je suis à moi

Here it goes.

I want to explain (mostly to myself) why I need to starve right now. First of all, I would like to warn you, not you the bloggers, but you, you know who I'm talking about, that this will be a personal post about female issues. Ok? Ok.

I am scared of aging. I am scared of physically becoming first a woman, then middle-aged, then really old. I am not afraid of wrinkles or responsability or disease: I am afraid of expanding. I am afraid of looking like most twenty year-olds, thirty-year old, fourty year-olds. I am horrified my hips and stomachs and thies and rolls. Especially rolls. And the older I am, the closer I get to these carbohydrate nightmares. Baby fat and mom jeans and stretch marks and cellulite.

It isn't that I don't want to grow up. I just want to grow up by my own standards. I see pudgy middle-aged woman and I know I will never be happy with that kind of body, ever. Maybe I'm just to conscious of my physicality. I can feel every part of my body all the time and they are too much. I can't deal with more expansion. I can feel the weight of my body pulling me down and it's exhausting. I'm already so aware of everything around me, I don't think I can't take much more! Sometimes I hate every inch of my body. The more inches there are, the more I hate. The more pounds, the more meters cubed.

I am scared of summer and tee-shirts and bathing suits and short shorts. I am scared of spring because spring brings back the hatred, the desperation and the self-inflicted pain. I love spring dearly but it scares me so.

I am scared of people dying and people leaving and people forgetting. I am scared of being stuck in one place forever and of never finding a place where I feel safe. I am afraid of chocolate and ice cream and well-intentioned grand-parents with fragile hearts. Of over-bearing mothers who make snyde remarks. Of falling apart again and losing a few more pieces never to be found. Of venom and poison and jealousy. Of putting on a mask to have it slip off at the worst possible time.

And I am terrified of losing my will to live, to be, to defeat and to conquer.

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In my effort to conquer boredom I tampered with the blog layout a little bit. What do you think?

oh my my, oh hell yes

I've slipped up. I started restricting again. I needed something real to hold on to. A resistance in my muscles when I walk. Restricting makes me conscious of my body in a better way: it reminds me of how strong I am, how much I am capable of doing. It puts things back in perspective. I think I needed that.

But now that I know how easy it is to start, how will I prevent myself from doing it day after day? How will I return to normal?

I am hungry and I am cold and I am tired but this is so much better than what could be. Because I'm sort of happy and everything is so sharp.

Open Fire
Angels/Losing/Sleep
Beautiful
Black Star
Cancer
Fast as You Can
Fences
Never is a Promise
I'm so Sick
Ghost of You
Get Gone
Ghost Town
Red Song
Valentine's Day
Nothing Else Matters
Misguided Ghosts
Mr. Gaunt Pt 1000
Perfect
Tired Eyes

Voila. I am now an accomplished poet. Or not.
Me voilà désormais une poète accomplie. Ou pas.

This post is a little all over the place. I need more sleep. I have so many thing I want to say and I promise I'll write soon, the post is basically already written in my head, I just need to type it out. Sometimes it's like I'm talking to you in my head. Thinking of what I will write, how I will write it. You've become a part of me, ladies. Hopefully that isn't too creepy.

Good night. Don't forget that no one can prove that dreams aren't real. Our perspective is all that counts. Isn't that grand?

will you ALL be my valentines?

It's a little late to ask, perhaps. But what the heck.

I know I've been gone for a little while. I wanted to write, but I had a bit of a breakdown and I needed a break from this insanity. I've been reading your blogs diligently, but without commenting, because I needed to receed from the world for a little while. I'm still recovering (this is absolutely ridiculous) but I will try to write more soon. My manic panic (heh) exhausted me, which caused me to contract the flu, which basically just sucks. Interesting story, I know. Hopefully I will be back in action very soon!

I had to write today, because it is, as you all know, Valentine's day, which is a good day for me. There are horrific amounts of chocolate and sweets involved, yes, and some panicking due to that, also, but mostly it's a day about love and I have a lot of that to give out! I wore a skirt and a cardigan which I had altered myself, it was a sweet and innocent little outfit with pleats and a bit of lace, because I like dressing up and pretending I'm someone else, at least physically.

Most importantly, I love each and every one of my FORTY-NINE followers (WOW!) and bloggers I follow oh so fervently. You are beautiful, inspiring, talented individuals that make me laugh and cry and smile. How can I ever be lonely when I have all of you? I am the luckiest girl on earth!

If you ever feel lonely and rejected and stuck, remember my love for you as as deep as the ocean and as wide as the sky. It isn't much, not nearly as much as you deserve, but I like to think it's a little something to maybe brighten your day. Just a little. Maybe.

only because of this, only because of you

I've peen picking at my arms, scratching the skin away, scratch scratch scratch, flesh and blood. Four oval-shaped welts ornate my arms. They burn. I've smothered them with Polysporin because I am terrified (yet strangely fascinated) by infections. Scratch scratch scratch, make it look absentminded, when really it's all your thinking about and you feel it in every nerve of your body.

I am really tired. I need a break but everything has just begun and there's no taking breaks in real life. Yes, Jillian, this is real life, when you get hurt and you hurt people and everything you do counts. This isn't a figment of your imagination or this fantasy world where you can give in to every single impulsion and desire. You should probably realize this soon.

