About writing… In the farthest sense.

I write a lot. It’s not always poetry or novels or flash fiction, but I write down thoughts, little notes or words. And I write daily. I use fountain pens and journals. My handwriting is horrible. I really need to focus to write nicely. It’s a challenge in my job too, lol. Yes, I have been told to try and clean my handwriting. I try, but honestly (and this sounds not nice at all) I can’t be bothered. And I don’t have the time either.

Once in a while I share a pic of an entry in my journal. I like doing that. It gives the entries something real, something deep. I have been told so, many times.

I go through many journals and wrote the last page in one just yesterday. I started that one in February. This morning I bought a new one. It is a weird feeling to write a last page in a journal, and it is a weird feeling to write the first page in a new journal. In my mind, I don’t want to soil the blank pages with nonsense. Usually, my notebooks are blunt and no-descript. Black. I like them to be closable too, preferably with an elastic band. Today, I found another one that reminded me of my youth and is over all quite me. It has James Dean on the cover. I like James Dean a lot. I read a couple of his biographies, saw all his movies, and we share a birthday. And it was not too expensive either. It is thin though… I am sure I need to get another one by Christmas.

People laugh (or smirk) when I unpack my journal and my fountain pens. I own many fountain pens in different styles and colours. I like how they all write differently and I like how the ink flows on to the paper. Writing is fun. Or so I think.

Old and new journal.

So yes… If you are looking for a gift for me… Fountain pens and journals are a good idea.

Do you write by hand? What do you use? Are your posts written down first in a journal? Mine are not, sometimes I write a spontaneous poem here (or on Wattpad) and copy it later into my journal 🙂

My favourite pic of myself in my teenage years. This pic was taken when I was 19 and on vacation in Brittany. 🙂

Me…

So, a nice man was paying me compliments for this picture. First he asked if it was an old picture, then he said that ‘No, it can’t be, it takes years to become this beautiful’. I admit, it worked. I blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl.

Besides, I would not share a picture of myself that I don’t like. I like my eyes on this one, and my hair. The shadow on my face (from the rearview mirror) is annoying though. Just felt like sharing a picture of me again.

This is the same person who fell asleep while watching a movie for the first time tonight. Which movie, you ask? Logan. Yep… I slept through Logan, then I dragged myself to the bathroom and to bed in a semi-asleep state. And now I am wide awake. That’s me.

Fear

Fear. I don’t know fear. I never have. I am not able to feel fear. Well, maybe I am, but I am not allowed to. Fear lets one make mistakes and mistakes are deadly. Fear. I am afraid to feel it. To be paralyzed by it. To let it rule me. But here I am and I feel it creeping up my spine and spreading on my neck. Sweat is forming on my forehead, my view becomes blurry. I cannot afford to lose my senses, but here I am; blind, deaf, mute. I cannot see because sweat is constantly running in my eyes and I can’t wipe it away or make it stop. I cannot hear because the pounding of my own pulse is the only noise in my head. My blood and my thoughts. The rest of the world is silent. I am silent too. I am silent. Deaf. Mute. Nobody knows that I am alive. Nobody knows that I ever existed. Fear. I was never able to feel fear. Now I do. I made mistakes. They paralyzed me. Fear. I don’t know fear. I am fear. I am ruled by it. Fuck fear. Fuck anxiety. I just want to hear, to breathe, to speak. I want to be me. Fuck fear…

Down in a Hole

There is always a little spark of light in the darkness and there is always a small shadow in the light.

***

This thought is what’s keeps me powering on in the dark days.

But that’s just a tiny part of me.

I forget how to make my legs work. I stumble, I fall. My knees are bruised from polite submission. I can’t get up. Lying in the dirt. Digging my own hole with broken fingernails. Filthy and discarded. Damaged goods. That’s me. A failure. Someone who gave up.

But that’s just a tiny part of me.

I am a fighter. Stronger than I admit or let on. Calculated. Cold. Empathetic. Affectionate. One doesn’t exclude this other. I pulled myself up without any help. All by myself. Damaged goods. That’s me. A success. Someone who never gave up.

But that too is just a tiny part of me.

I know so much about music and movies and actors… And if I don’t know, I do my research. All this useless information that is stuck inside my head.

Voices… I have voices in my head. No, I am not insane. But I talk to myself and create storylines in my head. I think about what to say and work the words over in my head until they make sense. And my stutter got worse again.

