I'm Fine

One of the most useful gifts in life is the ability to convince people that you’re happy even when you’re lower than low. When you go through life changing experiences and moments of despair it becomes all too easy to lie to people and hide your true feelings. When my brother was seriously ill, I convinced everyone that I wasn’t scared, that i didn’t think i’d lose him and that i didn’t worry for him every second of the day. In reality i was crying inside, wishing that it was me instead of him, wishing that i could my mum stop crying in the bathroom at 4 in the morning.

He had so many demons, and i could feel every single one just by looking at him, but like me, he convinced everyone that he was fine, even though he didn’t look it. I watched him deteriorate day by day and was too naive to realise the reasons why mum made me wake him up every morning. She was too afraid. She was scared she would walk in his bedroom and find him dead. This thought makes my guts wrench.

Eventually, he was admitted into hospital after being resuscitated in my bathroom late one night. I remember that night far too well… I remember crying and screaming and needing him to wake up, shouting at the paramedic when they carried my brother down stairs and out to the ambulance. That night, i didn’t sleep at all… and the next time i did sleep, i wished it would be for eternity or that i’d wake up and it would all just a be terrible nightmare.

In hospital and throughout his illness my brother managed his emotions and his feelings by writing poetry. He put everything he had into that poetry, it was so powerful and so upsetting to see on paper the pain he was going through but only half as upsetting as seeing him starve himself almost to death previously.

The point i’m trying to get at is, my brother was so sick for so long, but he managed for 3 years to hide it from the world. The only way he expressed himself was through writing. I think along with everything else, the treatment and the therapy, it was writing that saved his life. From him i have taken the ability to put my feelings into words as well as the ability to hide them. When i’m feeling low i find it so easy to put on a brave face and just write it all down at the end of the day, to empty my mind for an hour or two and confide fully in the words i write.

Writing is therapy for me, just like it is for my brother.

Hollow

You are nothing but an empty vessel,

a shell of a person not worthy of the skin that holds you together.

You forge concern from that cave you call a chest and expect people to believe your compassion isn’t fake.

You don’t fool me. your flesh is lucid and i see right through you.

Tell me one thing that makes you human, prove to me that you have a heart and that you don’t need machinery to pump the blood around, because as of right now, that is the only way you could possibly be alive.

You are a sham and everything you stand for i could recreate in seconds, but i don’t wish to manipulate people as you do.

I am not your puppet, not anymore and never will i succumb to that position again.

You don’t control me, does it kill you to know that? Can you even feel pain?

Do you lack that much self worth that you need to drain others of theirs?

You are a tragic waste of space and your organs are not even worth donating, I wouldn’t wish them upon anyone. They’re past dead already.

I’m glad i got this off my chest, I’m hoping It’ll crush yours.

#7

Leech.

Have you ever trusted someone, put your life in their hands?
In return, taken a bullet to prevent their secret from escaping?
Carried it to the grave, Like a captain who goes down with his ship.

Have you ever felt blue, or green?
Betrayed, Broken, Bruised,
Have you lost your way home
or had no home to begin with?

We all know someone who feeds off the misery of others.
Who was the last person hungry enough to harvest you?
It wont take me a minute to tell you who’s last meal i was.

Have you ever been stabbed in the back by a comrade?
Let them pierce your heart and see your life flood before their feet,
Like a sacrifice intent on quenching their thirst?

Have you ever broken a promise?
I know for a fact you’d be lying if you said no.
Would you rather keep quiet, are you ashamed?

Secrets, like promises, are made to be broken. Built to be destroyed.
But only to be destroyed by those who created them.
You have no right to paint the walls with my blood.
Now i must paint my walls with yours.
An eye for an eye, a life for a life.

Next time we meet, You’re dead.

#6

Paranoia

The front door closes and i hear footsteps grow quieter and more distant. All sounds become muted apart from the heavy intermittent buzz from the music on the upper floor. Unfortunately, it is not enough to block out the growing silence. My mind begins to panic as it realises it is alone with itself, It becomes self destructive when solitary. Safe thoughts deform at every opportunity.

Have you ever felt watched? Like somebody or something can hear every twitch, every blink or breath? Voyeurs do not exist purely in fiction, people tend to forget this, i wish i could. Another thought, was that door always so open? So wide and daunting. At what point did the corridor become dark and menacing and why does it choose to extend so, as if it is trying to appear frightening. No matter what the answer is, It has achieved its aims.

I take hold of the handle and pull the door shut, fast and firm. I wanted to break the silence, but this empty apartment spares none of its limited personality to help me. I try to keep my thoughts away from the nagging characters in my head. “We’re behind you” they say “we see you but you will never see us, even though you keep trying to catch us”.

I need distraction.

I am more than thankful that this space houses no mirrors, objects that could easily take the form of anything i imagine. At this point they would be the end of my sanity. I catch glimpses of figures, shadows and flashes of light but do not wish to chase them. I fixate my gaze on the newspaper. Five minutes of sanctuary as i thumb through the pages of The Observer. It leaves black residue on my fingers that burns ever so slightly and sweetly.

