I'm in that hole again, and don't have the dependent little calendar of the birth control pill (I took a break this month) to assure me that it's jsut hormones, that I should just look past it and occupy myself or sleep or chew rabidly on my stiletto heels (since I never wear them anymore) until the feeling passes.
The problem with the hole is that something seems wrong. Part of every wrong is definitely the outlook, and yet some small part also has to be a fissure in my bubble, else...
..else I don't know what.
*sigh*
Someone remind me what I'm doing here again, over and above learning to climb walls for a fixed price per climb, and smiling at faces that I am unable to achieve the shallowest form of intimacy with?
Axis called this evening, a bout of nostalgia for him, he timed it perfectly with the end of the CD of melancholic arias that I'd been sitting cross-legged, blanketed, ensconced in the couch with heavy eyelids to.
Axis called and without mentioning it once reminded me of the freak carnival that all too late one night we both realized we both belonged to
and for the first time in a long time, we both understood the deepest part of someone else, and felt that same empathy reaching into ourselves.
Axis spoke of who he remembers me as, and I told him of the row of plants in my line of sight, reassured him that the slitted skirts and creatively curved heels of a Parisian corporate nightmare had been sitting in the back of a closet since my first laundry after I stepped off the plane.
Reassured him, and asked myself how many pieces of myself have I simply lost, grown out of, or perhaps tasted long enough to understand and assimilate in order to move on with all the flame and fury of a monstre on the path of discovery?
It was a good conversation. Filled with voiced insecurities, the sort of brutal honesty that forces you, immediately after asking "is it okay that I called you" to admit that "I'm only asking that to hear you say that you still care about me".
I am in such deep admiration of that brutality.
I miss it.
I miss the first week of this diary, so many years of so many things ago, when some unknown face in a long-lost guestbook left me a message saying
"stay brutal"
and in response in my heart I raised my fist.
Since then I have learned so much about brutality, about pain, about my own healing and my own cries for attention and in all that learning I think I have learned just a little bit about how not to hurt people
but at the same time, as I slowly learned to care about what other people think because I learned to care about them, and not just my lofty ideals
I also learned insecurity, fear, fragility.
Sometimes this is a bright shining prize named vulnerability, sometimes it is a dark afternoon, desperately alone in my head, waiting for a new friend to telephone and announce that she's going to teach me to play pool
And feeling as though something in my life is terribly insincere.
I feel lied to. Betrayed. By myself, in part, by I don't know what or who else.
So many eggshells and I get the impression that they're only fragile because I've been going about talking to them in entirely the wrong way.
I want my honesty back. I want the brutal honesty.
In all brutal honesty, I don't have a job yet partially because the industry bites, but partially also because I've only spent every other morning since I've been here actively searching. In all brutal honesty the rest of the time I've been sending out improper cover letters, half-heartedly generic, I've been applying to positions that I know I'm not qualified for, and not putting in the effort to dig out the ones that I know I would be.
I all brutal honesty I've been as lazy as I've been active, I've been as afraid of speech as I have been of silence.
I yearn so desperately to scream with the perpetual YAWP that I once carried as my war-cry, and yet every time I open my mouth it becomes an ironic squeak, a half-hearted attempt to speak large truths only to find that in my nervousness I spout sarcastic snarks and snipe at my general intention.
Either way, right now my life feels so very shallow. Perhaps this really is merely the outlook of a PMS moment, perhaps this is a chemical imbalance speaking and I am complaining about missing things that most well-adjusted humans don't even believe exist.
But I am a monstre, and I know what I have tasted, and I want that intimacy. With myself, with at least some of the people around me.
I want to understand their skin. Their smiles. And most importantly, the scream behind their own silence.
I refuse to believe that there is nothing there.
That is the great rumour about Toronto, and this afternoon I knew something was wrong in my head when I found myself wondering if I'd suddenly become soul-less the way the legend says anyone who comes to Toronto has.
I don't think I have. I still yearn too much.
And I refuse to believe that anyone else is soul-less either.
I refuse.
I just hope that I have the strength to shatter those illusions entirely with my own bent fingers...
Gods, though, do I miss that honesty. I miss the pang and pain of it, and I miss the pride of purity.
Or maybe just the emotion of it.
As Axis pointed out, I am an empath.
Lately, I've been feeling like a very mute one. Or perhaps deaf or deficient somehow.
I want the colour of my universe back, please.
I want to cry because I know how hard I can laugh, and I want to feel you feeling it with me.
And I want to know just how much of this I brought on myself by trying not to feel the stress of my situation, and I want to know just how much of this is melodrama, I want to know just how much of this is me simply asking too much.
But I want to know. I want to believe in truth again, and not just the most comfortable path to survival.
I must be PMSing. I don't know what I'm talking about. I just know that something hurts and I want to keep typing until it stops or until something shiny enough distracts the magpie that I have for a brain.
I'm sorry. I'll be myself and cheery and reliable in the morning. Do not adjust your reality.
I'll just tweak mine.