Catching the sun and a ghost dream
I spent three hours walking and sitting in a park today, catching the sun, recharging my inner battery. I realized, that there are some things that I enjoy, after all. Pink, kitschy flowers, a sunny day, a long walk.
But the feeling isn’t right, like I should be enjoying it more. Like I’m telling myself to enjoy the stuff, making myself actually do it.
I spend more energy to feel something than usually.
I also haven’t been remembering my dreams for a very long while now. I remember only one, which I had a few days ago.
It was about my grandma’s flat. It is not there anymore, because it belongs to the company that used to employ my grandfather, so all the stuff isn’t there anymore, and someone else has likely moved in.
In the dream, I was supposed to stay in the flat overnight, alone, after my grandma was already dead, but I really, really didn’t want to. The flat was haunted. The piano played by itself randomly, and the cooker was split in halves.
So I went to sleep at my friend’s (who lives in another town in reality), and I came to a haunted house, which had weeping white ghosts, or half ghosts, everywhere except the living room. The problem was that I was supposed to get from the living room to another part of the house (or rather a pretty big mansion), and I couldn’t get past the ghosts without touching them. And they were so sad and wanted to be touched and hugged very badly. They were going through the halls, rooms and the yard, all covered with a silvery dusty substance. And when a living person touched them, he or she changed into one of them – half undead, and became covered with the same substance. There was only one solution to that: one had to jump through the floor in one certain place in the house, into the living room through it’s ceiling, and became living again, only covered with ash – a regular ash. So getting anywhere from the living room was really difficult.
Feeling nothing
I look at my love… and I feel nothing. None of that usual warm and comforting feeling inside me. I look at my cats… I should have missed them when I was away… and I feel nothing. I think about my family… and I feel nothing.
Just empty sadness. Or sad emptiness. Whatever.
I’ve kind of broken my own heart. I wanted to feel something. And I felt something for a little while, now it’s just nothing.
I wonder if it’s temporary. Is it just because I’ve returned to normal life after four weeks and I need to adjust again? Or have I shut all the emotions and I have to start all over again? Do I have to spend another few months (years?) regaining them?
It was nice to feel something, even if it hurt. It gave me energy. It made me creative. I loved. Now – I don’t know. Maybe it’s just today. Or this week. Maybe I’ll be better tomorrow.
Humpty Dumpty
I usually have a good intuition for people. There are people whom I like instantly we meet, and there are ones that I resent without any reasonable cause.
I usually stick to the impression.
Except that one time, when I met that sociopath about twelve years ago, told my intuition to fuck off because I knew better, fell in love, got my heart broken repeatedly and got my already weak self esteem shattered into tiny pieces, that I’ve been trying to glue back together since then.
I know he is a sociopath, I know he manipulates people to feel better, because he likes it when people are emotionally dependant on him. I know I shouldn’t worry about anything he had said, but anyway I can’t get it out of my system. And it’s been so many years. He made me feel worthless, so I feel worthless. Even though I have a partner who says otherwise. Even though I’ve got friends who make me feel otherwise. They all make the little shattered pieces glue themselves back a little bit. But not enough, apparently. How do I get rid of this feeling? How do I get to like myself again?
Random thoughts
I have hurt someone I care about, by being selfish, lost and sad.
I don’t know how to live with myself and with that dark, lonely feeling.
I just wanted to feel desired, attractive. And I still don’t.
I crave attention from both of them. Everyday I want to make myself sexy, but it only makes me more vulnerable, so I end up wearing combat boots, combat trousers and black lipstick again, because I feel more secure in it.
I kill myself over and over with Pink Floyd and my sanity is dropping.
Random thoughts
I don’t really know what to write.
I’ve been blocking my feelings again, so I could function normally. If I weren’t, I’d be crying in bed all the time and wouldn’t leave my bed.
I’m trying to go on: the job hunt, a small contract, video games, some art or photos from time to time, getting familiar with the city, with another country. There are many things I love about living here, but there are times when I just see the reality clearly and I can’t get myself together again. I see that I’m missing the life.
I’ve stopped practicing the things my Good Wizard had taught me. I don’t see a point in all this. I miss him. I haven’t seen him in eight months and I miss him.
Now my good friend T has come over to visit for the holidays, and instead of being happy, I feel even more lonely and lost, because I see what I’m missing all the time.
And on the top of all of this I’m having serious doubts about myself, my self esteem is going down, I’m not certain about my feelings, and my libido is playing tricks on me.
Liquid cotton
I had thought that when I get things done at home and finally go to Dublin to my husband, I’d be calm, happy, productive and everything would be fine.
It’s not.
Instead I’m showing more and more signs of depression. Not the silly one, that you can treat with a movie and a chocolate bar. It’s the one that’s made of liquid black cotton.
I’m still doing stuff and I want to create things, which means it’s not a major breakdown, and everything will probably go back to normal when I find a job, but most of the day I sit in front of my computer and do stuff online, chat to people or mostly wait for my friend T to appear online; also sending some resumes and seeking job. And I lost my appetite.
My job search is quite chaotic; I can’t get myself to start a proper search, I just send a CV to anything that has a “graphic designer” and “Dublin” in it, I don’t even check all the requirements.
I like Dublin, it’s a very beautiful place really. I wish I liked going out alone, I’d spend more time outdoors, photographing maybe or just walking, but I get bored without company way too soon.
And everyone I love and like but one person is so far away. I miss them very much.
Synesthesia: yearning
A quick photoshop manipulation. I wish I had paints and canvas.
Synesthesia: the colour of emotions
Yearning is a big gray-blueish form, with a concrete-like texture, but soft as a sponge; it gets thinner and goes straight to my stomach, where it changes into something small, reddish and sore.
Depression is a black liquid cotton, with rare thin gray veins. It has a nauseously sweet flavour.
Calmness is greyish-purple and plain.
Love is.. different each time, and for each person. It depends on what feeling a certain person causes. For My Love it’s dark blue and glistening. For My Wizard it’s light red, pulsing and has a lovely, stony texture. For my Friend T it’s a bit sticky, blueish and soft. For my friend A it’s warm, dark orange, soft and sweet. For my mother it’s light blue and a little bit sour. For all the cats it’s warm, furry and perfectly gray.
Cheerfulness is orange and liquid. It flows out every hole.
Emotional painting
When I had depression, I had a constant feeling of swimming blindly in a black liquid, as thick as cotton.
Since I experience synesthetic feelings, every emotion on this black and thick background had shape, colour, size, texture and opacity.
When I tried to paint this, I synthesized all shapes to basic figures, squares and rectangles mostly, but the rest of the features stayed as I had seen them in my head. First I would start a composition. My subconsciousness was looking for some kind of symmetry and order, so after a while the whole composition would change into a set of squares.
I would paint with emotions, with my brain only controlling technical stuff, and without a major involvment of my will. Sometimes I would spend half a year on one picture because the colour or the texture weren’t right. The effect was never exactly as I’d anticipate it. It was the only way I could express emotions, and nobody knew this until now (I told a friend).
And when most people see my paintings, they usually say that they’d paint something like this in half an hour and it’s not real art because it doesn’t show people or objects.
I stopped painting a few years ago, because the feedback I was getting was depressing. I’d like to start again, I think.
