MARCH
“Yesterday it snowed and I felt as though my heart was filled with little stars. The snowflakes looked like stars too; little ghost stars. When I woke up, all the rooftops were white, and the trees were sprinkled with white, and the sun shone, strong and gold, and the world seemed like a very okay place to live in.”
“You know you’ve had a slutty summer when you check out a cute guy and then realise you’ve already hooked up with him.”
“It’s one of those weird days when the sky can’t make up its mind.”
“You know you’ve got an unfortunate face when a stranger thinks -even for a moment- that you’ve got Down’s Syndrome.
Speaking of strangers, one just smiled at me. For no reason. Or maybe because it’s St Patrick’s Day. Or maybe because he thought I was cute.”
“I kept thinking of Sylvia Plath and Wuthering Heights and all the ‘transatlantic elation’ that Hughes wrote about so witheringly. I am sure that when I am in the throes of energy and history and emotion, others suspect I am a mere sentimental imbecile.
But Cathrine gets it. She too almost cried. She too got visions of splendour. We want to stay here, to write, to feed on the peace.”
APRIL
“I was compared to λουκουμάδες (loukoumades). I drank a spicy cocktail out of jar.”
“I made the acquaintance of I— and I crushed immediately but I doubt any relations will transpire between us because I do not enjoy writing capital ‘i’s’. Also, he is dating someone else.”
MAY
“They raise us to believe we’re so special and then we spend our lives terrified the world’s going to prove them wrong.”
“Oh, you’ve got glitter on your turban!”
“Why doesn’t water have any calories?”
SEPTEMPBER
“And I dream about the ocean,
of its silence,
the quiet descent into peace.
Because sometimes I hate feeling so much. It’s draining. Because I am so sensitive and I must always have eggshell relationships. Because without nets, I shatter. Without patience and understanding, I deflate. Sullen skin, and bones with a parallel universe of turmoil inside. Blank eyes and a way in my heart. I am a writer that cannot express the tornadoes that spring up inside me without warning. I wish I was a mermaid, so I wouldn’t be afraid of water, so I could escape into the silence.”
OCTOBER
“As I fall asleep, my mind is a kaleidoscope of his soft hands threading themselves around my oaktree palms. His hands spreading around my neck like starsfish, feeling my heartbeat in my throat. His lips kissing my rings. His lips silencing my answers.”
“I shouldn’t have called him when I was drunk. I sounded weird and I bothered him when he was with his friends. And at the cafe, I almost cried, and I talked about not being superwoman, and I asked him why he likes me (who does that?) and I am too intense.
This is all me, and I like me, but me is complicated, and he is simple, and I just don’t know if he’s the kind of simple that can handle my complicated.
NOVEMBER
“Desperate times call for receipt scribbles. The lights remind me of diamonds and gold, and sometimes of peacocks, but that is the extent of inspiration. I used to be free. I used to be able to tell the difference between the darkness and the light. If I couldn’t get out of bed, life was living death. If clouds made me smile, I was swimming through stars. Now I must function no matter how I feel, and so the lines of functionality are blurred. Duties cloud my Bipolar judgement. Or maybe I am in denial. Maybe this is what they call Functional Depression. No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anyone but yourself. I haven’t sparkled in a while. Sometimes I catch the twinkles for a few hours. When I’m drunk maybe. More often than not I am paper-flat, empty of wit, barren of laughter, filled with a sad envy as I watch the world slide by so carefree. I have forgotten how to glow.”
DECEMBER
“I wore a faux-fur coat and called everybody darling while blowing bubble-gum bubbles. I smiled sweetly and told strangers to fuck off. His hands grabbed my hands. His eyes grabbed my eyes. He said, ‘MADONNA IS A RELIGION.’ I gesticulated wildly. I confessed I often feel like a gay man trapped in a woman’s body.
We danced -slowly, happily, drunkenly- to the blues. I twirled. I laughed out of happiness. I lost my pastel pink lighter. I glittered. I ordered shots with honey in them. I stole the shot glasses. We tumbled out. I think we lost someone. I said, ‘I left without saying goodbye to Apollo. I’m sure he’ll be devastated!’
And then, ‘Oh, Apollo! There you are!’
By the time I got home I had added an ashtray and a glass to my stolen paraphernalia.”
I don’t understand what kind of year I’ve had.
I know how you feel. And, actually, that has contributed at least a small good thing to my year. Thank you for sharing!
Thank you for sharing that! A lot of the time I feel so disconnected from the world, and I get so wrapped up in myself that I get tangled so (despite the shadenfreude implication) I am glad to hear of someone else who gets it!
Again, ditto. Although “getting it”, in this case, means not getting anything whatsoever…it’s still very meaningful.