December 5, 2016

Writing || A Truth

The truth can often be hard to face, even more so when it is one you have successfully convinced yourself is not real. It's just a bad day, a bad week, a bad month. You're okay, you're just lazy, procrastinating, you'll have the energy to do it tomorrow.

Before you know it four years have gone by and you can't remember yourself in any other state of mind. Were you ever truly enthusiastic about things before? Was there a time when you woke you up excited and wondering what the day may hold? How did you get here, how did you get here, how did you get here.

One day you wake up and the very idea of having to make it through the day crushes against your shoulders. All you can do is cry at the absolute exhaustion that simply existing places upon you. You can't sleep but someone has filled your bones with lead during the night and every step feels like a marathon you never signed up to run.

Then it's a doctor's waiting room. You've never been to a doctor's on your own before and you're obsessively rehearsing what you want to say. You've only told one person you're here because despite your rational self knowing better, your mind still tells you that this seems a lot like defeat. You weren't strong enough to keep fighting it on your own.

The doctor's kind, gentle, makes soft jokes that make you smile. She reminds you of your grade 12 maths teacher and that makes you calm down a little. She asks question after question and when she finds your heart rate is well over what it should be, whisks you away to another room where you're made to lie shirtless with wires on your chest, on your arms, on your legs. She wants to make sure your heart's working properly. You want to tell her that it isn't, but that it's not something any machine can detect.

The future starts to fill up with doctors and psychologists and the endless battles of the mind. You're scared, terrified, but with a little less intensity than that with which you just want to be okay. It's been far too long since you've been okay, but you're finally getting brave enough to admit it.

December 4, 2016

Video || November 2016

November was a strange month, I felt like I was drifting through all of it without existing inside any moment. Nature decided to put on quite the show though.

December 2, 2016

Writing || Through the Windows

In a house across the street from me there lives an elderly lady. Most mornings when I sit on the balcony while eating breakfast I see her gardening in her fuzzy dressing gown, seemingly in no rush for the day to truly begin. Her house has the kind of windows I one day dream of having on a home of my own; windows to push open and let the sun filter through, curtains dancing in the wind. 

I've never met this lady but over the past couple of months I seem to have invented my own version of a life for her. Whenever I'm feeling anxious I imagine the peace she emanates streaming throughout her house. Her front room must have a record player which is always on, the classical music it's playing following the breeze through every room. Maybe there's a big comfy arm chair there too, positioned in just the right spot to be bathed in morning sunlight, where one can curl up like a cat to read a book or watch the dust suspended in the sun beams. Her kitchen might look like it did in the 70's; the linoleum on the floor the shade of orange and yellow that everyone associates with that time. It would be the perfect kitchen for pulling up a rickety wooden chair and having a chat over tea and cake.

I know none of this is likely true, but that's not what matters. These imaginings aren't about the lady or her house, but instead are a place for my mind to go when it needs to calm down. When things get really noisy up there sometimes the only peace it's able to find is the peace of somebody else, and for now that will have to do.

November 9, 2016

Writing || My Fear of Words

I often try to keep my words inside of me. I hide them in some deep dark corner of my gut; pushed one against the other until they're like a constant belly ache. Some people feel their words in their minds, in their hearts, in their throats. Mine seem to sit in my stomach; I feel them there swirling around each other and tying themselves in knots that will take far too long to untangle. I've gotten good at ignoring the heavy feeling of words though, I almost don't notice them unless I stop and let myself be aware of how I feel inside my skin.

Sometimes I try and fool myself into thinking I could go without writing forever. Looking at my collection of notebooks makes me feel guilty; they're relics of a time when words were easy and I wanted to spill as many of them onto a page as possible. Now I get filled with a surge of anxiety just by opening the cover of a notebook filled with my words.

But then there's times when I see something or feel something that begs to be written about. Moments that I can feel aching to be captured and remembered. They crawl under my skin like an itch you can never reach. Stories of thunderclouds shapeshifting before my eyes, of wind gusts that bring the world to life and of people scurrying home like ants toward their loved ones.

But there's stories of darker things too; of the white noise that sometimes fills my mind until there is only see and hear, there is no think or process or comprehend. The story of the months in which I forgot who I was and what I liked, and existed entirely inside this white noise, scared that I would never remember myself again. These are the stories that make me scared to write, as though if I don't write them down it will keep them as something that is a little less than real, and a little less than real is manageable.

Mostly I hide my words because I know they often get read by people in my personal life and I do not like that. I do not like that at all. It's like leaving your diary out and having everyone think that means it's a free for all to read it. Maybe it is. Maybe that's something I have to come to terms with. I've always been more comfortable in front of strangers than in front of those I know, and the desire to share my thoughts with the world is constantly at war with my desire to keep things to myself.

I do not know if this will ever have a resolution. If I'll ever be able to throw words into the world carelessly without carefully weighing and testing each one first. Is this too much? Too little? Is this a truth better kept to oneself?

Will I ever be brave enough to untangle all the words I've hidden?