Bleeding

Sometimes I wonder what is bleeding me dry.

I don't know what's happening with me today, but this post will be short as I intend it to be. The long Melbourne post will be up at some point next week when I get around to finally writing it. Today I spent it whittling it away, a series of consciousness and unconsciousness simply too tired or morose to alter my disposition.

I was reading Jodi Picoult's "My Suster's Keeper" a book I've been desperate to read for a while now and yet, I'm not meant to be reading it. I bought in a whim and was meant to be a "reward" I manage to survive Brave New World, King Lear and Heart of Darkness. I also need to watch Blade Runner, and there goes my holiday. I believe sometimes it is school that bleeds me dry that cuts me, wastes me and drains me leaving my dry and uninspired. Which is probably why I never get any stories finished. "He was Saved" was a large achievement for me, simply to have it reach its completion.

I think I myself am holding that blade.

I think of that girl whose book was published upon turning fifteen. I think of how I envy her, evoking these feelings of hatred. Although it is not hatred for her, rather hatred for the fact the she lives the dream I do not. I often wonder whether she is as obligated to school as I am, whether she simply floats or treads water amidst academic success. It's like a drug for me, such success, a drug I'd do anything to acquire and yet most often I find my hands empty. I find myself wondering whether she simply leaves academics to be and focuses wholly on the completion of her novel, I wonder if her pride is lesser than mine, and she could actually do that. I am a proud person, and I'll admit that. As much as it has pained me to do so, I just have. Pride the greatest sin I unconsciously commit. I am both conscious and unconscious of it.

I do believe that part of the reason as to why I feel so depressed today is that I was reading Jodi Picoult. It's nothing against her, I love her books. I also can identify that the basis of that love emanates much from the fact that I can recognise so much of my own writing style within hers. It makes me realise how much I miss writing, how much of this ambitious dream is laid out before me and yet school and other prattling matters become my obstacles. I remember how much I was inspired and filled with such desire I was to complete my novel and I've only so much as written my prologue.

Yesterday I mentioned Alfred Hitchcock. I explained myself so erroneously yesterday. By no means, Dyanne, do I compare myself to his genius as heinous as he is. I may be proud, but I know the distinction between proud and egotistical, and that would be highly egotistical to dare to compare myself to him.

Part of my melancholy derives from the fact that I still do miss everyone in Melbourne, dearly. I realised that upon having a discussion with my mum last night. It's not the events I miss, I don't miss Geelong despite that I had immense fun there. I miss the family, the people I was surrounded with. I could go to Geelong now and I would hate it, simply because the people that had made that memory worthwhile are absent. I'm afraid this longing is beginning to manifest in my dreams. This morning in the three seconds of blissful oblivion where reality is suspended within that haze of sleep as it dispels I led myself to believe that it was he who I clutched in my arms rather than the familiar pillow I sighed into as I drifted into slumber. It was then when my room blurred into my vision via morning light, that I realised that the light itself had slapped me. Slapped me awake, slapped me into reality, and slapped me back into the state of unconscious consciousness - when you're awake but no one is really there.

And so I went about my day and found myself in the shower, realising that I had already soaped that arm twice, staring at it in my hand and yet my hand kept scrubbing because somehow I didn't know how to stop it. Or when I played piano, feeling the emotion of the song draining out of me with every note as I memorised where my hands should be rather than the quality of the sound. It was a beautiful piece of music and I stopped because I was ruining it. I wasn't concentrating, instead I was worrying about why I was being bled dry and why such eloquence couldn't come to me when I want to write, or why I can form so many characters in my head but never the main. By then, the keys were heavy and I couldn't produce a sound.

I think I may have a slight crush on the illustrious "him" happens not to be the Asian Adonis. And for my own sanity he shall be called "Nemo" because apparently that's what everyone immediately associates him with. I realised just how shallow I sounded yesterday in Dymocks when I explained that I was falling for his personality more so than his looks. I was drawn to his personality and then the looks came afterward. Usually it's vice versa with me, and the personality part doesn't even come into it. Certain people have certain auras I'm attracted to and with the Asian Adonis, I think I simply allowed myself to be caught up in how attractive he was. He had an outstanding aura that was spectacular and gorgeous and stunning, and yet he was humble. Because that's who he is. Yet with "Nemo" everything is simple. Everything clicks, and even though I have to reach 896km away, he seems more real and more close to me than Asian Adonis ever did. However, I could just be saying that now, I haven't seen the said Adonis in over a month, while it was some week ago that I bade farewell to you know who. His was face was the last thing in my mind before I detached myself and said goodbye. My emotions are likely to sway as volatile as they are.

Although sometimes I don't think that I'm THAT shallow. That Vale guy is a prime example. Most of you won't think he's hot. You'd be like, yeah, he's relatively good looking and then you'd turn the other way. However he is charismatic, eloquent, and all about humanities. I think it was those qualities that "made" him hot for me, because of those common areas and I do believe attraction tends to apply those rose-coloured glasses to your eyes. He was very ambitious, and I think the ambition within me recognised the ambition within him. I knew I could have an entirely intellectual conversation with him and I wouln't have to hold back on anything. Therefore he seemed "hot" to me. What's hot and what's not is all based on perception in my opinion.

"He" (Nemo just seems too ridiculous right now, I'm afraid Dyanne if you read this you won't take me seriously) is the same. I was drawn to his personality more so than his looks and then because of that I began to recognise the way his eyes scrunched up when he smiled, so you could only witness a glint of what he was feeling inside, or the dimple that came with it. Or notice how rare that smile was and how it would only emerge when he was very comfortable. Or the way it would simply be cheerful, genial and bashful at the same time. Or the way that simple expression could be so warm. He's got the warmest smile I've ever seen.

It kind of elicits a similar feeling within me when AA smiles, only his smile just hits you with such a stunning, gorgeous Mona Lisa, perfection. While his is a subtle bashful, warmth.

That's the only way I know how to explain it and I'm afraid I'm going insane.

Well, that's a great load off my chest. I thoat that this would be short. And now look where it's got me. At least in "bleeding" so to speak, all this raw parasitic emotion has been released from my system. I feel much better now. I'm telling myself no worries, because the sun will shine another day, perhaps just not this one.

I need to go and sort out myself, and sort out that main character!

Until next time -

- deeh xox