понедельник, 26 июля 2010
This again.It is the same as always: the insane procrastination, the frantic attempts to get things done on time, the tired familiar disappointment. I don’t know what I am doing to myself. I don’t know why I am doing it. Every time I miss a deadline I want to hurt myself. I am so lonely and so alone, and I feel so sorry for myself. Which I wouldn’t have to, if I weren’t doing stupid, self-destructive things to myself. I suppose that could be a motivation: I can’t feel bad about myself if I am happy and successful. The other motivation is even simpler and more pathetic: I can’t fail if I don’t try. It’s the worst kind of excuse, but that’s what I always do.
I hate, hate, hate myself right now. I don’t understand myself. I don’t know how to change, how to stop hurting like this. I want a different kind of hurt, the easier, simpler kind, with the sight of blood, dark and mysterious against pale skin to soothe the restless anxiety, the shivering misery under the stretched, strained, tainted surface. I want to let it out, let it bleed out, bright and warm and secret, the smell of iron and the taste of sea salt.
I want to close my eyes and stop, freeze, cease. Just for a moment, a wonderful, terrible moment that can so easily stretch into eternity.
Real life feels like a nightmare, like something horrible but thankfully unreal. I want to wake up. I want to wake up and get up from the bed leaving behind damp, twisted, sour-smelling sheets and go and look in the mirror and see myself and feel something other than disgusted pity and weary resignation. I want to be someone I can be proud of but I don’t know how. I want to do something with my life that would make me happy but I don’t know what that might be. I am tired. I feel like I’ve been going uphill, struggling against wind and rain and snow, and there is no end in sight, the wind is getting stronger, the rain harder, the snow colder, and beyond the near-illusory top of the hill massive hulking mountains are taking shape in the distance.
I want to run but there is nowhere to run to, and no point anyway, because the things I would run from are inside my head and so would follow me anywhere, everywhere.
So, so tired. To sleep, perchance to dream… To dream, to read, to watch. The only thing that offers relief is escape into fantasy: other worlds and other lives, pain and doubts that are so much easier to bear since they are not my own, nothing but faint echoes of the real feelings I don’t want to deal with.
I wish life had a rewind button, and backspace, and reboot. I wish real problems, the small stupid petty everyday kind, were as easy to escape as prisons and enemy armies and evil dragons and insane sorcerers. I wish, I wish, I wish.
I wish I didn’t hate myself. I wish I didn’t have a reason to. I wish I didn’t give myself a reason to. I wish I had someone else to blame, to hate, to hurt. But there is only me, only ever me, poor little old me, so lost and alone.