Today escalated, if it is possible, between buzzing along & plodding. People & pictures and pasta, as well as the sad departure of Mr. Hoppy made up most of the day, and the realisation that things are sort of beginning to both fall apart& into place. Last night was slightly surreal (almost with three rs) bathed in bus-stop light & street-lights & flickering cinema screens. Preparations made for the unveiling of the tap-dancing chemist & his undervalued but singularly appreciative assistant. In some ways good & some bad, but fun, despite not knowing entirely what's going on (but then, that always makes it more fun) as well as the strange thought, that struck me coming through the door, that I'd completely forgotten, which spun me back into maybe, almost two years ago (it doesn't seem possible it was that long ago). That if someone isn't standing in front of me, struggling or pulling or even just talking right there before me, that I might forget. As my memory has been getting worse recently, and I can't remember dates, times or in fact the appropriate (at least recognised by the majority) passing of time, i.e. the length of time I think/thought I had & the actual, true length of time, and the variation between. It feels good to have these words all tumble out of my head, when it's been too long simultaneously stuffed up & empty. But it scares me so much, to think that perhaps this change, or even the anticipation or imminence of this change, this huge upheaval can have such an effect on me. As severe as college did? Maybe worse, maybe better. I wonder, am I more confident now? God (or everyone - how different is that?) knows that I'm more confident than I was - working forced me to be, and I'm glad it did, because I'm no longer afraid of so many things, or just people & situations in general. Not as completely, anyway. but without my beautiful, wonderful people, I wonder what's going to happen. I wonder, too, why the college therapist gave up on me. It probably means nothing, but it scratches a little bit, it makes me wonder. But along with this, this slight fear, this slight sense of familiarity - of two years ago, but exaggerated, enlarged and refocused, is also the creeping, jumping, secretly stalking sense that a new sort of manic phase is approaching. It seems the perfect opportunity to find out what I really think about things, whether I have any opinions of my own, whether without these people from whom I've stolen and cobbled and moulded and scraped together my personality, what it is I actually am, or am made from. I am sick and refreshed at having sustained this semblance of normality for so long. And from the screaming, excruciating month with Scott, bouncing & crashing about between a strange complete and total (fizzing, butterflies, aching & longing) happiness, frothing over, so effusive and absolutely drunk on it (that being us and, I suppose, him) and tearing down into screaming, petulant and afraid unhappiness. And you know, you witnessed it, because that's all you ever saw of it. Streaming eyes and choking crying, throwing and screaming. it scared me that it meant that much & that it made me so angry. Not angry, afraid and unhappy. But it meant so much, and I'm still attached to it, to feeling that much. That is what�s so important to me, that these days, these revolving, monotonous empty repetitive days cycle always onwards and the same, and that getting drunk does nothing [except that subconsciously searched for spark, of wanting, or lust or anger, or fury, of some real emotion or something.] that this none of me or it means really anything. and I look forward to moving closer to the edge again, that to feel burning inside is something real, something the even smug, satisfied daily life, where things are not so bad, where the absence of passion or real feeling at all actually kills you. But I'm having to do it without everyone who inspired something in me, the sort of love you have for people, for your friends that makes you ache inside when you wonder why or how such a person could ever stand you or want you as their friend, the ache which tells you that losing this person or these people is something you'd never choose to do, something that is going to be so hard to live without, that it could break you. it's the feeling that pushes you to hold onto them a little bit longer, or tighter, just makes you wish there was some way you could possibly let them know how much you love them, when of course the whole point is, that there isn't.