Quite emotional… I am rarely emotional. I cried when my grandma passed away last November. I cried when my son told me that I am a bad mother (and when he told me a week later that he didn’t mean the words he said). I cried when I felt abandoned. But I also cry when I hear music. Lyrics get to me all the time. And all of a sudden I am a crying mess. I cry when I see movies or TV shows. Last time I cried was during an episode of How to Get Away With Murder. I’ve been binge watching that show since last Sunday.

Too open-minded.

I don’t like women. The drama and narcissism is just too much for me. I don’t have many friends.

I love my son. We have a deep bond and I hope that it will stay that way. I think, I know a thing or two about him he doesn’t know himself. And when he comes to term with it, I will be there.

I am picky. With everything. Most of all with food and books.

I was so proud that I lost lots of weight some time ago. I guess it is all back and a little extra too. I’ve been neglecting myself. Drank too much, ate too much crap. It will stop and change. I am a stress eater and I eat when I am bored…

I had three weeks off work and my work colleagues sent me messages that they miss me and that they’re looking forward to me coming back. Me too.

I suffer from depression. And the older I get, the more anxiety is added to the mix. I feel useless and obsolete when I am not taking my medication. It has worsened a lot.

Two years ago, right around this time I was the happiest I have ever been in my life. I am not anymore. Yet, I still feel hopeful right now. As if it is okay.

Everything happens for a reason is such a clichĂ© and yet such a huge part of my life’s philosophy.

Chewing gum. Phone/internet. These are my addictions.

I love vegetables, but I don’t like fruits.

I will never stop to need affection and acknowledgement. Of course I known that I need to earn it. And even when I receive love and admiration even, it is never enough to fill the hollow that has been there since I was a kid.

I didn’t have a nice childhood, but I didn’t have the worst either. And yet, all the events I experienced shaped me into the girl I am now. With a healthy mom and a present dad, I would be a different woman. A man once said I have daddy issues. I don’t know. Maybe he was right.

The most romantic thing I was ever told (spoken directly to me on the phone): “As long as I have cum in my balls and a mind in my brain, I will not forget you” It’s vulgar but beautiful too.

My favourite part of me is my eyes and my lips. I also like my voice.

Sometimes, things start out one way and end another and that’s okay.

People are onions. Layers and layers need to be peeled away to get to the core. And tears are plenty.

All of this is still just a tiny part of me. I am. But you just see the fragments I chose to show.

Failed beauty

I woke up surrounded by water

And I was drowning within

My soul was floating on sins;

My thoughts became darker.

I was not prepared for two years later

Pushing and pulling – twin-flame.

I wish there was a way to feel safer,

But there has to be a loser in every game.

This time it’s me; next time it’s you;

That’s the beauty and the failure of us two.

Red

Red. He can taste the colour. It’s the favourite shade of his favourite colour. Nothing can stop him from craving it. Men, women, children, even animals; they all have it and he wants it. Red. All he wants to taste is red. Feast on weak and limp bodies until every nuance of red has left them to take up residence in his veins. He sees a woman with a red coat and a red umbrella. In the grey neighbourhood on this grey day, she stands out. As if she is calling his name. And maybe that is what the rain is singing when it thumbs down on the ground. It wants him to see her. Red. It’s all he wants. He stops her to ask for the time. An easy smile plays around her lips and they quirk up. Around her eyes small lines are visible. She is beautiful. But his want doesn’t understand beauty. It doesn’t care about esthetics. He wishes that he could play with her. Like a cat plays with a mouse before the feast. He can’t. Tortured red doesn’t taste good. It’s the adrenaline that makes a good meal go to waste. He is a gourmet, he doesn’t want to spoil a delicious dinner.
He thanks her politely for the time and turns as if he wants to leave. But he doesn’t leave. With a seducing smile, he turns back around and he invites the woman for dinner. He knows she can’t resist his charms. No one can. She worries her lower lip before she accepts his offer with a bashful smile. She is perfect, he thinks, and she will be his.

He is perfect, she thinks, and he will be hers.
The shades of red on him are beautiful. She can taste them on her lips. He is handsome. Too bad he fell for her charms. As he fills her veins she feels sated for the night. She turns in an goes to find a peaceful sleep. Tomorrow, her hunt for different shades of her favourite colour will start again. Red. That’s all she has ever been craving. All she needs in her life is more red.