And now for some truth. Well, at least a version of it.
In my head we are perfect. In my head we are like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, we fit together like we're supposed to. In my head it's perfect. I know I don't want you because you're interesting or funny; I want you because you are there and because I can have you. And is that so wrong? To want something and know you can have it if you just snapped your fingers...or sent a text message.
In real life you are nothing. In real life you're like a reflection in a muddly puddle. I can send it away whenever. I don't want you. I want the idea of you. It comes in waves and when it subsides I realise what a jerk I've been, but at the time I don't care. Would I hate it if I were you?
You aren't enough. I like to pretend that you are the jigsaw piece - but you're not. You're so far from that. I don't want you.
Tuesday 24 February 2009
Saturday 21 February 2009
It's not hard to fall when you float like a cannonball.
Urgh. All those times I've held my tongue around you, and for what? I wish I had the guts to just tell you what I thought of you, to try and express the rage and the pain inside of me. You don't fucking hold back. You're selfish, just a fucking selfish prick. One foot wrong and I'm in the shit house, but you, you get away with every fucking thing. We're all embarrassed by you, you know? You're such a stupid fuck.
I try not to let it touch me. I try to make it seem like it's not hurting. It kills me though. But you're too selfish to see that. Everything has to be on your terms, everything has to be about you. Why can't you be more of a mother? Or was it a case of as soon as we got into double figures you gave up all obligations to us?
I can't wait to leave this shithole.
I try not to let it touch me. I try to make it seem like it's not hurting. It kills me though. But you're too selfish to see that. Everything has to be on your terms, everything has to be about you. Why can't you be more of a mother? Or was it a case of as soon as we got into double figures you gave up all obligations to us?
I can't wait to leave this shithole.
Friday 20 February 2009
Let me get what I want this time...
I can't fucking do this anymore. I can live with you, like this. You're a fucking pisshead. Urgh. It's twenty past six and you're fucking pissed. I hate you so much. What kind of person starts drinking at 2pm. What kinda person does that?
An alcoholic.
I can't think when you're around because this rage wells up inside me and I can't stop it. I see you and your horrible, ugly face and I want to lash out at you. I want to make you hurt because every sip you take hurts me. You fucker. I can't do this. I just wish, for once, that you would just choose not to drink. I wish that you wouldn't opt for the route that makes you turn into someone else.
I'm fucking hurting and you refuse to see it.
An alcoholic.
I can't think when you're around because this rage wells up inside me and I can't stop it. I see you and your horrible, ugly face and I want to lash out at you. I want to make you hurt because every sip you take hurts me. You fucker. I can't do this. I just wish, for once, that you would just choose not to drink. I wish that you wouldn't opt for the route that makes you turn into someone else.
I'm fucking hurting and you refuse to see it.
Monday 16 February 2009
Who Watches The Watchmen?
So, I bought the graphic novel The Watchmen yesterday. I bought it for a fairly reasonable price of £12 from HMV. Well, I think it was reasonable anyway! I have to say I am really enjoying it! I've never really read a proper graphic novel. I've read comics and stuff, which is kind of the same. I am loving it though! It's engaging, it's clever, it's intelligent, it's just bloody fantastic.
I'm trying to savour it by reading it a bit at a time, although I get the feeling that it's one of those novels that you can reread without them getting old at all. So yes, The Watchmen may well become one of my favourite reads.
My favourite character has to be Rorschach. I can't really tell you why, to be honest. He just seems devoid of any real emotions, particularly self pity, but at the same time politically aware. I don't really know how to explain it. I think I would like to be able to walk in his shoes sometimes, to be free of the shackles that come with a conscious. But then again he has one. This is confusing.
Rorschach:
His mask is like the Rorschach test. But Wikipedia can explain him much better than I can.
Dr. Manhattan is pretty cool too.
This is him in the film, which I am pretty darned psyched for by the way!
I'm trying to savour it by reading it a bit at a time, although I get the feeling that it's one of those novels that you can reread without them getting old at all. So yes, The Watchmen may well become one of my favourite reads.
My favourite character has to be Rorschach. I can't really tell you why, to be honest. He just seems devoid of any real emotions, particularly self pity, but at the same time politically aware. I don't really know how to explain it. I think I would like to be able to walk in his shoes sometimes, to be free of the shackles that come with a conscious. But then again he has one. This is confusing.
