When nostalgia blurs into necrophilia

It is over a year since I last updated this blog. Just reading back on it shocks me a little bit. I feel infinitely older than whoever was writing here. It's like reading someone else's stuff.

This Lilly Scabette. She sounds brittle, a little kid showing off. She's got a lot of ideas but no organisation. She's just a bit pretentious, and God, how young she sounds. So innocent.

I've aged.

Did that brittle little Lilly shatter into dust?

She's gone. That girl who tapped out late-night metaphors with a brazen self-consciousness, who ran away to live with the first guy who would give her the time of day, that foolish little kid who tried to make real life and fantasy the same thing. That gullible girl who thought she knew it all but really knew nothing. Or maybe she only knew the wrong things. I can't discredit her utterly. I'm in her bedroom now, wearing her old dressing gown.

I'm 22 years old and back in my old bedroom.

Aww

This is so sweet. In a totally different way. It'll make you smile.

It's 4am and everything is true. This deadtime, just me and the words. At 4am there's no one around to tell me I'm wrong.

I am sufficient at 4am. I have no needs, just intellectual curiosities and yearnings of the soul. Thoughts are brighter. Probably because everything else is dark.
They say my sleep patterns are screwed, but I think I'm meant to be this way. I'll shiver through the coldest dark, and leave my curtains open to see the moon. I'll stand vigil to every dawn. Just let me sleep through your dreary days, your dutiful mornings and cold-comfort lunches.
I'll tap tap tap all night like beetles in the woodwork keeping you awake. When I'm obliged to keep morning appointments, I'll drift in like a ghost, out of time and fading grey under your too-bright lights.
Keep your bedtimes and sleeping pills, keep your routines and your respectable day jobs. I walk through my own time.

Mess

Everything is one.
A mess.

I am back at my parents' house. He reached his limits first. Couldn't deal with me anymore. Found even anxiety attacks infuriating, and temper tantrums, no way.
We're still together. Just, I am 200 miles away filled with bitterness. The day I realised that clinical depression had returned and was causing many of my mood problems, he said I had to leave. Like, the next day.
I already had been threatening leaving. When you get yelled at for having anxiety attacks for stupid things, that tends to happen. And well, I'm also a psycho bitch. I lose it sometimes. I can switch out. I know I'm not good.
But still. When 'I'll be with you whatever happens' becomes 'I'll be with you unless you start suffering really frequent debilitating mental distress, in which case I'll chuck you out when you're at your lowest point' then well, it's hard not to feel a little abandoned.
I love that guy, but well. Here I am. Alone. It was bonfire night, and I stayed home alone. Halloween, the same. I don't blame him for that. I blame myself, and maybe I need some time alone.
Still.

This hurts. A lot. I don't sleep. I'm still waiting to be able to register with a doctor here. So much for 'go away and get better'. Hopefully on Monday I'll get the paper I need. Then I'll 'be better' and then I'll be able to make my decisions with the impression of a clear mind.

And God help us all.

Politics

Yes. Politics.

I have previously put quite a lot of effort into ignoring politics and all practicioners thereof. They are all tossers, and they can carry on being tossers up there in Westminister while I get on with my life.

However, it doesn't quite work like that does it? They do stupid things up there, and the shit rains down, not on their comfortably renumerated heads, but on the real people who live in this country.

We didn't even vote for this government. And why, just because I live in this country, do they have the right to tell me what to do? I was born here during pretty good times. Most of my life the global economic and political climate has been pretty comfortable, and in any case, I was too young to know anything about such things. Anyway, now everything has gone to shit, because of politicians, bankers, and other such high-up, unaccountable, and down-right shady wankers, apparently the ones who try to keep their heads down and get on with it are the ones who are going to suffer.

I am allergic to 'ist's and 'ism's. Capitalism, Communism, Anarchists, Socialists, all of them pretty much just passed me by. I'm also allergic to people telling me what to do, what to think.

But, thinking about it, I must be partly to blame for how shit everything is. I sit back, and watch the world unravel, feeling pissed off but not really doing anything about it. There must be millions like me. The apathetic angry, disatisfied yet utterly disconnected from the idea of action. How on Earth could l'il ole me make any difference in the world?

Well, maybe if we all tried, even a tiny little bit, then we could start a revolution.

So here I am, back on the Blog. This time it's to procrastinate from starting to write a new paper diary. New diary, new start, with nice clean paper and a nice expensive ink pen. So, scary. Fresh starts only stay fresh for so long, and then they start going musty and stale and end up all dirty and gross. I need a new start again, I've been a right dumbass lately. Mental issues, blah blah blah, usual stuff (see pretty much the whole rest of this blog).

So, happy stuff. I am magical and strange and changing.

Watch this space...

Writing.

It is something I'm good at. But right now I feel so burned out tired of it. This is the Sunday afternoon of creativity, after the frantic deadline-busting scramble, everything fades to grey and it is too much effort to do anything.
So I lie around and eat crisps and doubt myself and drink and have petty squabbles and submit a few things I wrote already to magazines as a poor substitute for real effort. I will never get published. I wonder what grade I'll get for my creative writing course. Maybe a fail. It is sunny and summer and everyone is light while I lie heavy and filled with doubt, as useless as a lead balloon and just as entertaining. I read. The work of others depresses me.

Writing this blog depresses me. Soon, I know, everything will come back again. This is the dormant time. But waitng. Impatience is one of my many vices, waiting for words is my least favourite thing. I need a summoning ritual. I shall create one, a sigil, a circle, an incantation to call the concepts, the muses, the burning idea which demands to be brought into life. I will create.