Creative Writing





Hold The Applause While We Dance.

I’ve been back from Madrid for two weeks and it has been a strange, perturbed feeling. Madrid was honestly one of the best decisions that I have ever made; it was beautiful and demonstrated to me that I am capable of existing outside of this psychological catastrophe. I am flying out to Italy on Monday and there are so many things that I want to write but the words do not fit or will not reach my fingertips.

Venlafaxine makes it difficult to hear myself, it almost creates a barrier between self and mind.

I feel like there is a lot of pressure in the UK, pressure to decide on a career and conform to the societal expectancy. It’s almost as if the concept of taking time out has no validity and is therefore frowned upon. Being away made me realise just how stressful our lifestyle is, reaffirming my decision to leave.

I’m supposed to be using this time to think about what I want to do with my life, but the idea of having to commit to one thing is discouraging and I don’t know why society makes us feel like the idea of a ‘career’ is a lifelong conception that we must see through. I don’t know where I belong because the things that I dreamt of doing contributed to my demise and I suppose that I have to re-define my perception of success. I just want to create and be well. 

I’m in a position where I am trying to avoid subjecting and exposing my body to any incoming stress, I feel like I’m still reeling from this past life.

I’m accepting that my existence is going to be a cyclical war between myself and my mind. It’s always something that I assumed would go away, with time, age, change but I turn 26 this year and in some ways am more lost and broken than ever before. Having said that, the lack of direction and purpose feels somewhat liberating. It’s nice to have the flexibility of not being tied down or committed to anything.

It’s strange because everyone around me is getting married; having children, buying houses, being promoted and here I am struggling to commit to a sense of self.

I’m not where I thought I’d be, however I have achieved all of the things that I had hoped to and therefore have not failed or disappointed myself. I have two degrees, I have my own proofreading company, I have savings, I am able to travel, so although the picture may look different, the landscape is still the same and I must give myself more credit. I’m hoping that when I return, something inside me will have shifted. I suppose that I just need a sense of clarity, which appears to be unattainable in an environment where everything is a trigger. Being away helps me feel in control of this space. I don’t know where I want to go or what I want to do, I just know that I need to be away from here and maybe that is the place to start.

I don’t know what I will want in a few months and I think it is difficult to make decisions for your future self.

I am aware of the repetition in this post, but nothing comes out in a linear form. Everything within us is fragmented, broken. Show me a person who is whole. I don’t know what I’m thinking; Venlafaxine keeps me here in this present moment, disregards future and past, which I think is the best thing for me right now.

I just want this existence to mean something; I want to know that this struggle was worthwhile because I lived for something. I want to create movement; I want to make people feel the things that I felt. It terrifies me to think that I could die without leaving anything behind. I just want this existence to matter, I want to matter. I want this suffering to be purposeful. I want people to analyse the spaces in between my words, find truth in them. My writing is my breath and if I can't leave that behind, then I am already dead. I feel like Islam has really caused me to become preoccupied with death, and it’s like I’ve just forgotten that I have to exist before I get there.

I feel more like Sylvia Plath with every passing day.

This is probably the longest thing that I have written in a long time and I suppose that the key is to keep writing through this Venlafaxine barrier and eventually it will break and I will be able to control and feel the stream of my own mind. It’s crazy to think that I’m in my own body but not really directing my movements but then are we all not just puppets of our own psyche?

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