there is nothing happening in any of my worlds right now

Take a second and breathe. The rest will come naturally.

a lot of things to say

I've never been one to scream on the rooftops that music is my life. It isn't: my life is much more than what I conceive as music. It bothers me that so many people would say that, because they almost never live up to it (I can, however, think of one notable exception). My sister says music is her one passion, yet she'll spend hours on Facebook or playing video games and not play or listen to music for days. But Music is cool, and Everyone needs to be cool, and so People are Fake, and People defile beautiful things.

So, without pretending that music is my water and bread, live music makes me a different person, to the extent that I'm so much fuller, more complete, more myself, than at any other point in my life. It's like every sense, nerve, emotion, thought and dream rush through my body and radiate through my skin to create the ultimate feeling: euphoria. You're alone in a crowd, you're one with the crowd, you're one with the base line and the drums and the melody, you're still you but bigger, better, more. You're in love with every sound, object, person and part of your body that allowed this moment to come into being. You're a blur of excitement but you've never been more defined, more true to yourself, essentially. Concerts are not what I live for but they're when I live most. It's the complete opposite of reading an amazing book: it brings you out instead of pulling you in, it makes you enormous instead of expanding the world until you're nothing but a speck of dust. If I could feel both at once, I don't think I'd live through it. Wonder and euphoria. Wonder drives me, pushes me to see and be all the beautiful things: euphoria allows me to live it out, to feel everything that I am, was and could be.

And it is said that scientists are unphased by art. If it is true, I will be the beginning of a new breed. But it can't be: a true scientist, to me, is someone that aches for knowledge and truth, and aims to use his or her brain to its full capacity, knowingly. Consequently, an artist, by definition, is a scientist. I really do think art comes from the brain, from human reason. It isn't because art conveys emotions that it isn't rational... Right? I am a scientist too.

My mother isn't a monster you know. She's just sick, more so than myself. She does everything she can to be a good mother. She's worked all of her life: even now, she has two jobs in order to pay for this huge house in this beautiful town. For me, and for my sister. I don't hate her, not at all. I love her. She's given me all the opportunities to expand my intellect. She isn't trying to hurt me, I don't think. There would be so many better, easier, more efficient ways. She sees things her own way and she's obstinate not to change them: this allows her to ignore what she makes me go through sometimes, and can make her hard to deal with when we disagree... But I'm a grateful daughter. Most have it much worse than me. And you know what? I think that, though I have my moment of weakness, I'm strong enough to fight her until I leave.

Finally, Harry Potter was amazing, as usual. A concert and the movie premiere: what a night. A lot of things that I like with people I love.

more about her

Once upon a time, there lived a little girl with flaxen hair called Jillian. Jillian had a mother and a father, like all the other little girls. She also had a little sister with eyes as blue as the sky.

One day, Jillian and her father climbed up a tree. Once they had reached the very top, he told Jillian that he had to leave. Jillian slipped off the tree, all the way down to the very bottom, and scratched her hands and knees on the twigs in the dirt. She saw her father waving from the treetop, but she found him always out of reach.

Jillian went to see her mother and her sister. They had made her a dress. When Jillian tried it on, she found that it didn't fit quite right: it was too tight around her ribcage and too short. Her mother made her stand still on the stool while she mended the dress: when her mother pricked her with the needle, Jillian pressed her lips and tried not to cry, even if it hurt.

When it was time to undress and go to bed, Jillian could not take the dress off: it was stuck on her too large body. The only way to get out, she thought, was to shrink until it would slip off. She couldn't ask for help, because she didn't have many friends. She had to do it alone.

And so, on that day, Jillian crept into a corner until she faded away.

my mother

My mother told me today: "Chubby isn't cute you know... You should work out and lose these extra pounds."

This. Is. Unreal.

You can't tell me I'm too skinny and then tell me I'm too fat. The doctor said I was skinny, she said I was unhealthy, she made me go through all these tests. You agreed with her. And now you tell me I'm fat. I weigh the same fucking thing. I'M 5 FOOT 6 AND I WEIGH 105 POUNDS THAT IS NOT FAT YOU'RE A LIAR AND YOU WON'T LET ME GROW UP

You're killing me. Won't you let me be normal? Why have you instilled this obsession in me? I CAN'T ALWAYS BE FAR BETTER THAN AVERAGE IN EVERYTHING JUST TO PROVE HOW MUCH BETTER A MOTHER YOU ARE THAN YOUR OWN. YOU SCREWED ME UP AND YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW/NOTICE/CARE AS LONG AS IT DOESN'T SHOW

I am a failure and a loser and socially pathetic and fat. How can you even be proud.

Let me go let me out of this body, of this house, of this town, of this world. Clearly I don't belong.

i've cracked

this is it i'm done i can't do this anymore

i can't deal with rejection i can't deal with people calling me healthy when i know they mean thick and heavy i can't be happy and normal anymore

why is everyone saying i've gained weight when i haven't. it's like they've finally noticed how huge i am it was about time i wish they hadn't it's worse when the think it too its real

every bite i take, someone thinks of me as fat and nothing more only this distorted body

if i think this hard enough i will never eat again

i will count calories and pounds and discard them i will melt away fade away they won't know me anymore and oh this is terrible i don't want to go through this anymore but i don't think there's anything i can do i can't ask you to save me from myself

not this time

i want out

Everyone is waiting for that moment: the inciting incident, the catalyser, the big bang, followed by the invitable leap of faith towards the achievment of our innermost desires.

We want to be surprised, bothered, shocked, forced out of our comfortable life, of the hole we've dug ourselves into. Bravery is a thing of the past: we are often moved by fear, sometimes by discomfort, occasionally by greed, but hardly ever by courage. Decisions are too difficult to make: as atheist as some may have become, we still look up to some greater power, willing it to will us to move, to change. We want to be without becoming. No, no, this we cannot do by ourselves. But the time will come, surely, we will wake up one morning to find ourselves changed, effortlessly, finally able to do what we wish. It will happen, it must. We are different from the others: we will succeed where they have failed. We have faith, it will happen.

But things don't just happen. They must be willed and acted upon. And yet, we wait.

In the meantime, we live ghosts of lives, redundant, empty things, until at last we are left hopeless, dreamless, dead.

Death is the only thing which will happen. In truth, death is all we are waiting for.

safety

I drank broth from my special alphabet mug for dinner. Nothing will attack me tonight. Sleep is calling and I'm all too willing to go.