"If I don't recover
Sell this house and find something lost outside your window
On the night I die I swear I'll sleep outside your window
Emy, should I stop?
Do you think I'll make it to the morning if it's written?
Stitch it up - the kind of song I know cause mother, sister, lover worry
I feel the knife going in
I'm feeling anxious
Not enough to kill me
I thought it'd happen fast
But I'm feeling it now
And I feel anxious
Sleeping inches from me
I let it pass."
- Tegan and Sara
Order is restored. The cheer-up is on the other blog, the madness is here.
Yep, the feeling of going mad again. I can't concentrate, and I must because I still have bloody much to learn. But my thoughts just drift away. Jump. English - German - English. Or disappear and leave only feeling. Feeling slightly high, laughing in the scary, desperate way. Or having trouble breathing, like now, and feel like there's a stone on my chest. And one hour ago, everyhing was fine.
I don't dare to continue working on the Amber Flame, because I know I wouldn't be able to stop. I don't have the time. But sometimes I scribble some parts of the ever-growing legendarium in the corners of the paper- and read them afterwards and wonder why I still write such sad stories. The good thing about fantasy is that you can balance everything out. And the beauty of magic definitely pwns sadness.
Sometimes I'm so moody and annoyed that I'd like to move out, as my doctor tells me for a year now. "Don't get stuck at home!". I know he's right and I want to, but I'm so scared, and not only because my last try was a fiasko.
Some years ago, I desperately wanted to move out. Now hardly anything scares me more than the thought of living alone in a flat.
It's cold. Not only outside. It's cold where winder's fingers should never reach out for.
All the abstract things - the flame thing, the raven, the faerie oracle - it's all so obvious. It's so damn obvious what I need to do, and I'm working on it.
And then comes the next hole and the anxiety and a gleam of the toxic whisper: What's it all for? Why still bother to struggle on?
I know what's it all for, and I'm not willing to give up on it. It's just so damn hard to get there. The path likes to hide beneath the leaves. Sometimes you lose it and get lost and it takes you ages to find it again. And at the moment the path is not sheltered with rocks or trees and the wind is cold and bites.
But at least it's not raining.
And sometimes the sun comes out. And soon spring approaches.
Ah, ok. Cartharsis through tragic theatre? Aristotle, maybe you're right. But writing doesn't hurt either. Even if I wasted time writing this entry - maybe I can concentrate now that I can breath again and that I am a bit more calm.