Monday, August 4
Conversation a long time ago with Kirsty:
Kirsty: What do you prefer, night or day?
Me: Hmm...*giggle* Day of course.
What a lie. Of course I'm lying to her, the rest of the world and most importantly myself. I look back over my entries and think, jesus melissa, you're such a fucking liar. I don't mean the content but the way I appear, all gay and laughter, giggle after giggle after giggle. Of course I'm not really giggling, its just the way it looks. I'm not really laughing, even when I'm laughing out loud. I'm considering my options when I make a mistake or a joke, how does that appear? What are they laughing at? The mistake or the appearance of my stupidness?
I do it of course because sometimes I am so afraid that one of my friends has found out my journal and read it and I try and black out all those blased commentaries that lie behind me that speak of them, my deep dark secret thoughts so I spice up the surrouding entries with comments and laughter. How does that make it better thought?
Sometimes I feel like I've betrayed all my friends by writing about them and my true feelings but it needs to come out of me. Once, while lying in bed I was staring up at the stars through my window, the gauzy curtains blocking some of the beautiful clearn night from me and I found myself clutching the bedsheet like I used to clutch my toys when I was younger. And my teeth were clenched down on my bottom lip and like in so many of the stories I write, I found I had bitten down so hard that a trail of blood was running down my chin and onto the bedsheet.
And I had not noticed. Because I was lost in my dreams, that place where not even my parents can touch. Not even my sister could find and destroy. NOt even my friends could criticise and laugh at. That place within myself, the dark recesses which sometimes seem to be filled with light and beauty. The silver, graceful trees, glittering with frost and fallen stars. Thier wintry boughs like towers reaching up into the wintry sky. I love it there. I'm free.
Its all thats left of my childhood. I hate growing up. Doesn't everybdoy? It just makes you more vulnerable especially in this world. Talking to Alice about the afterworld I realised how I imagined death, those lights and the tunnel at the end, and all those lights were flashbacks of my life, bits of where I've torn the sheets with my rapturours pains and the times I'd laughed so hard I've felt that euphoric rush of adrenaline burst through my heart. And that single incarnation at the end of that infitismal tunnel, where I am a fetus within the secure liquid of the womb and I begin life again.
I don't believe in heaven or hell anymore. I don't believe in karma and I am doubting my belief in god anymore. Why hasn't he saved me from this infernal torment? Maybe no one has guessed that this world is indeed hell.
THat simple truth, contention, whatever you want to call it makes you feel more than insignificant but rather dowdy. Really small. Smaller than God. Smaller than a pebble washed in a small brook.
Oh, btw. I like Night better.
