Everything feels slightly decayed today, as if there is not enough perfume or soft lighting to redeem it.
I am put in mind of 1984, and the moment when Winston approaches the ageing prostitute with no teeth and make up on her face.
There are so many things I have been afraid of saying because who might hear them: Is it comforting or terrifying to know that someone, very far away might be reading about my decaying afternoon and feeling that they also are likewise being slowly eaten?
Candles make me feel better when I think about these things.
I always knew I would end up being one of those hippy-like people with candles in their lives, mainly because of the glow they produce which has a way of making even a house that feels and smells cheap romantic and warming.
Also, they are a very pretty decaying thing, gold being eaten up by gold.
If I am slowly being killed by this thing, then I hope that it is in that way.
Sometimes the mind feels like a piece of bread, heavy and doughy, with wet, bushy mould infesting its little gaps and crannies, making it solid on the outside, but crumbly on the inside. A dusty thing that falls apart in your hands and leaves a moisture on your skin.
Throw it away, they always say, or freeze your bread to prevent the process.
There are days when I don’t know what they decided to do to me: let me rot, or chill me down?
So cold that everything is more grey.
Today has been a day of stepping out of what I do now that I find myself here, and to wonder how it is I might get out and how I got myself into this place. Living with depression is awaking in a room with the doorhandles on the outside. In these moments I feel as if my head has come above the parapet for the first time, but also heavy, and apathetic. Even if I saw what was really happening, even if the pills were freezing me down so that I might never re-awaken, what would I do about it?
Maybe I like to think I would break away, and burn. Hot and violent, until there was nothing left.
Some days that type of vibrant self destruction seems like the most truthful course of action, as if I might only then really choose the true path. The designated way.
Who am I? How am I being altered? What is rotting away in an effort to stop it igniting at night?
The small of burn is incense tonight. I am released by the scent, which is released into the air, which I can’t touch or think out of existence.
The rest of me stays here. Decaying.