Is it wrong to give in to desires? I mean I'm not giving in because I wasn't fighting beforehand. Is it wrong to do what you want, and to not do what you don't want? And I don't mean this in a childish "I want no work and all play" way. I just want to be myself.

angry, or it's never really over is it

I know it was my fault. I know the first crevasse was of my own making. But I built over it, a fragile wall of snow and paper and tears and ideas, put together piece by piece. All by myself. I finally depended on no one. I finally relied on no entirely destructive power.

I told you I built it to protect myself from you, and mostly from me. And now it seems that all you want is to break me, again.

How long, do you think, before you push me over the edge?


How's this for DIRECT? How's this for a message intended ENTIRELY for you?

There's something in that crevasse and it's pulsing and thrashing.

and they're all jealous of me

Why? Because I have super-blogger friends. Ha.

I'm in an okay mood right now, even if today was

upanddownandupagainleftandrightandallaroundrollercoasterrific...

Wow. That might just be my new favourite word. Anyways, yes, a rather moody day. Which is just fine, because I appreciate the variety. This beats the hell out of zombie-december.

I've been thinking some more about how I've been feeling lately, about eating disorders and insanity and death. Have I reached a conclusion? No. But it's nice to think nonetheless. Makes my day feel slightly more productive in spite of mood swings. And my tired eyes.

Sometimes I try too hard to be beautiful, I mean not just physically, and not in a typical beautiful, but my own perception and opinion of beauty, fresh, fragile but still standing, cold and calculated, collected, severe but intense and explosive and breathtaking... I don't think I can describe it with words. I don't think I am very beautiful; the only thing I appreciate in myself is my intelligence, which isn't amazing but still over-average when it comes to academics and perception and reading people and understanding things. I think intelligence can be beautiful, if it's used right, don't you? It's something about knowing what you're doing and why and thinking about the grand things in the world, and knowing enough to have pertinent thoughts. Beauty is what I strive for: I try to be beautiful, I look for beauty in others and in my surroundings. I want to devote my life to beauty, a kind of spiritual beauty, though I don't like the connotation that word has. I am going to work my hardest, because man can make beautiful things, and effort is beautiful, and complete devotion and exhaustion are too. And I think it will be great, because really, what can stop me from shooting for the stars?

Isn't amazing, knowing that we can create beauty, with some effort or affection towards those we love or words or a smile?

Then why is it that I feel like a stub? Like I'm completely sterile? Like I will never have children or write beautiful things or change something with a smile?

--

I've been refreshing my dashboard for hours. Reading every post the second it appears. I am a little lonely.

flash

When I'm looking at your blogs, or writing on mine, or clicking through pages and pages of authors and books on Wikipedia, I get flashbacks from when I didn't eat. Sometimes it's an internet page, sometimes it's Fiona Apple or Silverchair, or a movie, or a particular book. And it's so tempting, it makes me hungry, but a good hungry, a hunger for hunger, I'm starving to starve!

(until it elevates to a place i can't breathe)

I know it will make all of my problems melt away. It will help me shine on. It will help me meet my goals and feel better of myself. But at what price?

(laughter and sharpened nails seem softer)

(Though dreams can be deceiving
Like faces are to hearts
They serve for sweet relieving
When fantasy and reality lie too far apart.)

And nothing is stopping me, because I don't need you anymore. Or anyone. Excep tfor my blogs and books and school and beautiful faces, I am no longer dependent of anything. That's the problem, you know. I don't need you anymore. I've found a new source for my intensity and it's in my head. I have the fuel and the prime mover. I want to shoot for the stars.

(qu'un moulinet de ses grands bras vous jette dans la boue... ou dans les étoiles!)

Really it would be easier if I was lighter... no?

(Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair.'
So sung a little clod of clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:
'Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven's despite.')

fiona apple... again

Please note that this entire post does NOT relate to anyone that is reading this blog. If this is adressed to you in particular, you'll know. Anyways, just appreciate the lyrics. They aren't her finest but this song just feels right at the moment.

How many times do I have to say
To get away-get gone
Flip your shit past another lasses
Humble dwelling
You got your game, made your shot, and you got away
With a lot, but I'm not turned-on
So put away that meat you're selling
Cuz I do know what's good for me-
And I've done what I could for you
But you're not benefiting, and yet I'm sitting
Singing again, sing, sing again
How can I deal with this, if he won't get with this
M'I gonna heal from this; he won't admit to it
Nothing to figure out; I gotta get him out
It's time the truth was out that he don't give a
Shit about me
How many times can it escalate
Till it elevates to a place I can't breathe?
And I must decide, if you must deride
That I'm much obliged to up and go
I'll idealize, then realize that it's no
Sacrifice, because the price is paid, and
There's nothing left to grieve
Fuckin go-
Cuz I've done what I could for you, and I do know what's
Good for me and I'm not benefiting, instead
I'm sitting singing again, singing again, singing again,
Sing, sing, sing again
How can I deal with this, if he won't get with this
M'I gonna heal from this; he won't admit to it
Nothing to figure out; I gotta get him out
It's time the truth was out that he don't give a
Shit about me

I just feel angry and alone and tired. Please let me be.

« Stricken with grief, it beat its head against the stone as long as its strength held out, and finally lay there dead. If the little girl had left the crown lying on the kerchief, the snake would probably have brought her more treasures from its hole. »

It's dead now.