Poinsettias in the fireplace
Move in and feel it again. Moments of unbearable depression and then, in the next hour, it’s gone. Like a body rolling off of me. The pressure released from my chest. Question it. Face against the table, handcuffed to the floor. Why is this happening? Where does it go? And then the beginning of the thoughts, like cars on the motorway, driving dangerously, trying to get home.
Inaugural gas leaks and confusion as the neon lamp cracks in the car. Pink nights getting me through and then all at once, falling away. Roll down the windows, unsure about poisoning. Google tells me nothing.
New noises that feel like they’ll never end. Lights that flicker all the time. I think about how, if I owned it, I’d tear all the wires out of the walls. I think about the manic determination that would grip me. These mundane annoyances get to me on a psychological level.
Snow in a new place. Waiting for familiarity to find me. There are days, feeling like the film of a person. Like the layer you peel off between slices of cheese. Naively stunned that there’s still a forcefield around me. And yet, this place has enough daylight for me to see my hair is gold again.
A friend arrives, suddenly there’s familiarity in something so unfamiliar. It’s times like this that I wish I was like him; at home anywhere, able to welcome new surroundings. Instead I’m nervous. Feeling the friction between me and this place. So I avoid and retreat. As always, the bedroom becomes the domain. Welsh wool sheets holding in the heat. Condensation every morning. Growing up in subzero temperatures has done nothing to take the edge off that particular pain.
Amongst all the boxes and bags full of possessions that I want to burn, task paralysis creeps back in. I forget how to work. Then, one of those periods hits me where every component of my day, every task, every habit, all the admin of existing are like a million voices trying to tell me something. Holding my arm, digging in. I try to separate them, listen to them individually, but I can’t quieten the: Google this, buy that, schedule this and while they are all screaming at me, tripping over every step of the day until it’s night and I wonder where it went. I dream of someone organising everything for me and my focus becoming like a tiny pinprick of light illuminating the darkness down a long hall. Unwavering and sharp as anything. All my effort, all my attention, shining on the one most important thing. Until then, trying to think what to do with evenings that start at three.
Autumn idyillcism. Staring at the greens and browns and reds of the trees outside my window like I’ve never seen nature before. The grass wet and saturated (deepest green, heavy with promise). I feel like I’m living in a Tarkovsky film.
Briskly walk home, long coat flowing, shoving a ham and cheese croissant into my mouth. A town full of strangers. Unchartered territory. Agoraphobia re-calibrating, like a grinning fiend, always asking, are you scared yet? I thought this wouldn’t happen here.
Running into an extremely famous person and realising that the days of walking to the shops barefaced and wild are gone. Handing over my thoughts to a stranger. He holds onto the film and I think, are these just photos to him or does he know, this is how I see things?
Trying to get to grips with the slow cooker, sweating a bolognese for three hours and throwing it away when it tastes of soap. Nurturing always ends up this way.
Becoming a secret swiftie. Instantly gravitating toward the fact I have no memories associated with these new songs. Music always feels like it pulls me this way and that when most of all, I want to feel nothing. So I short-circuit my brain, blasting Karma every chance I get.
Standing in the shower and thinking about how each component in every film is fabricated from nothing. Thinking of intricate scenes and entire worlds, thrilled by all of it. Hit by the drive again. Unlimited time created this place where I couldn’t grasp it. Then the steady influx of other work made time a rarity, and here it is, back with me.
Another obsession. Well timed, cutting through the monotony. Watching Buffy every chance I get and jonesing when I try to break. I should know better. Like waking a sleepwalker, these things have to end on their own. Another shower thought: that show portrays desire like no other. Every break-up just like a knee against my chest; kicking out the air but also ripping me apart. I feel everything there. My focus is always extreme. I can’t even read until it’s done.
Other updates. Mentally, I’m running. Hands still slowing me down. Hormones still calling the shots. Existence stealing time from everything that matters. This body is holding me back. Even festive gastritis. Eating now comes with the logistics of a chess match. It’s impressive, the havoc that stress wreaks, lighting fires and guarding them like a quiet menace, never letting them go out.
Ignoring Christmas. Instead, halfheartedly adding to a Pinterest board of an idyllic one. Taking place someone between the 1800’s and 1990. Of trees in old houses and cakes I don’t have the patience to make. Another time, another place, zero responsibilities and not a thought in my head.