Rorschach:
His mask is like the Rorschach test. But Wikipedia can explain him much better than I can.
Dr. Manhattan is pretty cool too.
This is him in the film, which I am pretty darned psyched for by the way!
Thursday 12 February 2009
I just want you to know who I am...
Weirdly, I just found this while tinkering around the stuff I have saved on the college network. It kind of runs out of steam near the end. Please don't laugh at the names! I want to keep it as original as possible, as it's too stale now to go back to. I might have a go at rewriting the whole thing but keeping the idea. Enjoy!
They say not to talk to strangers. But put yourself in my shoes. He was sent to kill me on her orders, what options did I have? What else was there for me to do? The police weren’t an option; she’d know I was still living. She would know he had betrayed her, and I wasn’t prepared to put his life in danger. It was the right thing to do.
It makes it easier to think about, to talk about if I make it so any other option would have ended worse than this one.
I suppose I should start from the beginning, when things were normal. Well, normal for me. We were in love, me and Rae. Of course, she had no idea about that. We kept it to ourselves, it was exciting. “Our little secret.” He would whisper in my ear as he pulled me inconspicuously behind a door or a curtain. We were happy then. It hurts to think we might still be happy if – No. I mustn’t think about it, I refuse to let myself pull open that wound.
I digress. We were happy together. Endless nights would pass with us planning our escape. Talking and hoping that one day we would be free of her hold. That one day our love wouldn’t be a secret.
She was my employer, my landlord and my provider. Not a mother. Never a mother or even a guardian. Just a warped imitation of someone who should care for you. She found me work, made sure everything went smoothly, made sure I wouldn’t get hurt and that my ‘clients’, as she called them, were sane, or at least clean. My real name was Airlyeth but my ‘clients’ called me Snow. Ironic that I should be called something so pure and innocent when I was, in fact, a prostitute, nothing more than a whore. It doesn’t matter how you dress it, how you sugar it to become something higher class and somehow morally right. I sold my body, pure and simple. She was the person who did the selling and the person who saw the money. What I got was a roof over my head, a place to sleep at night and food to eat. I should’ve been grateful. But I snapped. Wouldn’t you? It gnawed away in a fragile place in the back of my mind until I couldn’t do the sordid thing any longer. I remember it happening so vividly. I lay there planning it all. I wasn’t going to do it anymore, I was worth more. All these thoughts swirling none stop. I wasn’t thinking about dooming me and Rae. I just wanted out.
The door opened and I sat up. He was a businessman, they usually were. Grey suit, novelty tie their children brought them for Christmas. I tried not to think about that part. Instinctively I clocked his wedding ring but I didn’t want to think about his wife at home, it revolted me. He must have said a couple of things to me, I don’t remember what. I was sweating even though I was hardly wearing anything. I wanted it over with. He sat next to me and my blood boiled. He was 40, if not older, he had a family; he had a wife, why was he not happy with the things he had? I stopped thinking then. As he forced himself on top of me I forced the knife into his stomach. His eyes bulged as the air left him in a soft whooshing sound and blood started to flow over my hand and onto me. Panicking, I hauled him off me. It was hard to do but I somehow found a reserve of strength inside of me. He rolled onto the floor, a croaking sound coming from somewhere deep inside his throat. I stopped on my way to the door, looking at him. Contempt washed over me; he deserved it I told myself. I still believe this now but the guilt hides in the cracks of my argument. I could have taken anyone’s life and it would have still felt like my own.
This might not explain anything to you. In my head I’m trying to make sense of why and how things turned out like they did. This isn’t for anyone’s benefit but my own. It’s selfish. I’ve come to understand and accept that I am selfish. If I hadn’t have been so consumed in myself I might’ve stayed and me and Rae would still see each other. I can’t believe how wrong things went.
He came to me. He kissed me. I remember him explaining that she had sent him to find me and kill me. He cried. He cried so hard and I wanted to hold him but he wouldn’t let me. He kept shaking his head, asking why I had done it? why I had ruined everything? I got so angry. Why had I done it? I practically screamed in his face. I had done it because I was scared and angry and fed up of having to do what I was doing. Could he not understand that?
Evidently not.
He walked away. He left me standing there all on my own, to salvage something out of the wreckage of my life.
