so, this is how it ends.

I have always had trouble in choosing what to believe in. I believed that Snow White got her happily-ever-after, that Cinderella found her prince, that Humpty Dumpty was broken forever. I cried when Buffy died, I cried when Izzy couldn't get up off the bathroom floor, I cried when the eagles saved Frodo. I used to get crushed when I finished books, because their characters' stories had ended, and that was all they ever would be, there was just a big gaping hole where their future should have been. I could never leave a book unfinished, because I believed if I did, the story wouldn't end the way it was meant to, and I would have killed them. I believed in eveything.

I couldn't sleep for four days after I finished the Chronicles of Narnia, because of Susan. Susan didn't get to go to Narnia forever with the rest of her family at the end of the books. She didn't get her happy ending. She was left out. She never got to go back to Narnia, she never got to live in a world without pain or sorrow or death. She got trapped in our world, a world that is constructed solely around those three things. She was left alone to die in a world where she didn't belong. I cried for Susan. I believed in her, I know she isn't real.

This stupid fucking post isn't going the way I wanted it to and my keyboard is being a cunt.

I believed that I mattered, at least for a little while. I believed that your promises meant something. I believed we'd be friends forever.

I'm turning into Susan. I'm being left behind in this cold grey stinking place all alone.

I need you to come back and blind me with all your fucking light.

I need you to be my vector.

I need you to save me.

with family like this, who needs enemies.

My parents returned home from a week away yesterday. I, in an apparent attempt to re-enact any teen comedy ever made, had a house party. I had friends over, and the house was not set ablaze, windows were not broken, red wine was not spilt on white fabric. The house was in pretty good shape. Until the following morning, when i broke an entire windowsill. Perfectly sober. So I do my best to clean up any mess, and cut the grass, and also go to work. While my sister proceeds to sit and do nothing. At. All. Then she fucks off to dublin, not before telling my parents I had a party. So they come home, raging and blustery and angry-eyed. I get told that I'm a liar and not to be trusted and lazy too, because the house is in a state apparently. I'm sorry if I forget to clean under the tray on the draining board Mother, but I consider removing the empty vodka bottles, cans of cider and chinese take-out boxes more important. Then I discovered my sister had dumped all of her laundry in the kitchen, despite me doing my best not to leave any for my parents to do when they get back. Who ends up getting all the blame? Not my darling sister, who did not offer to cook one day while my parents were away, even though I was working later than her. Oh no.

I am so sick of my family's not trusting me, and their backstabbing.
I am sick of my family's feigned innocence, and their inability to admit there's a problem.
I'm tired of feeling unwelcome in my own home.
I'm tired of wanting to leave.

I am listening to Florence and the Machine. I am considering writing a story about a boy and his Death. I need an ending to leave me with a glowy feeling.
I don't think I'll find one today.

Today is in dire need of rescuing.
But no-one will ever read this.

i had a weekend.

thursday.

I got up to an empty house and waited for friends to arrive. They did, and I felt out of place. I ironed my clothes and then my arm, and I don't know if it was on purpose or not. We drank vodka and cider and played on the wii. We then went to a nightclub and danced and laughed. One of my friends made fun of the boy from the woods. I like her. We came home, and i drunkenly made poor food for everyone. I went to bed, and felt more alone than I've ever felt.

friday.
I got up to a very full and dirty house. I cleaned and scrubbed and washed up. I climbed out a window and broke a windowsill. Not looking forward to explaining that tomorrow. People played wii and sat around. And we got subway and a chinese. People left, and I was all alone in the dark.

saturday.
I got up early for work, and went to a training course. I bought booze and went to my friend Charlie's house. People i missed a lot were there, and I had so much fun. Felt slightly less out of place. I drank a bit, but had to go to bed because I had such an early start.

sunday.
I got up. I went to work. I said goodbyes I didn't want to have to say. I just drank a red bull, which was stupid.

I am writing a boring blog to just remind myself I am not extraordinary.

my arms and legs are covered in scars and cuts and burns.

i think i'm tearing myself apart.

i dreamed a little dream of you.

When I was younger I would dream. I would dream fantastic things, places and people. I would dream of terrible things and monsters that would wake me with such force and power, I'd be soaked in sweat. I would dream happily-ever-afters, I would dream never-nevers, I would dream of everything.

