Couldn’t think of a title and this one wasn’t far from the truth. Blog entry #4. Not sure how this is supposed to work, or if there is a formula. A lot of people seem to use them as journals to express personal and public ideas, although its all public. I am conscious that anything i write will have been written before in some form, by others or the same thoughts being written over again by me, and just finding better ways to articulate them. I think”what’s the point?” i guess its really for me, the point is for me, to explore questions i have, things i’m thinking, and i guess to put something out into the world, and see what comes back, even though that part feels a bit scary.
I kind of do feel like i have mould in my brain, this place i live in, its not horrible, but i’ve never been really comfortable here, there is the noise above my head, the banging of 6 yr old feet upstairs, being at ground level, even though its pretty bright, i feel vulnerable, and there is an odour, that only i seem to be able to smell, that feels a little toxic, it is in my bedroom. I feel like i’m dying and i’m letting it happen, and i don’t have a great desire to fight. I wonder if its a metaphorical death, or a real one. I have been thinking about my death for a long time, and if “The Secret” is right, i’ll be dead shortly. I don’t know that i want to leave yet, if it is a physical death, if its metaphorical, then i think i’m okay with that, if it means that the part of me that dies, is the part that chains me to my past, to my family, to watching everything and not feeling like i have access or right to any of it, if the part of me that dies, is the part that doesn’t let me breathe, doesn’t let me be happy, doesn’t ever think that someone i love will be in love with me, if that part dies, i don’t know how to finish this thought, this sentence. I just keep thinking that i can’t wear it anymore, this old coat, that i may as well be dead, considering how i’m living, not living, well, living, but not happy. I’m conscious of this tragic figure i feel i’m embodying, this person, messed up life, goes on does some decent stuff, can’t escape herself, can’t escape the part of her that is sad, that has mental health issues, that she hides as best as she can, but can’t hide them very well anymore, see:blog. Going outside to make the other part of the title true.
