My heart slows down. Things creep back to some form of normality- or should that be reality? I'm a little windswept.Perhaps. I look harder to find beauty, harder to feel all the wonder.
That's the way these things work. I know the stages...the foolishness,the realisation. The nausea. I feel sick at my regurgitation, at my inability to close down my brains reactors. At the strength of my grip.
I create mental plans, mental in all the senses of the word. My favourite involves me going to live with monks on a cliff in Laos. As though it were my entire soul that some how needed redemption.
As though some how I could wipe my mind clean. "If only I could get far enough away from myself" I think...
I wish I was shallower. Wish I was the sort of girl who could distract herself with shoes or fucking...jewellery, or other people. Perhaps I need to cultivate a drug habit...or become a bird watcher...a collector of stamps...I guess any new obsession will do- it's all one and the same is it not?
They all need a certain amount of madness. To feel anything with any great passion...you must allow it to consume you. I'm currently being consumed in entirely the wrong way and I loathe it with every ounce of respect I have for myself.
I scour the web, for flights...or trains...to anywhere I don't have to know anyone. Because here I tell no one anything anyway...everyone important is too far away. And I know how stupid this all is. I feel like I'm just randomly pushing buttons to see if one will stop me feeling what becomes increasingly more annoyingly ridiculous by the day.
But that too...as I know (of course) is just the way these things go.
This thing cannot leave without taking a little tiny...minuscule piece of me with it.
It's done with. And I must let it go now.
...ok...so, when I say "now"...just...do it.
What a dick. Why is time such a bastard at being timely. Why does this have to hurt. I'm fine...I don't want to hurt mother fucker...what is love anyway. I hardly even notice it's there.
Oh fuck it.