I soon retire from flicking the pages and realise that i am in no state to avert my attention further. Now is the time to overcome the paranoia, something i am never ready for. My head disassociates itself from my body, becomes an entirely different entity and prepares itself for the worst. I open the hallway door, the corridor taunts me and begs me to come in closer. Paranoia is hungry for it’s next meal. I begin to sing. Anything, any words that spring to mind, Just to break the silence. Silence is a serpent that seeps in and suffocates the eardrums. The words of the corridor, once so threatening, are now empty, no soul resides here. These walls are of brick and plaster. Such materials do not house a character or personality of their own, however, they still manage to taunt and mock me with their presence.

”It’s my mind playing tricks” i think to myself. ”I am not afraid of being alone here…That’s absurd”, But the quiver in my voice says otherwise. Fear grips me, it distorts all manner of objects and thoughts. It causes me to itch deep under my skin. An itch i am unable to scratch. I can’t endure much more of this.

This paranoid state is no new occurrence, nor will it ever become old. I have been running for longer than i care to remember. Running from the man at the top of the staircase who’s eyes blister my back as i descend, running from the creatures that dwell under beds and behind open doors, peeking through the space between the hinges. Anxiety forces me to run. My heart beats so fast i expect it to rupture at any moment. I feel every ounce of air vacate my lungs and my chest tightens. Crying out is prohibited when our old friend paranoia comes for supper. These are his rules not mine. He doesn’t want people to know he’s present at the table.

Some days I feel like a victim of my own imagination. Some days, I feel as though my own mind could be the death of me.

Paranoia is always hungry. Always wanting more than i can afford to give.

#5

A Faulty Locket

My heart is a locket, a piece of Jewelery that is seldom opened. A grey shell split in two pieces and welded together. Once closed, it is a task in itself to open it up again.

Like a locket I wear my heart where everyone can see it. People often try to open it, looking for memories or faces that mean something to me, but its far too time consuming, so eventually they give up and move on to unpicking some other persons locket.

Why is it that everybody else’s locket opens with such ease, they scream out to be unhinged. Mine is stubborn and laborious, It doesn’t want anybody to see what’s inside. It’s scared of opening up.

My locket appears much smaller than its brothers and sisters. It’s practically embarrassed to be on show. People make assumptions, people think because my locket is small, that is must hold information not even worth a mention. They’re wrong.

I wish..I wish for once that somebody would take the time, even have the patience to open up my locket. To unpick my heart and help me mend it properly, so that it can eventually be opened with pleasure and ease, rather than broken in to.

#4

Human?

What happened? Where did I go? It’s as if I retracted into my shell and never came back out. I am no longer the person I spent years trying to be. I have grown taller than the creatures I left behind, but I feel defeated by them still.

I avoid situations I used to relish in. Where did the confrontation and the conflict go? What happened to the confidence I gathered and used to build my fortress? I was impenetrable, a force to be reckoned with. It all changed. It always does. Change is Imminent.

The drama that consumed me is now reclaimed by younger generations. They will end up like me one day, with a past they would rather erase than recall. In life mistakes are constant and ever sprouting. As I grow, they grow. I just learn to handle inconvenience efficiently as I flourish.

I avoid my past like the plague, but like fear, the past follows you. I am in constant fear of my past and agonise over ways it can damage my future. But as much as I wish to erase my past, I do not regret it. This may sound cliché, but the past makes us who we are.

Through trial and error we become human. We are not born human, we are born experiments, we are moulded into creatures by outside influence and we learn to be human by coping with change. We learn to adapt and survive in the ever changing climate we are born into.

#3

Overthinking

The more time I spend sat at my computer desk/coffee table hybrid, the more I wonder exactly what it is I’m doing with my life. I spend a lot of time with my own mind, It becomes a task in itself.

So i spend 70% of my week sat in front of the screen, eyes fit to cry blood from strain, back arched and arms heavy, blasting out all kinds of music from Morrissey to Manson. This is my habitat and these are my familiar surroundings. Accumulated plates and glasses making some kind of toned down version of The Emerald City around me, previous nights out strewn across the floor and the eerie static on the TV when it goes to standby, you know, the organised mess of a typical adolescent bedroom. Every hour of the day disappears and becomes filed into how many times the bedroom door opens, or how often my mouth becomes dry. I don’t keep time in a typical way. I have so many time pieces but no concept of where the time escapes to. I lose time, but not in the way you lose loose change in the backseat of a car. I don’t expect to regain it. In fact, i wallow in lost time.

So it becomes apparent I haven’t been outside in three days. This is a regular occurrence. It is not until I breach my boundaries and take a walk that I realise there really is more to life than my pretentious computer.

I feel totally vulnerable yet appear confident in my own skin. I have never felt a better sense of wellbeing than i have when walking down an endless dirt lane in my parka and my beat up plimsoles, sun blazing down on my face, the relentless wind brushing away all efforts attempted with my hair that day. To me, walking nowhere becomes therapy. Being isolated recalls all of the time that appeared to be lost and replenishes it. Over thinking starts again. My mind works like a flow chart, everything I look at or think about spouts off one hundred different outcomes or stories. My mind is always full of something. Never empty. If only I could switch it off. I envy people with nothing on their minds, although most of them have just perfected the art of not caring.

When I overthink, I get scared but I don’t admit this to myself. I simply walk back down the dirt road and return to my habitat, sit in my chesterfield recliner and repeat three days later.

#2