CASES BEFORE THE COURT:
1. Declarations of Intent re: relocation of fixed abode. Note: tenants unstable, though gracious, accepting and eager to make a fist of things.
2. Applications for Forgiveness re: past mistakes (read: cataclysmic) that led to break down of past loving relationships.
3. Offers of Recompense re: love and solidarity given/shown when undeserved/unearned.
4. Enquiries re: possible curative measures for mental illness. Note: not including those which involve popping pills.
5. Signed Affidavits Claiming Defendant to be Fit for Life in Normal Society. Note: Submitted evidence disputable.
6. Laundry Lists of Regrets. Note: Written, submitted and read by characters with dubious pasts, uncertain futures and depressing presents.
My eyes are like guillotines tonight, eyelid blades dropping quickly and cutting off the words I am trying to get down on the page. Despite this perpetual state of tiredness I know any sleep I can muster will be fleeting. Short, agonising hours, punctuated by gruesome dreams ending with a delicious wince. I will trawl the depths of my intestinal ocean in search of something to give me the strength to sleep, uninterrupted, for a full eight hours. I will, no doubt, come up empty handed.
The dark rings around my eyes are my closest friends.
Last day of summer has come and gone. Suddenly it is March. It is autumn. It is brown and orange leaves, scattered and skeletal around parks and schools, footpaths and trails. It is children building piles to their chests, running headlong and diving into them - a shangri-la of dead, dying nature, and living, breathing, screaming human life. It is girls pining for the brown skin of summer. It is the world shaking its head, lifting its gaze and getting on with the business of another year. The time for sleep is over. That is for the trees and animals.
And amongst the hustle and bustle of the world am I. A distinct part of it, though distinctly apart. My time-line goes at a different speed. To sum my thoughts on this is difficult. I am really trying to live, rather than to just exist. I want to be in the game rather than on the sidelines, so to speak. Excuse my dull, hackneyed sports analogies. In truth: I am giving life another shot, though at my own speed rather than the speed of the world. Slow and (not so) steady, as they say.
Spent my Saturday evening watching my older brother play Nintendo 64 like I used to when I was 12. Thoroughly enjoyable. Reminiscence need not always be a maudlin experience, as it has been for me these last 12 months. It felt right to be happy about my young days. It felt natural to be hanging out with my two future flatmates. We will get on well. We each of us are intelligent, belligerent, articulate and funny when we so choose to be. We each of us are emotional, destructive and insular when nature or the human world choose to ruffle our feathers. We all have a room to ourselves, though, and this will allow us the time and space we need inside our own heads. I will enjoy intelligent, witty conversation. I don't talk often anymore - unless the green fairy has lubricated my tongue.
Tranquilizers are giving me seductive looks from their perch on the bedside stand. My brain knows better, but it is unabashedly courting my lenience; cajoling me to allow it some more chemical interference. I will fold under the pressure, now, and give it what it desires. If my heart can't have what it wants, perhaps it's only fair that I allow my brain a bit of respite. Goodnight, you pouty-lipped emotional terrorists.
Did you like the taste of your cough medicine as a child?
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