It makes me wish I could burn these memories I have of you into my skull, brand them into my brain so that I couldn't ever forget, tiny things about you all, things that you say or do, things that I�m scared will evaporate soon enough, spark into thin air, because really they're indefinable or meaningless to anyone else, maybe even you yourself. it is enough to know that I have loved you as much as possibly could, even if you couldn't, or didn't want to love me back the same, to know that I was lucky enough to hang onto your coattails through whatever part of your life we just experienced, but it really meant so much to me. I don't know what this has become, cathartic, a confession? A list of things as they pour out, whether they make sense or not. It doesn't concern me too much, but it is the beginning of something & the end of something else, all brought on from the fact that I just finished my last shift at work, the last time I had the opportunity to drop a frappucino blender onto my foot [OUCH] which is now swollen and bruised a beautiful greyish purple, skin scraped off. The last time to see people who've pushed and fixed me into growing up this way, whether it was for the best or whether they really knew, or cared, that they made such an impact. And it figures that it has only just struck me how much I take everything to heart, I feel like a sponge, All at once I have so much feeling overflowing but I have to mop the excess up from wherever I find it, not to say that it can't disappear in an instant, and consistency isn't something I am good at. What could this be? An examination of my character? An explanation or a confession, a letter to people I have loved and still love. I�m not sure. Shall I say this? Sometimes I love you all so much I feel about to burst, but no one likes gushy sentimental outpourings [something I fear this has become] but to tell you seems a little stupid, maybe in some cases unnecessary. but always you have always been a catalyst for real, tingling electricity. That is, feeling. Perhaps I won�t realise fully until I�m gone. It feels like the end, of something, and I suppose it is, although I don�t know why I�m saying it at all, it seems so obvious. I wanted to be a good person, and I think that there is within me an antagonistic [and damn, I can�t think of the word] mix of vanity and self-belief � that I am stubbornly insistent in allowing always my feelings first, always the priority, above reason or common sense & therefore the stomach churning swoop and fall, without rhyme or reason of my mind dominance over everything and at the same time a sort of subservience and unquestioning dependence on others, opposition is difficult, even when I know that I believe something else, I cannot argue, and I can never decide. I steal parts of other peoples� personalities to form my own. Who else said that? Kurt Cobain, I think it was. Odd. This is empty and half-baked philosophising. Is it an s or a z?
I really, really want to cut. It�s funny, isn�t it?
The fact that you have already cut yourself off from me doesn�t seem to matter very much & the absence of you & anything we had or what happened between us, does not seem to affect me at all, which hurts, or scares me at least. I don�t want to forget you, I don�t want to forget I loved you. But it seems as if I will, and that I have no problem in accepting a stranger�s advice, whereas I found it so hard to follow my friends� before when it came to you. To fall close to someone else, although I don�t entertain anywhere near the idea that it could mean as much as you or �we� ever did. You have claimed this part of my life (this part which is over now) and that can�t be taken away. I�m not sure whether it is your absence and therefore, in my consciousness, non-existence, which confuses me, or the lack on your part of affect. It�s is funny, that it seems to be already so much part of history, as to be almost fictitious.
And that so much, with so many, is already consigned exclusively to �memory�. Best friends and adopted brothers and sisters, people I�ve played around with, because I took advantage when I knew I could [not that I am or it is something to be proud of but it is part of everything that has happened, whether obvious or appropriate even, it is part of my memory, and perhaps makes Ollie�s comparison slightly more appropriate, although minus significant artistic talent..] it scares me, how much I�ve already forgotten, how much I�ve felt that I can�t even comprehend anymore, it blows fuses in my brain, attempting to recall those things I�ve felt or explain short-circuits my brain. Quick goodbyes and quick kisses on cheeks, hugs and little snatches of words, they don�t convey anything, but it�s all there is or a chance for. For some not even that, although they are maybe among the most deserving.
Tonight I missed fat pillows of red and orange, streaky yellow and goldylight sky. Tomorrow night I spend in choking smoky, stale-aired Jak�s. Stale and sticky from memories and drinking, but I get to be with people I love, and I know I�ll cry. Last night was spent strangely, in the dark wearing plastic lids as hats and tucked and folded in around a stranger, the tap-dancing chemist. Tonight was behind the bar, and humming spitting fridges [that you could most definitely sit in] death-trap panini machines, frothy steamed milk and syrup cream base and muffins, and I really think I�ll miss it. Dancing with the mop to forties jazz and cleaning tables. It was dusty and sad, a shiny, and too-quick collapse of things, or the end of my life as it has been for a while. I stole an apron, �cause I�m a bit silly. Onethirtynine/onefortyfour. But with potential, wonderful, terrifying instability and real feeling comes the potential release for so many things, and excuse, or an opportunity? Both and much more, and an outpouring of everything. No pretence. Or the creation of an entirely new one. But I don�t want that. I�ll try I promise, just don�t expect me to do it without any of my crutches, when it all falls apart, when I lose everyone, not entirely alone. There is so much to say, how much did I avoid?
That�s it. You remember me, I crack and fall apart. I burst into tears because I miss you so much. It was that easy, because I love you.

Firstly, I miss you. Secondly, I love you.

Feeling: happy - mitteilung gesendet
Listening to: whirring.
Pretending: im gonna get everything done. ?

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