headaches and stuff

People seem to fail to comprehend that the price for being in my head is being in my head. I am never bored. In fact I am always borderline psychotic, because I keep having so many ideas and so little hands and eyes and hours of the day to execute them. Also, I am my own flying saucer. My own worst critic. Whenever there's something I do, I do it wholesomely. Terrible minutes ensue if I hate my result. To be invited to work with me, a pathological loner, is probably an exception far greater than people realize. But the prize for that is, I get really incredibly psyched over things being done in my stead. Very few people do things better than I can do them. I'm not saying this as a realistic member of humanity. I am saying that as me. I've always ever been alone. I've always ever only done everything alone. There was a time when I was in a marriage alone. For the past three years, I've taken an active shift to that, because I've met a person that makes me completely and utterly NOT lonely. It was his idea I have friends and as a next stage, to have co-workers and partners. But the problem is, I don’t like to share. I hate having others do what I could do. As much as I love and admire to witness someone doing science and music and dancing – and I’m a child looking into the magic land – I freak out when someone is supposed to do my trades but does them less perfect. In those cases, I think why don’t people just do their own thing and leave me alone? Why does it have to come back to me? Leave me alone. Leave me with colours and tools of my own trade. You are not doing me any favours by helping me. It chokes me. It sickens me. I feel like my blankets are being torn from me and it’s raining. Moments come when I am drowning in what other people want me to do as PART of the team. They tell me how to behave, how to feel about being a part of the team. They want me to lie. I am still not very comfortable with lies. But in consequence nobody is comfortable with me.

I miss my art. I miss myself. I need to find a face for my camera to fall in love with this autumn, just to cure the poison that has settled in my eyes. I haven’t cried tears of anger for so long. My kind is expected to bleed art. I’ve not bled art for an eternity now. Don’t assume its painless being the demon caught in my own brain. I’ve never had so many headaches. Nor have I ever had so many plans, desires, ambitions, roots and branches. All I now need is a decent fucking landslide.


Truth is I fucking hate people. Everyone asks to be happy and pleased and entertained and helped and socialised with ALL the fucking time ... If you can't do that for them you're weird and sick and deserve to die in anguish. Or something.  Speak what they want to hear. Laugh when they want to sound funny. Encourage them when they suck so their feelings aren't whatever. Constant fucking need to be babied and listened to and connected. Seven billion people on this fucking planet and ONE likes me the way I am. Everyone else is constantly and instantly and increasingly insulted by me. Sure, they fancy pretty pretty things I make. But to actually like me entirely? Gods, no. The moment I quit dancing how they want me, I am weird. I am pushing them away. I'm acting unpleasantly. Tough fucking truth. I'm not acting. I am the person who celebrates creation to the max, and honey and puppies and good movie posters and fast debates and tiny poems. I love life. But that's the shiny hemisphere of my heart. Perish the thought one should stop trying to pretend one is happy all the time.


When I'm working, I am insulting people. When I am not working, I am insulting people. When I speak I'm bothersome. When I don't speak I'm bothersome. I wish that when I died, I would be no more body, no more name. I would just be a soul, living in my husband's broken arm. that way I could still touch him when he shaved or peed or fixed his glasses or dressed himself or covered himself when he would be cold in his sleep... I could still drive him to nice places. And like a spirit in his crooked muscles, I would whisper to him the things to do to continue my work. Nobody would ever know, except him and me. Than would have been fucking perfect life.


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