I write this yesterday, for today.
The world feels heavy and quiet. Do you know what I mean? It's thick and sludgy and even the music I listen to seems to whisper deep to my soul. My body aches and reminds me that I am still ill and colds linger with me. A poor diet and inclination to alcohol helps none.
I was stolen by your words and you absence. The space where you could take up residence captivates me, as only your absence could. In reality I'm taken by my imagination and ideas. This is less about you and more about me and that's the way it has to be and that's the way its always been.
There are songs that sound like you and there are songs that just aren't long enough.
My hands remain covered in ink as I finally get the lid off of one of the pots and the little success ripples through the day. I smile. I see glimpses of things that may happen and things that have already happened. I plough through ideas with a renewed purpose. I watch kittens curl up and sleep on clean bedsheets.
It's mental health awareness week. I feel I should say something, but trite words do nothing to help the cause. I tread as lightly as I dare, lest the black thing catch up with me. Occasionally I fall for a day, a night, but I always find my way out again.
I saw very little art. A penchant for reading books under blankets won out in the end. Creating over absorbing. I'm not saying it's good. I'm not saying I like it, but I'm saying I did it. Evidence that this week happened and this week can still exist in a sketchbook.
I do not take compliments well. I become flustered and back my way out of them. Edging with my back against the world, the idea of the perceptions others have about me very often at odds with each other. I use to pride myself on being able to read people well, but that seems to have disappeared with an acceptance of myself and my own feelings for myself.
I can't help but think in sound bites. Sentences that could be a stand alone. Words that say nothing but everything too. I am complicated but not so in the simple knowledge that I am complicated. I stretch out in bed in the mornings and feel the power in my muscles. I feel the potential for freedom and movement.
I am here. I am watching and waiting. I am alive, even if it is only in this moment. I hold hands with ghosts and tell them I'm sorry and tell them I forgive them, because I can't keep them alive inside myself any longer. I tell the younger iterations of myself that I don't wish they had the confidence or well being I have now, they don't understand but I do. It's only from destroying everything I've been able to reshape the mould.
It's only from blowing myself to pieces I stand here today. I'm not sad, but I sound it.
"I wrote this song to tell you I'm leaving"