So I wandered through the city. Looking for something to do, someway to maybe change things. That’s when I met Gee. He was 30, long black hair, awful dress sense but an overwhelming charm to him. He wasn’t Rae, no, he would never be Rae. But he was someone to turn to, someone to take care of me. Or so I thought.
Gee took me to live with him, he didn’t care about my past. He said that those sorts of things are better left untouched. I agreed. His flat was dark, damp, and dingy. I didn’t think much of the tin foil or the spoons strewn on the floor. I thought he was just messy. Until I saw him shooting up on the kitchen floor. I wanted to walk out but my legs wouldn’t get into gear. I didn’t want to a part of that. But he grabbed my arm, he was frantic, his eyes wild and sweat running down his forehead. Stay, he whispered, stay please. I shook my head and turned away. Seeing this change come upon him pity rolled over me in waves. I stayed; what a mistake. That night he offered me some of his ‘stuff’, it hurt to think about Rae, to think about what I had lost and he assured me that it would help me forget, that he could see the pain in my eyes and that this would take it all away. I believed him and I nervously held out my arm as he slid the syringe into my skin. I don’t remember much of my first trip, in fact, I only remember words and numbers flashing in front of my head, and of course the face of the man I had killed. Rather than take it away, it amplified it.
Ciao.
xoxo
They say not to talk to strangers. But put yourself in my shoes. He was sent to kill me on her orders, what options did I have? What else was there for me to do? The police weren’t an option; she’d know I was still living. She would know he had betrayed her, and I wasn’t prepared to put his life in danger. It was the right thing to do.
It makes it easier to think about, to talk about if I make it so any other option would have ended worse than this one.
I suppose I should start from the beginning, when things were normal. Well, normal for me. We were in love, me and Rae. Of course, she had no idea about that. We kept it to ourselves, it was exciting. “Our little secret.” He would whisper in my ear as he pulled me inconspicuously behind a door or a curtain. We were happy then. It hurts to think we might still be happy if – No. I mustn’t think about it, I refuse to let myself pull open that wound.
I digress. We were happy together. Endless nights would pass with us planning our escape. Talking and hoping that one day we would be free of her hold. That one day our love wouldn’t be a secret.
She was my employer, my landlord and my provider. Not a mother. Never a mother or even a guardian. Just a warped imitation of someone who should care for you. She found me work, made sure everything went smoothly, made sure I wouldn’t get hurt and that my ‘clients’, as she called them, were sane, or at least clean. My real name was Airlyeth but my ‘clients’ called me Snow. Ironic that I should be called something so pure and innocent when I was, in fact, a prostitute, nothing more than a whore. It doesn’t matter how you dress it, how you sugar it to become something higher class and somehow morally right. I sold my body, pure and simple. She was the person who did the selling and the person who saw the money. What I got was a roof over my head, a place to sleep at night and food to eat. I should’ve been grateful. But I snapped. Wouldn’t you? It gnawed away in a fragile place in the back of my mind until I couldn’t do the sordid thing any longer. I remember it happening so vividly. I lay there planning it all. I wasn’t going to do it anymore, I was worth more. All these thoughts swirling none stop. I wasn’t thinking about dooming me and Rae. I just wanted out.
The door opened and I sat up. He was a businessman, they usually were. Grey suit, novelty tie their children brought them for Christmas. I tried not to think about that part. Instinctively I clocked his wedding ring but I didn’t want to think about his wife at home, it revolted me. He must have said a couple of things to me, I don’t remember what. I was sweating even though I was hardly wearing anything. I wanted it over with. He sat next to me and my blood boiled. He was 40, if not older, he had a family; he had a wife, why was he not happy with the things he had? I stopped thinking then. As he forced himself on top of me I forced the knife into his stomach. His eyes bulged as the air left him in a soft whooshing sound and blood started to flow over my hand and onto me. Panicking, I hauled him off me. It was hard to do but I somehow found a reserve of strength inside of me. He rolled onto the floor, a croaking sound coming from somewhere deep inside his throat. I stopped on my way to the door, looking at him. Contempt washed over me; he deserved it I told myself. I still believe this now but the guilt hides in the cracks of my argument. I could have taken anyone’s life and it would have still felt like my own.
This might not explain anything to you. In my head I’m trying to make sense of why and how things turned out like they did. This isn’t for anyone’s benefit but my own. It’s selfish. I’ve come to understand and accept that I am selfish. If I hadn’t have been so consumed in myself I might’ve stayed and me and Rae would still see each other. I can’t believe how wrong things went.
