I feel like there is a little ball of death in me. I feel closed to the world; there is nothing I care about or am passionate about anymore. I don't have anything in me that I want to give anyone. A month ago I was clawing at my surrondings, jaded and restless. I wanted love, sex, adventure, change. Now I just... complete crystalization of emotions. Stalled in mid air. Zombified.
I have been forsaken by everyone I loved. I know that sounds ridiculous and pretentious (I thought I got over my emo phase when I was like, sixteen) but it's true. All the people I cared about, who I swept into my heart, who I cradled and nuzzled, I gave them everything I had. I let them all tear me apart and knock me on my knees and shook me around until I cried. I dealt with all the bullshit that comes with loyalty and love. And they all just... left. They found better friends and more important things to do.
Everyone always leaves in the end.
Even the one I thought would be at my side 'til the ends of the earth.
There was a time when I was proud of my ability to wander alone, untouchable. I don't know where that girl is anymore, the one who had her teeth bared to the world, jaded, brave, arrogant, indomitable. I feel so weak and stupid and empty. I feel like I have no future. I don't even have my mindless pits of rage to salvage me anymore. Every last chord has been cut. All those investments in love turned out futile, seeds sown in salted fields. I feel like my life is over; there are so many options out there for me, but I just don't have the energy or desire to persue them. Go to school? What a joke. I have no motivation to return to that world. Even if I had the money and even if I felt like I could sum up enough drive to get through, I don't know what I want to do with my life aside from write. I don't know what the point would be of going to school, to be surronded by people, to have to pay to jump through someone's hoops just so my creativity and ideas can be skimmed over and go unappreciated? Just for some paper trail so I can get a better paying job? I could run away, but without some training, some futher goal, I'll just end up in the same spot, and worse, probably with no money. Fuck is that what my life has narrowed down to? Money?
Writing was all I ever wanted. It was so much more than just passion. It was the only thing that kept me alive. It's still the only thing keeping me alive. I think about killing myself alot. Every day. Every day it seems more and more like the best option. But I won't, because some floundering piece of the old me has her teeth sunk in deep down on seeing Gargoyles through, on seeing something through to the end for once. She believes this can get better. Get book finished. Look into publishing. Change scenery in the meantime. Maybe go to school eventually. It's all hinged on the Gargoyles. I don't give a shit about anyone else anymore. Every other facet of love I had betrayed me.
I live inside my head now. The Gargoyles are the only friends I still have. And they're the only ones I need; I created them in the image of all the best friends I ever wanted, all the parts of me I liked best.
I just feel like something inside me has been turned off. The motivation, the constant flood of creative juices seems to have dried up. I keep telling myself it'll come back if I'm patient, if I keep ploughing on, but it's been a year now since I last updated. A year since the words flowed with any ease. I kept thinking it'd go away but it's only getting worse. And it terrofies me. This was supposed to be my life; this book was supposed to be done years ago. Everything was supposed to have fallen into place by now. All I ever want to do with myself is write and it seems that talent, that edge I had, all that bravado and wit, it's falling through the cracks like sand. I never gave a damn if anyone else thought I was a failure, but now I feel like a failure to myself. I hate myself, for the lazy, fearful, talentless waste I've become. I hate the grey vaccuum my life has been sucked into, the endless cycle of bitter, hateful, unfulfilling days and wasted nights where I stay up wasting my time because I can't bear to look at my writing. I feel like I'm so much less than I was; something vital in me was broken and every time I try to sum up the energy and say 'okay, today's the day it all turns around, I'm taking back control' nothing happens. It's like I have some defective string in me somewhere, this procastinating, useless, unmotivated, unenthusastic beast that gnaws away on all my spirit and drive. I feel like I could get my life back in order if I could just kick this beast out and find my motivation again. But nothing motivates me. I hate every speck of the world I'm surronded by. Everything in my life has ended in a stream of disappointment and broken dreams. Family failed. Friendship failed. The two accounts of 'true' love I'd thought I'd had failed. Nothing is worth it to me. Nothing inspires me. I despise the people I'm surronded by. I'm left with only my ghosts now, and even they don't have anything to offer me but bitterness. I feel like I'm a thousand years old, like I've already experienced every great thing there is.
I do need to leave this place. A frail, placenta thread of hope formed this morning as I was listening to the rain: go west. Come spring, when the weather clears and hopefully, hopefully my book will be done so I will have something to my name, something to validate myself, I will go west. Vancouver I think. I want to see mountains and trees. I want to have wilderness at my back and immerse myself in a big, dirty city, meet new people, find new venues, start fresh. There is nothing left for me here. Nothing.
I walk alone.