I sat at a table in the centre of a chaotic library, adjusted my headphones and dialled into myself. I wrote until I could no longer think or remember my own name. I wanted to share a few short excerpts.
There’s something so liberating about not writing on lined paper, it’s almost as if the words have the capacity to align themselves into their own montage. Having said that, I can’t seem to write in a straight line and I suppose that Freud would interpret it as being some sort of subconscious attempt to defy conventions.
My handwriting is dreadful. My thoughts are always in a strange kind of rush because I just want to create a space inside my head. I have an irrational fear that I’ll die without emptying my mind and then I will have existed for nothing; my thoughts will remain unheard. I must memorialise everything. If I don’t have tangible memories, there is the possibility of them becoming lost, and then who will I be? The inside of my head feels like a frenetic snow globe where I can’t access anything because it’s all moving too fast. I’m standing in the centre, watching the snow flakes in the iridescent light, but my hands don’t extend far enough to reach.
I always feel weighed down, like the devil is learning to dance on the edges of my shoulders.
There’s so much that I have to unlock, but writing means that these things are accessible and I’d prefer to keep my memories safe in my own skull. Maybe one day I’ll write truths in anonymity, but then there are always traces of us in the spaces of all the things that we’ve ever written, almost like a painting with the faint shadows of the artist’s reflection. You read and automatically attribute words to a writer. There is no escape from your own truth. Writing is like building a bridge home and I suppose that’s what we all want to feel, connection, belonging.
My hand doesn’t move fast enough, it’s beginning to ache, which I suppose comes with age and all of the words that I’ve ever written, the worlds I’ve created. I often wonder about pens, the stories they’ve told, all of the hands and lives they’ve passed through. It’s really a gift, being able to fill books with thoughts that nobody else can reach or hear.
I remembered the lips of the therapist, watching them move as she illustrated and annotated pictures of the brain. Maybe one day someone would read this, annotate the spaces in between my words as an attempt to decipher my truth. If there is anything that I want to leave behind, it is my words.
I was always taught to be preoccupied with death, which I suppose is the reason for why I write a lot about hell, heaven, the devil. The afterlife is embedded into my skin. Thoughts of hell always made me feel a strange sense of familiarity, like I’d seen it before or been there in a distant dream.
I’m just writing because I’m in one of those overwrought moods where I feel like I may burst into tears at any given moment, but then what do I even have to be sad about? I often wonder what people think when they look at me. Do they follow the destructive movements of my palms? See my sad girl smile? Sometimes the sentiments are too heavy, they encompass the entire body and there’s just no capacity for anything else to interject.