Until you.

I dreamt of fleshy things, of stolen kisses and bare skin. I dreamt of your taste, your smell. I dreamt of how your skin looked, filmed by a soft sheen of sweat. I dreamt of you.

I don't dream anymore. When I sleep, I just see such black it breaks my heart. Everything is so dark here, it blinds my failing eyes. Sometimes I wait for you to come to me in the dark; you never do.

I am in my own home, with my friends.

I have never felt more alone.

It has never been so dark.

I am waiting for the sun to rise and save us all.

Say goodbye, say goodbye to the way I was before.

i wasn't always this way. i used to be someone else. i was strong and warm and powerful.
i could help my friends and i was worth something.
i could fight, i had fire.
i burned.

now i'm just a residue. something unwanted and forgotten left behind.

and i don't have the strength to be anything else.

tell me Phaedrus what's good.

I am not poor.
I am not starving.
I am not an orphan.
I have not been raped, or molested.
I have not lost a child, a sibling, or a parent.
My body is not bruised or battered or broken.
My problems are not important to anyone but me.
I don't care.
I am selfish, I am ignorant.

I am afraid now. I am so afraid of what's happening to me.
I'm afraid I'm turning into something clear and fragile and cold.
I can't lie anymore. I can't tell what's acceptable conversation and what's not.
I can't remember what anything felt like.
I can't relate to people anymore.
I don't understand anything anymore.
I don't know what you are anymore.

I'm afraid I'm turning into glass.
I'm afraid someone will come along and shatter me.

i do not let the little thieves under my tightly buttoned sleeves.

There is a coin being flipped. It could come up heads. It could some up tails. The room containing the coin could explode, blowing the coin into a thousand pieces, or two thousand pieces. The coin could be caught by a magpie before it hits the ground. The universe could end while the coin is still flipping, and we’d all be left wondering about that fucking coin, while the roaring whiteness smashes in our heads.
Chance can be calculated. Here is the formula for chance.

r!/n!

Two letters, r being the number of favourable outcomes and n being all possible outcomes, a line, and two exclamation points. This is what chance is. For flipping a coin, the formula is 1/2. The universe ending is not a factor. The universe ending is a possibility.

I don’t believe in chance. I believe in fate. I don’t believe that we’re just a big cosmic accident. That we’re the result of a chemical balance lottery. We all started out as one cell in the sea. Look at what we’ve done. The things we’ve created, the stories we’ve shaped, the art we’ve made, the lives we’ve led, the songs we’ve sung. Take a look out a window, any window, in any city, in any time. And see how far we’ve come, for good or bad, from one cell in the sea. There is no formula for that. I don’t believe everything is just the white noise of the universe. I believe we’re creating the pathway to the Apocalypse, to Ragnorak, to Judgement Day. The part travelled so far is built on the bones and stories and wars and songs of the past. The part underfoot is made of us. The part not yet travelled is built on our dreams, our children, our teachings. The future, the past and the now are bound and tied up and the same. The future is as set in stone as the past. What’s done is done. What’s not yet done is already done.

Today was a day for Death. He flickered between the raindrops, he played hide and seek with himself in our shadows, he sang with to the tune of the wind. All day long I thought about him. Death comes to us, to take us away from our bodies and homes and families and friends. Some welcome him, believing that this world has dealt them a hand too cruel and painful. Some bring on their own meeting with Death by their own hand. Some meet him by the hands of others, by the effects of a sleeping disease awoken, by a broken heart. All these endings spun by Fate, their threads at an end. The how doesn’t matter, the end is always the same. The when is what consumes us. The burning question: When will I die?

The truth is simple. We don’t know. We live with the idea of chance, that our death is a fifty-fifty chance. Either the bullet hits you, or it doesn’t. Either you get in the car or you don’t. Either things start growing on your brain, or they don’t. This chance doesn’t exist. When you’re going to die is already set in stone. The bullet is going to hit you, or the bullet is not going to hit you. The outcome is decided, its consequences in motion. We just don’t know right now what that outcome is. We invented chance to cope with this not-knowing. There is no chances, there is just what there is, and what there isn’t.