He came to me. He kissed me. I remember him explaining that she had sent him to find me and kill me. He cried. He cried so hard and I wanted to hold him but he wouldn’t let me. He kept shaking his head, asking why I had done it? why I had ruined everything? I got so angry. Why had I done it? I practically screamed in his face. I had done it because I was scared and angry and fed up of having to do what I was doing. Could he not understand that?
Evidently not.
He walked away. He left me standing there all on my own, to salvage something out of the wreckage of my life.
So I wandered through the city. Looking for something to do, someway to maybe change things. That’s when I met Gee. He was 30, long black hair, awful dress sense but an overwhelming charm to him. He wasn’t Rae, no, he would never be Rae. But he was someone to turn to, someone to take care of me. Or so I thought.
Gee took me to live with him, he didn’t care about my past. He said that those sorts of things are better left untouched. I agreed. His flat was dark, damp, and dingy. I didn’t think much of the tin foil or the spoons strewn on the floor. I thought he was just messy. Until I saw him shooting up on the kitchen floor. I wanted to walk out but my legs wouldn’t get into gear. I didn’t want to a part of that. But he grabbed my arm, he was frantic, his eyes wild and sweat running down his forehead. Stay, he whispered, stay please. I shook my head and turned away. Seeing this change come upon him pity rolled over me in waves. I stayed; what a mistake. That night he offered me some of his ‘stuff’, it hurt to think about Rae, to think about what I had lost and he assured me that it would help me forget, that he could see the pain in my eyes and that this would take it all away. I believed him and I nervously held out my arm as he slid the syringe into my skin. I don’t remember much of my first trip, in fact, I only remember words and numbers flashing in front of my head, and of course the face of the man I had killed. Rather than take it away, it amplified it.
Ciao.
xoxo
Monday 9 February 2009
I wrote a couple of poems in English today. Mostly out of boredom. I was half-asleep. But I will share one anyway.
#1
Heavy air, thick with words
that hang on every eyelid.
Shuffling iambs of pages
of books read, thumbed, scorned.
Tediousness is painted on every
wall and sanctuary seems
a speck in the distance,
when men with white eyebrows
tell you jokes that don't make sense.
#1
Heavy air, thick with words
that hang on every eyelid.
Shuffling iambs of pages
of books read, thumbed, scorned.
Tediousness is painted on every
wall and sanctuary seems
a speck in the distance,
when men with white eyebrows
tell you jokes that don't make sense.
Sunday 8 February 2009
This life is mine, and I am my own
I'm trying to be somebody. I'm not trying to be somebody else.
The pain I am feeling at the moment is indiscribable. I never, ever want to paint myself as vulnerable and insecure. I always want to be the girl who can hold her head up high and shake off all the troubles she has just like water.
You know that accidents happen.
I know that it's not my whole life. These brief bouts of pain that hit me when I'm not fully ready won't last for ever. This is just a rough patch, right? I'm paying psychologically for my mothers problems. I can't blame her for it all though, can I? It's not her fault that she's addicted to something that is slowly destroying her. It's not her fault.
I try and console myself with that. I try and say to myself that she is not in the right state of mind to think about who she is hurting. But this isn't true. Not even slightly. When she picks up that bottle of gin when she gets home from work, she is perfectly sober. She must know she is going to hurt us. She must know just how much she changes from my perfect, loving mother into a monster. How could she not see it?
I'm tired of fighting. I'm fucking tired. I'm tired of being her verbal punchbag. As much as I have wonderful friends no one really knows what it is like. No one has that. Their parents don't morph into unrecognisable people. When mum is drunk she is like a stranger.
Urgh. So this is me. If you stripped me away of my fronts you'd see how lost I was. How I don't know what to do most of the time. How I hurt myself to justify it all.
I hate it. Why can't it not affect me? I wish so much that I could just breeze by and not give two hoots whether she lives or dies. I am almost at peace with the fact that my mother will probably die young due to liver failure, or some other equally horrific disease. I know that she is falling apart, and all the times she goes to the doctors or moans about something to do with her health it is the alcohol that is doing it to her. It's knocking years off her life, but she can't see outside her green bottle.
