Islands in the Sea


I’ve lost sight of the truth. And I’ve lost control of my words, which is probably more frightful. I am always writing the same piece in a thousand synonymous ways. About inertia and fear and truth and lying to ones self and being tired.

I can’t tell what is an act of bravery or of cowardice. To disseminate the life around you, cut ties, re-forge, re-stitch, re-new that all seems brave. But if I look at the intent behind the action, the prism casts colours of cowardice and self deceit. I assume when one wants freedom from their life they cut and run. Starting new is a sparkling concept. Bleaching out the action or inaction of the past. I think my soul is starving and I am too negligent or apathetic to do anything about it.

There is nothing worse than feeling creatively starved and I don’t have a damn thing to say right now. Just the dull pining within me that says ‘you are on the wrong course’. Sea for miles and no island of truth. Makes you want to drink the salt water. Wait? Is the boat fucking sinking too?

I’m lonely in a way that feels deeper than ever before. I think it is the kind of loneliness one suffers from utterly betraying yourself but not knowing how. I’ve been asleep for two days. I go to bed at the prescribed times of regular humans and I wake up to the world with the regular humans then I take myself back to bed to nap for five hours while regular humans are outside. It almost sets my skin raw to be out there with them. I am the safest asleep during the day and when I return to the twilight beginnings of the murmuring night I am inert. I can’t move. I can’t feel. I think and turn and read hundreds of pages and go to bed at the prescribed time of regular humans.

Perhaps it is disappointment that I am unable to bear. Suffering is stoic. It makes sense. It can’t be helped. Disappointment slices me with the knife of my own responsibility. I am disappointed because I dare to believe in hoping people change, or that I have changed or that anything in this whole world moves but nature. Disappointment points a finger. It blames its victim. If you had no hope in anything or anyone then you wouldn’t feel so fucking disappointed. How can hope be such a negative thing? They argue a type of resilient strength in vulnerability. One must be vulnerable to hope, I guess. It’s all word play atop the sludge of emotion, shit. Suffering, hope, disappointment, vulnerability- Who cares when it all feels like shit?

I am moody and melancholy and what should I be focusing on? Sitting here, describing the summer? Is that a fucking party trick? I lost my words and my scope. All I am mesmerised by is my own feelings. Look out into the world and maybe you will be more interesting to read. Not today my dear readers, for I am tired. Again.

xx SJ

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