust that you won't think that this is all that I am. I can't stop the darkness from spilling out, but it is my hope that one day I will exhaust myself. There will be nothing left of that time and I will be able to move on. It's not fair of me to expect so much from someone who owes me so little, but I won't be able to do this alone. I can't wait to be empty.

I know that I'm running out of time. I can feel my grip slipping. If this doesn't happen soon I will leave you behind and it will never be fixed. I can't say that I know what I will do to myself if that happens. Removal has always been the answer, but I still haven't decided what to cut.

Yours always, Elisa.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

The blood.

The blood staining your fingertips is the only thing that reminds you you're alive. You have spent hours consuming pixels, and each one of those hours brought you closer to your death. So which of these is more lethal? The blood, or the television?

Insomnia makes people do strange things. Or rather, people do strange things when they suffer from insomnia. Sometimes minutes pass and you don't know what you've been doing. You find yourself outside in the street. You're wearing pyjamas and you have no shoes on.

It's starting to get light and that's not what you want. The morning brings desperation; the seeking, the straining, the endless words. How can you go through all of that again? How long can you pretend? All you want is to sleep forever. You hate the light and you will fight it with all your failing strength. But when you close your eyes it isn't darkness that you see.

The wall is cracking. Your defences will not hold for much longer.