I'm angry. Yes. I am angry at her for being such a selfish bitch. She doesn't want to see how we hurt. We've fucking begged her to change, to get help. But all she does is turn her back on us. I hate her for it. I hate her so much. Never have a felt so much hate. But then accompanying the anger and the hate is guilt, just as prominent.
I'm sick of feeling.
The pain I am feeling at the moment is indiscribable. I never, ever want to paint myself as vulnerable and insecure. I always want to be the girl who can hold her head up high and shake off all the troubles she has just like water.
You know that accidents happen.
I know that it's not my whole life. These brief bouts of pain that hit me when I'm not fully ready won't last for ever. This is just a rough patch, right? I'm paying psychologically for my mothers problems. I can't blame her for it all though, can I? It's not her fault that she's addicted to something that is slowly destroying her. It's not her fault.
I try and console myself with that. I try and say to myself that she is not in the right state of mind to think about who she is hurting. But this isn't true. Not even slightly. When she picks up that bottle of gin when she gets home from work, she is perfectly sober. She must know she is going to hurt us. She must know just how much she changes from my perfect, loving mother into a monster. How could she not see it?
I'm tired of fighting. I'm fucking tired. I'm tired of being her verbal punchbag. As much as I have wonderful friends no one really knows what it is like. No one has that. Their parents don't morph into unrecognisable people. When mum is drunk she is like a stranger.
Urgh. So this is me. If you stripped me away of my fronts you'd see how lost I was. How I don't know what to do most of the time. How I hurt myself to justify it all.
I hate it. Why can't it not affect me? I wish so much that I could just breeze by and not give two hoots whether she lives or dies. I am almost at peace with the fact that my mother will probably die young due to liver failure, or some other equally horrific disease. I know that she is falling apart, and all the times she goes to the doctors or moans about something to do with her health it is the alcohol that is doing it to her. It's knocking years off her life, but she can't see outside her green bottle.
I'm angry. Yes. I am angry at her for being such a selfish bitch. She doesn't want to see how we hurt. We've fucking begged her to change, to get help. But all she does is turn her back on us. I hate her for it. I hate her so much. Never have a felt so much hate. But then accompanying the anger and the hate is guilt, just as prominent.
I'm sick of feeling.
Saturday 7 February 2009
It's been a long time since I felt so sick
One day I will just implode. All of the thoughts and the feelings will pile on top of me and my mind won't be able to take it anymore. My mind will just collapse. Then all I will become is a dribbling, gibbering wreck. I would like to remain as coherent as possible.
I am trying to be a nice person. I am trying to be friends with this guy who seems to never get it that we can't be a couple. It seems to me that he can't see us as friends, only as a romantic pairing. I do not want this.
In other news, I have to get out of Wolverhampton soon. I was so close to buying a one way train ticket and waving the place goodbye. But then I thought that would never be fair on those close to me, so I may aswell wait until it is vaguely acceptable for me to leave when I go to university.
Meh,Meh,Meh!
I am trying to be a nice person. I am trying to be friends with this guy who seems to never get it that we can't be a couple. It seems to me that he can't see us as friends, only as a romantic pairing. I do not want this.
In other news, I have to get out of Wolverhampton soon. I was so close to buying a one way train ticket and waving the place goodbye. But then I thought that would never be fair on those close to me, so I may aswell wait until it is vaguely acceptable for me to leave when I go to university.
Meh,Meh,Meh!
Thursday 5 February 2009
You don't know a thing about my sins, how the misery begins...
This is really the only 'safe' place I have to rant and vent. I feel like a huge bag of shit lately, and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. Whilst everything is placid at home (for once!), I seem to be losing my grip on myself. I feel like I am just falling and falling and I don't know where I'll land, or how I will find my way out.
For the last couple of days my buzzword seems to be sorry. I seem to be the living embodiment of sorry. I am sorry that I do not reach the standards morally that are set in certain companies. I am sorry that I drink. I am sorry that I smoke. I am sorry that I didn't wear a chastity belt until I was in a loving relationship. I am sorry that I am me.
But it's all I am and all I can be.
Right now my hand is on self destruct. I don't want to sit and ponder the world. Really, I don't. I want to go out and party and have a bunch of fun and drink loads. This is all I want to do. I am sick, fucking sick, of being told 'don't' when I make a decision that I want to make. If I want to buy a bottle of vodka, I will buy it. If I want to smoke a pack of cigarettes in a day, I will fucking smoke them. I can't be fucked to listen to petty criticism that I, quite frankly, do not care about. I don't need to be made to feel guilty, I carry enough around with me.
