it's a bit strange, all this Independence. Maybe realising that I can be significant in other people's lives should have happened earlier. Maybe I can burst into tears over words much more easily than I should do, and then be completely unable to write what I mean out. Maybe I haven't been writing enough. Maybe I'm hearing the term 'smiling' used about why I'm good to have around too often, and excusing it with 'I'm always happy to be where I am' too much. Maybe I always wanted to be dark and setting fire to trash cans and not caring or at least really wanting not to care, maybe I can't deal with how sunshiney some people think I am. Maybe I can't say what I want to with words, right now, because I haven't been practising enough. Maybe I should just throw away that bottle of spray because I never even liked the smell of fake vanilla. Maybe I shouldn't try to put cigarette tobacco into a pipe. Maybe I couldn't even feel content with being there for people even when it's not writing, even speaking. Maybe being unable to express myself makes me feel weak. Maybe I hate being a physical being. Maybe I'm worried about Germain Greer. Maybe I'm scared of what I'm going to do at university. Maybe I'm scared of what I do right now. Maybe I'm scared. Maybe I wanted to be kind and loving and when I turned back to watch my actions fall, they were brusque and cruel. Maybe I can't spell. Maybe I just want to be back somewhere where I'm not. Maybe I'll end up doing things which I'll regret just to shut the fucking row in my head up. Maybe it terrifies me that sometimes I can't control a full orchestra playing in my head, or a accordian, or a piano, and it sounds so real, and that's a sign of mental illness. Maybe I never had much of a chance, never had those certainties they suspected in me.
I enjoyed being in Dorset. I also hated it. I had lots of fun. I don't regret anything because who believes in regret? I disliked the sea being beyond the groynes. I enjoyed talking at 2am. The first time round it was light and white and soft and the second time it was dark and red and hard and choking. Maybe I talked to someone at the bar of a pub just because I'm going fucking CRAZY with all these voices in my head and all those eyes outside my head, all those eyes everywhere looking at me, and it's enough to make me crazy, the number of men who are taking me far too seriously. Just imagine this all said in a totally hysterical voice.
Who the fuck am I now? I know who I am I can point to a letter someone wrote to me and I know it's to me.
About Me
- Florence
- I tend to fall in love with ideas. And also get really excited about music and be like WOW YUM and then realise that that is an utterly and hopelessly inappropriate reaction. Some people can fragment my mind and others affirm my notion of living on a different plain from others. And from my body too. Then they ask me if I mean out of body experiences and I realise I have just said everything I thought out loud. I give a guffaw and explain how I’m actually thinking about falling off horses called Lemon whilst panicking over the concept of coexisting with a creature which is so much bigger than me but which I cannot understand, and they do these shifty eyes and bat their mascara laden lashes and run screaming. Unless (love me!) they are those rare amazing easter egg type people who instead do some sort of strange abrupt motion and insist they know exactly what I mean. At which point I begin to presume that everyone is in fact a perception and it’s just the way they impact upon me that I notice. Have you ever looked at something and realised that it looks 2D? I think I need to get glasses.
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