The purpose of Death is not to negate the importance of Life. Its purpose is to give Life meaning. We get our one shot to do right, to be happy, to love and cry and laugh. The fact our lives have an end, makes the journey to that end everything. The near-misses, the if-I-had-done-this-insteads, the times we catch a glimpse of our Deaths at the edge of our horizons are Destiny’s way of reminding us the time we have is short. That the fact we still have a beat in our hearts means something. That each time we smile or laugh or cry or scream is a gift. Destiny has stories for us all to live, and endings for all those stories. A story cannot survive on its own, it needs to have life breathed into it. It needs you. So live yours.

As Gaiman puts it: Life is a game, life is a cruel joke, life is what happens when you’re alive and you might as well lie back and enjoy it.

Life is fast, brutal, joyful, fleshy and brief.

Life is precious. Make yours count.

Reply or no reply, i’ll love you until my story ends.

i knew you should, i knew you could.

I'm thinking too much to sleep again. The house is dark, and my room is dark, and my head is dark. It's all so dark.

I remember when I was little, and the games that were played, the stories we invented. We were everything we needed to be, doctors, police, firefighters, superheroes, vampires, knights, queens, witches, animals. Whatever play required us to be, we were. We changed our roles faster than others in the playground could keep up with, we broke the rules, we invented new rules, we ran and jumped and laughed. We stomped off when a queen decided she was also a witch, or the vampire didn't die when the knight shoved a wooden air-stake through his heart, wherever our six year old minds assumed a heart was. Playing pretend made us and broke us. We were everything that was required, and what was required was everything we were.

I still like to pretend. I've grown to be too good at it. I think I'm better at playing pretend than not pretending. I could pretend whatever was required. I pretended that you weren't still his. That his handprints weren't all over you, in the night-time places. That his fingers had never run through your hair, or touched your lips. That you had never allowed him everything, and looked into his eyes, and told him you loved him. Because then what i was feeling wouldn't be wrong, because then i'd be playing by the rules.

I pretended I hadn't loved him once too, that it hadn't destroyed everything. And blasted everything I had built away in one great big wave. I pretended I hadn't fallen on my own sword, that it hadn't slipped up through my chest, my lungs, my heart. I pretended he'd understand, that he'd give his blessing, that he wouldn't care. I pretended he'd just offer his easy smile, and bound on, further up and farther in. The way he does. I don't blame him. I don't hate him. I just want him to forgive me for everything. I wish I hadn't made him cry, that I hadn't been angry. I pretended everything would be ok.

I pretended you'd grab my hand, that time in the half-dark of the cinema, when I wanted you to so badly I thought my chest would explode. I pretended that you'd take my hand, and that everything would be sweet pink bursts. I pretended one day you'd wake up, and realise you wanted me. That all along, I had lived in your heart, occupying somedark corner of a ventricle. I pretended one day your lips would touch mine, and that your tongue would pass between my teeth. I pretended I couldn't remember the dreams, when you tumbled into me, and I could feel your heat. I pretended I couldn't remember how you tasted, or how your skin smelt, or how I kissed your eyelids once you'd fallen asleep. I pretended the dreams weren't all I'd ever have.

I don't pretend for you anymore. I'm done. You changed the rules too much, and I was left behind. You brought in a new character that I couldn't fathom. We went to the woods. There was no bear's house. No Granny's house. No wolf. No teddy bear's picnic. No spaceships or castles or magical pools. There was someone else there. You did things in the dark of the woods with that person, and you glowed the next day. Like this confirmed who you were. You shone so brightly. I was left with the dark of the woods in my head, and I couldn't bear to look at you. You were shinin so brightly from where I was standing. And all the jealous gnawing voices wondering: Why didn't you pick me?

And I could pretend I didn't understand. I could pretend I didn't know that this means you don't even consider me worthy of a drunken fumble in the woods. I could pretend this doesn't mean I'm alone, very very alone. I could pretend this doesn't make me a shit friend. I could pretend this doesn't mean you won't love me one day, like I loved you for so very long. I could pretend I could be happy one day.

Pretending is for kids, and playtime's over.

These words always would remind me of you:
"You're more than just okay.
You're perfect."

Now this reminds me of you:
"whore."