I just wish, for once, people would get off my back. Because I am fucking breaking and I'm not entirely sure if anyone can see that.
For the last couple of days my buzzword seems to be sorry. I seem to be the living embodiment of sorry. I am sorry that I do not reach the standards morally that are set in certain companies. I am sorry that I drink. I am sorry that I smoke. I am sorry that I didn't wear a chastity belt until I was in a loving relationship. I am sorry that I am me.
But it's all I am and all I can be.
Right now my hand is on self destruct. I don't want to sit and ponder the world. Really, I don't. I want to go out and party and have a bunch of fun and drink loads. This is all I want to do. I am sick, fucking sick, of being told 'don't' when I make a decision that I want to make. If I want to buy a bottle of vodka, I will buy it. If I want to smoke a pack of cigarettes in a day, I will fucking smoke them. I can't be fucked to listen to petty criticism that I, quite frankly, do not care about. I don't need to be made to feel guilty, I carry enough around with me.
I just wish, for once, people would get off my back. Because I am fucking breaking and I'm not entirely sure if anyone can see that.
Monday 2 February 2009
January 2009 seems to be the month my writing comes alive. I feel so much more motivated to write. It is as if I have more vision, which means I can put more imagery into a piece. Emotions aren't literal things. You can't touch an emotion. Show me someone who has stroked anger or moulded love. There has to be ways of putting an emotion into words but it's so difficult. There's never one word that sums up the way you feel.
I guess the emotion I am exploring in this piece is depression. It's something I have been feeling a lot lately. The only motivation I have, really, is to write. I won't over talk this. I'll just let you read.
I wish there were more words. I wish there was a huge thesaurus with a plethora of new words in it that could some up one feeling concisely.
At the moment, my life is like a broken pencil.
Just imagine that for a second. A plain HB pencil lay across a crisp sheet of freshly printed-paper. It would be such a beautiful sight if the lead weren’t separated from the tip, it would be amazing if the graphite hadn’t smudged the page that was so ready – so eager – to be written on.
This is how I see myself; the potential is there. The pencil is ready and waiting to fill it’s purpose and write or draw something amazing. But there is something holding it back, a profound flaw that blocks any kind of creative growth.
It seems such a simple solution, solving the problem. All that needs to be done is for someone to realise the pencil is broken and sharpen it again. When that happens it’s ready to fulfil its purpose, to create something beautiful.
It’s so easy when the problem is a broken pencil.
But what happens when the problem is a broken person? When it’s not the lead, but the core of someone, the essence of them that is broken? How do you fix that?
It’s not as simple as picking up a sharpener and peeling away layers of wood until a new and shiny point reveals itself. You can’t whittle a person down to something new. So, maybe my life isn’t a broken pencil after all. Maybe it’s something more complex. And the question is and always will remain:
How do I fix me?
Ciao
xx
I guess the emotion I am exploring in this piece is depression. It's something I have been feeling a lot lately. The only motivation I have, really, is to write. I won't over talk this. I'll just let you read.
I wish there were more words. I wish there was a huge thesaurus with a plethora of new words in it that could some up one feeling concisely.
At the moment, my life is like a broken pencil.
Just imagine that for a second. A plain HB pencil lay across a crisp sheet of freshly printed-paper. It would be such a beautiful sight if the lead weren’t separated from the tip, it would be amazing if the graphite hadn’t smudged the page that was so ready – so eager – to be written on.
This is how I see myself; the potential is there. The pencil is ready and waiting to fill it’s purpose and write or draw something amazing. But there is something holding it back, a profound flaw that blocks any kind of creative growth.
It seems such a simple solution, solving the problem. All that needs to be done is for someone to realise the pencil is broken and sharpen it again. When that happens it’s ready to fulfil its purpose, to create something beautiful.
It’s so easy when the problem is a broken pencil.
But what happens when the problem is a broken person? When it’s not the lead, but the core of someone, the essence of them that is broken? How do you fix that?
It’s not as simple as picking up a sharpener and peeling away layers of wood until a new and shiny point reveals itself. You can’t whittle a person down to something new. So, maybe my life isn’t a broken pencil after all. Maybe it’s something more complex. And the question is and always will remain:
How do I fix me?
Ciao
xx
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