i didn't want to go back there, to its gently welcoming glow of a door
Once a week ago, once two days ago and once today. Three times I've sat down with the spangly new broadband we just got installed in our house and tried to blog. Three epic, rambling, confusing, over-detailed, vain, pointless posts that I didn't finish. Honestly, no one cares how many boys I've kissed or times I've been pissed since last we spoke. I've become harder this summer, impatient with myself. I don't want to read my own bullshit.
Looking through Facebook... pictures of friends. Sailing, acting, making puppets, going to festivals, travelling, playing in bands, doing charity work, church work, painting, dj-ing, graffiti design, starting careers.
Whichever way you look at it, I've spent the last four months since leaving Egham working like a dog behind the bar and getting pissed. Yeah, there's been other stuff. The end of one relationship, the beginning of a new one, getting to know my parents again, making new friends, losing an entire stone through being too stressed to eat and then putting it back on again when I chilled out a bit.
But mainly, yeah. Work/Drink.
When did that become me? Some smarty-knickers left a comment on this blog once, I can't remember what I'd written, it just said 'who are you, Fi?'. I seem to remember I wrote something snippy back. Anonymous comments are the height of cowardice - if you can't say it with your name attached you shouldn't say it - and I didn't like the implied disapproval.
Would that they would ask me again. A few months later, the dizzy thoughts of moving back home to find myself have somewhat disappeared. I think I've learnt a lot, etc. I feel more adult, etc. I feel like I'm fading away, etc.
Because I'd like to say I have a lot more interests than I do. These things you do that tether you to the world around you. Ice hockey or your love of whittling; your encyclopaedic knowledge of electro music or your complete works of Plato. Gone. You become transparent.
You don't know anything.
The only thing I've ever been good at is this. Writing. I don't do it anymore. This is the first thing, other than a couple of drunken poems (about a boy who smelt of Armani; about a club I went to) that I've written in weeks and it's taken me four goes.
This is... depressing.
Some of the stuff in the archives of this blog feels like it was written by someone else. I can't believe I used to be able to take the way I was feeling and actually explain it. Now, I can't even feel it. It's sickening to think I was miserable for years because I could feel things so keenly and now, now I feel nothing at all and I realise the only thing that kept me alive through that time was doing this, writing, and now-
Sometimes I even wish that I could go back. I think, perhaps it was worth it to be able to capture it. Then I realise what I'm saying, how utterly wanky it is to even suggest that a knack, a way with words is worth the incredible darkness of that cloud.
No. Nope. Nope. No.
This is... the problem is that I've been writing this for an hour, trying to break the block, to get it moving, to employ every constipation-related analogy I can in order to relieve the backed up emotional blockage. I can't.
Because I don't want to admit that I'm unhappy again. And I can't even remember how it happened, when it started. But I don't want to do anything, everything seems like I'm watching it through glass again and every time I smile I'm faking it and all of these cliches. These black cloud, don't wanna get out of bed in the mornings, feel like I'm missing out cliche.
This dirty great cave I used to live in, with the big bed in the corner for me to sleep all day. The piano that only plays the minor key. There, over there is my teddy bear and there's the little black blag that no one ever, ever gets to look inside.
And there's me in the doorway, looking slightly stunned.
I'm going to uni in September. To Brighton, a new life, new course, new city, new everything. And now, after four months of relative simplicity, working and dating and enjoying life - NOW - the bad place finds me.
At least I've managed to write something.