Descent into Chaos

Firstly, to Holly - Thanks honey. I wasn't expecting comments. I'm so used to just babbling away on here, I don't do it because I expect someone to say anything and although I don't really care if anyone gives a shit or not, it's nice when someone does, y'know? So, thank you.

And now, the programme. Warning - The following programme contains mild language and moderate horror which may cause offence to some viewers.

Well, probably not the horror bit, I just liked the sound of it. And if we're honest, when does my blog NOT contain language?

What world is this?
What kingom?
What shores of what worlds?

I've almost finished Wasted. I stopped reading it for a while because...well, that's it. I could say I wasn't in the mood for it but that's not really accurate.

I'm high on dehydration. My head feels like it's full of sand and my eyes feel gritty. Yeah, I'm tired.

There's nothing of interest to me out there in the world. If anyone's seen Sherlock Holmes and recognises that, I know it's what he says and actually, it's slightly different, but he's right.

Perhaps the reason I love Sherlock so much is that I can relate to him. I have a similar mind, not a scratch on his intellect but emotionally, we are rather similar.

But I'm not here to talk of Sherlock Holmes. As most can expect from a Blog, I am here to talk about that which my world revolves around - my mind. Arrogance and narcisism no longer enter into the equation because everyone's lives centre around themselves. That is the way of humans. Even people who vow to die for others or to work to help others or whatever, it's still a selfish action. Helping others makes us feel good, and it's that good feeling that's the reward.

What goes on inside my head is the centre of my universe. I have no life before my eyes - my entire existence is hidden behind them. My eyes aren't windows or doorways, they're walls, barriers.

All I can think about is the fact that there are pills in my box. And no - I'm not thinking of another suicide attempt. There's not enough pills to pull it off. I'm just wondering if taking five or six would get me high. For the past three days all I've been able to think about is drugs. I imagine getting a needle and sliding it into my arm, into my vein, pushing down the plunger and letting whatever drug slip into my bloodstream.

I've never been completely high before, I've never done drugs. But right now it's all I wanna do. And what's more disgusting to me, is my desire to have sex. I've never had sex before because the whole concept of someone touching my disgusts me. But I feel reckless, restless, dangerous.

The idea of someone touching me, whether in lust or otherwise, is disgusting. But here I am, dancing a passionate dance, not with a man or a woman but with life, or rather the rape of my life.

I am not living in the conventional sense of the word. Yes, I breathe. Yes, my heart beats - at times pounding like a panic attack but without the panic. Yes, my skin is warm with life. As far as I know, my eyes are not yet blank or dull, they still sparkle with life.

But that's where my living state ends. I feel like I'm dying. I know there are many in the world that would scream at me upon reading that one sigle statement. They'll say to me try living with cancer, try living with some horrific past on your shoulders, try this, try that, then complain about how you feel like you're dying.

I know. I've said it many times to myself - how can you feel so bad about life when there are so many who've been through so much worse? Those begging for life, and you're shunning it. Terrified of death yet you embrace it.

I know. I know.

And yet this is my life.
This dream state. I'm not an insomniac by any account, but I have the feeling of being never fully awake but never fully asleep. When I sleep, and I wake, I do not feel as if I've slept at all, and when I'm awake, I feel as if only part of me is awake.

I see things too. Not physically, I mean in my head. And people never take it seriously as soon as I say in my head because everyone sees things in their head and you only need to start worrying if they claim to actually see it as you see the computer screen. It becomes less serious when it's in your head. But it's very serious to me. I see a recurring vision as if a memory.

I, that man strapped to the hospital bed in that government lab with wires in my head.

Dreaming of being a woman is weird enough but my consciousness seeps through like blood through bandages.

The recurring vision? I did something bad that pissed someone off, so they hunted me down and kidnapped me. I was locked in a basement area for weeks and tortured. Finally I couldn't stand anymore and I snapped. I killed them. The police came, I was taken to hospital and allowed to heal. But I had killed whoever did it to me. A murderer I became. I've sensed something weighing on my consciousness, knowing I did something terrible, but not knowing what it was. So anyway, as penance for my crimes, I was handed over to the government who strapped me to a table and stuck wires in my head.

Perhaps this is some kind of rehabilitation programme. The girl they have me masquerading as is timid, weak, a pacifist of all things. Maybe it's some kind of subliminal signalling so that when they wake me up, I'll be timid and weak. I feel it's working.

I have this abstract sense like part of my mind is awake in the real world. Not enough to leave this programme though.

I don't know the people here, they don't know me. But I wonder, is there anyone the other side looking for me?? Did no one love me enough to save me from this? But then, if I killed someone...But no. If what I keep seeing really is a memory, which I'm having fewer doubts that it is, I had no choice.

It's all surreal. I can't quite get a sense of reality. It's not happening. I can't see straight. The lines are blurred, my breathing slurred. Breath out, wait, remember oxygen, breath in, breath out, wait.

Cold running through my stomach and up my back, tingling in my legs. Making love to the air, lips moving to form the words as they pass through my mind but no sound...would it croak, would it crack, would it be nothing but a whisper on the air, my voice?

Things that made me happy don't any more. I feel empty, like a void inside, a mass of nothingness, cold and dark. It feels safe though, anger is an enemy I no longer want...It's grip is the grip of a jealous lover. Not that I would know what a jealous lovers' grip is like.

Love is empty, or at least it is to me. Love seems to go hand in hand with touch and as I do not want anyone to touch me, it kind of makes it obsolete. Since no one can touch me how would they love me?

Disinterest is a major cause and symptom of lethargy. And lethargy is something I have bags of at the moment. Mother tells me I should get out more, I can't spend all my time in my room, it's not healthy, I have to go and find my life.

You can't find a life you have no interest in, even when she comes slamming into you and demands your attention like a petulant child, stamping her feet and screaming all the air from her lungs in an attempt to make you listen.

I would make a terrible mother and as for this particular child I would be as a murderer again, letting her wilt like a flower in the baking sun, rays slamming down upon her unprotected head, decieving her with half-arsed tales of love and care. I'd shout and scream at her, make her cry, tell her I hate her and that's she's a burden to me and to leave me alone. Now I'm the petulant child. And in my childish, selfish world, Life would wonder off, cry in her room and not come down for a dinner I didn't make. She'd slowly starve, too sad to even cry anymore, and eventually she'd wither away and disappear.

I'm a terrible mother to Life and she a terrible daughter in swift retribution.

It's not that Life is terribly unkind to me, it's that I simply do not care anymore. How can you care about something that isn't real? Perhaps the men in white coats decided as a murderer I didn't deserve happy pills.

I think I've raved enough. There comes a time when every raving lunatic has to pause in flow of reasoning, the chaos inside the mind has to collect dust for a while, until the loon is ready to release again.