abysmal, or the infinite capacity to feel for

Yesterday I purchased The Collected Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. This morning, I woke up with a knot in my throat and needles in my knees. Presently I am in hiding, in my nest, contemplating the beauty of nature as I watch the kitten sleep.

Last week was the end of an era in my life. So many people look forward to change.

I can handle change. But not when I'm leaving. Not if what I love becomes a memory. I can't handle memories. It kills me to see them fade.

I was born with a hole in my chest. Maybe we're all born this way. Or maybe I am a mutant. Who knows.

I fill this abyss with people and places and words and dreams. People who leave me, places I have to leave, words that lose all meaning and dreams and desires that turn to venom. I am constantly falling in love with a million different things; a tree, a bird, a lonely face, a sentence, a scent, a tense, a twinkle, a speck of dust. Always I am in love, because it gives meaning to my life and purpose to my achievements. I need those things to live for. Because I cannot live for myself.

Some people live selflessly, and that is why they care for others. I am selfish to the core, because I care to save myself. It's natural for me, a reflex, instinctive.

What if I feel too much compassion?

What if I'm only crazy because I need to feel everything for everyone?

What if I

sickness, or how my body is poison(ned)

My body is poison, distortion, contusion, implosion. There are too many drugs rushing through my veins, racing through my arteries and clouding up my mind.



I am too much, I am more than I can handle. Yet I am not enough to matter. After 100km of biking, my body failed me, again. I cannot follow anything through, am I a dead end?




I pretend I am fine, I pretend I am whole, like so many of you poor broken things. I pretend I am sane while I read 6th century english poetry, in a tree, sucking on bits of ice. But really I am trying to lose myself in the beauty of what I read. Really I am only smiling because I cut the inside of my mouth on a shard of ice. To hurt yourself is not passive.

.

We are all sick, Humanity is sick. Now we can choose to deny it, to become limp, mindless lumps of bones and adipose tissue. I have chosen to confront my reality, my existence, and feel the poison in me. It is what I do every time I post. And it is what you all do when you choose to confront your inner demons, to admit they exist. Admitting is not accepting. Isn't this admirable? Isn't this right?


Yes, we are all poison(ned). Poison for ourselves, poison for those we dislike, and poison for those we love. But we are still human, and I am still human. Because I still think, and question, and write. Because I love you all.

mortuary, or how the world is only death

That is a fallacy. The word death implies some sort of action, whereas existence is passive.

I live in a world of corpses. Of still-borns. I am the only person on earth.

.

Today I saw a bird run up the roof of an abandonned house, and I thought, how odd. It was the most pertinent thought in the last week of my existence. Because really nothing else could be more true. Except for the rain.

I don't want to exist. I don't want to be. I don't want to starve. I want more than this passiveness.

And they wonder why death is so alluring.

anything is better than this

even starving.

I've never felt so alone... It was expected to happen.

Ladies and gentlemen (mostly ladies), Jillian will be back soon.

Wether this is a good thing I am unsure. All I know is I missed you all so much!

why don't you just bind my hands and shove me into a well

I thought it would be possible to recover, when they told me I was sick.. That it wasn't because I wasn't eating, but that if I didn't, I would never get better. I thought it would be possible when they told me I may not be able to walk, ever, if I didn't get better. I thought I could recover when they told me it was the only way I would have anything close to a normal life.

How can you NOT starve when, at five feet six inches and 117 pounds, your mother tells you you're overweight? How can you NOT fast when your little sister keeps bragging and reminding you she's more toned, slimmer, curvier, pretty AND lighter than you? And that there's fat on your thies and on your stomach? When all of this happens the same day?

I thought I could be crazy but without destroying myself. Somehow I thought the crazy would just fade away.

There isn't much light at the bottom of a well. I try to keep my head above the water but my weight is pulling me down, and I'm not even dying, only drowning, forever drowning.

Au secours, je me noie, je me noie, il y a de l'eau noire dans mes poumons, dans ma tête et dans mon coeur. Je ne suis qu'un cadavre qu'on a possédé d'une force sadique qui cogne dans mon corps et rit à chacun de mes gémissement. Mais on ne veut pas me libérer de mon bourreau...

Alors je le ferai moi-même.

obituary

It has been confirmed following an in-depth autopsy that Picture Perfect has died from neglect. Its owner, Jillian, has been convicted of premeditated blog-slaughter.

I love all of you girls. But this isn't working out. I am still following. I am still starving. I am still fat. But my words are choking me.

I've never had a comment. My blog has zero incidence on anyone's life but my own. Oh well. It's over now anyways.

This post sounds like a letter of resignation. Completely void of beauty or feeling. This was meant to be a love note.

I love my 26 beautiful followers. I love Anise. I love Ana's Girl. Little Dandelion Girl. Kemper. MJ. HUSH that doesn't come around as often anymore. I miss Bella. I believe that every meaningful sentence you read changes your soul. You have all changed me for the better. Thank you so much.

Adieu. Je vous aime. Et je pense à vous, toujours. Vous êtes belles!

motion sickness

Really, Jillian? Two stomach flus in five weeks, really? This is getting old. I can't even walk without getting motion sickness.

Ugh.

I should really write more, but I think I'll go shove my head in a toilet for another half-hour.