The mind is filled with thoughts that are not good. Thankfully they’re limited to being tumble-weeds so they drift about without getting a proper hold. This is good I guess, but it makes for some really odd restlessness.

And the body. It’s sliced fish. gutted and the soul is thrown out. There’s not much strength in it. These two things, the head and the body, they don’t work together in this and this disconnect is a good thing. It keeps things from happening.

I wish almost everything was different.

It’s the ambivalence that kills me. I don’t think I’ve even been as good at drawing as I am now, the progress is there and not even I can ignore it. But at the same time I have this feeling of it not being enough. Not in the sense of “I need to get better!” but in the other, worse way. What if this is my peak? Perhaps I should just quit — a stupid thought, I have no idea how to not draw.

But it’s not enough. It’s not enough and it’s the one thing I can hold on to so where does that leave me? Have no clue or bearing or anything. I don’t know.

Glass

Some days I really wonder. What am I doing here? And why do I even try? It’s hard to try and find a place to fit in when there’s these things working against you and most of them are internal. To feel liked and loved but at the same time have huge problems with intimacy and body contact. (Can hug people I like even in public. Handshakes with strangers are uncomfortable. I can’t make firends without the Internet, don’t remember how. Trust me when I say that my biopic will have the title There Will be Issues.) To don’t have a clue about the social protocols and being forced to guess or at worst more fail than not on trail and error. To let people in without really knowing how to do that as the walls — cracked and ruined as they might be — still proves to be in the way and with marked no safe route around.

I don’t want life to be a form of looking in through a window but mostly that’s what it seems like. And most people don’t look up when I knock on the glass. The worst part is that I don’t know if I’m happy about the window or not. 

You know that “No Sleep Till Brooklyn?” Obviously there’s a wormhole to there in my mind as I’m sleeping all the time. It’s one of my best lines of defence for the thing that is my brain and its negative sides but damn, I wish I could be a bit better at the outside world.

Trying hard to grow into dreams instead of out of them. It’s not easy but I know that if I don’t, there will be even more self-contempt. And I got enough of that as it is, and I think it’s one of the things that keep the self-esteem in such damn small doses. There’s no room.

You know how it is, when you lie down to sleep all the thought keep hitting you in the face. Slapping you wide awake when you almost, almost fell asleep. Last night there was lots of rain and it was a bit chilly and perfect sleeping weather really. But then came the brain. Obviously I’m the kind of person who weep when reminded of friends I see far to seldom. Seriously. You can smell the tears on the pillow if you want. (Smell them damn you!)

Moral of this is that force me to choose between my friends and you’re the first one out. And it’s almost too easy to make me cry.

I can’t lie and say that today has been good. I’ve been trying to ignore and keep busy but it doesn’t work. The twine ball of anxiety in the stomach spins faster and faster as well as get more and more tangled. I would love to be free of it but I’m not. It makes me want to scream, cry, cut away pieces (which I don’t, so don’t worry. I can’t stand to see my own blood and the medication keeps the rationality function on), or just give up and somewhere while I wither.

Very little makes sense today but nothing has changed since yesterday or the weeks before that. Still doesn’t make sense. Everything goes down. All the things I do, the mind asks why I keep struggling, trying to improve or… Yeah, fuck, even bother to reach out. The only answer I have is “what else can I do?” and that do seem sufficient. For the negative voices that is, I’m not so sure it’s sufficient for me. Not so sure at all.

If there had been a slideshow function here — please don’t make one! — I could just lie in bed and watch cute animals and girls of tumblr all day long. Sitting up by the computer and I just can’t reach the level of apathy to the surround world as I’d like.

I think I was a sloth in my previous life. Or a panda.

Whenever I reblog something in order to comment on it and previously this has been liked and shared around and everyone seem to scream “yeah! this!,” I always get a bit worried. Hesitant even. Because here I come with an unpopular view and throws shit around myself and am occasionally a bit rude while doing so. And I fear people will leave and scoff and look at me with a laser gaze of dislike.

Then I post it anyway, being on the popular side has never been my lot anyway. The fear is still there though, it can linger for hours.

There’s this line in Mass Effect 2 where Tali says something like “we’re a very social race, we have to be due to being locked inside in environment suits all the time.” I hadn’t thought about it like that even if it makes sense — if you can’t touch or see or even smell another person, you’d have to talk and listen. Logic, not my strong suit as I’d have pegged them more reserved.

But then again, this means the Quarians and their homeworld could be seen as a metaphor for Internet. Deeply personal strangers and then there’s the big botnet…

I still think that if I had been in a containment suit, I’d be even more of a shut-in — just more loud. Not sure if it would be an exile or stuck out there on a never-ending pilgrimage looking for a way back. Probably the last.

Another thought: wonder what the Quarians would think about the cheap pull down the pants-gag?

Unnoticed. Forgotten wayside, never pushed forcibly but still walked passed and due to all the people constantly slipping backwards, outwards. Out of the centre I never really stood in.

Of course I have this longing of being noticed. Think everyone has, no one wants to be ignored. At the same time, I hate being in the centre. It’s a hard thing to combine those two, especially since the natural way of being is quiet, this means protesting brings things to a halt and far too much focus.

The place in-between is awkward and there’s no real way out.

I don’t feel like myself today. In many cases, I’d assume this was a good thing. To not be me. But no, this is more a lack of self and not an other. The lines are there but there’s no real feeling in them. If I were a plant, I’d be a tumble-weed. Restless and mostly dead, not even sure what I’m restless for really but just… something.

Last weekend I saw It’s Kind of A Funny Story, and it was quite good. Some parts felt a bit off like the main plot of a teen that get himself committed for five days and ends up being good at everything and find love. Kind of made myself want to do that but somehow I don’t think that would work out that easy — the kid in the movie was probably not that depressed and I’m not really the type of person who becomes good at everything and find love.

The character of Noelle however did remind me of the opening word in Mary Gentle’s book Ash. “The scars made her beautiful.” Now, I don’t condone or propagate that people should cut themselves. Metaphors people, different levels! (Even though I would probably have cut myself at times had it not been for the risk of blood. I have huge problems with seeing my own blood.)

It’s the imperfections that make people shine. The odd things and idiosyncrasies. The scars made her beautiful. People who don’t have scars, the normal people who only see the event horizon and don’t really understand that at the core, things like suicidal thoughts defies all rules of logic and rationality. It’s a hard thing to explain and one of the things that make “normal people” hard to understand from my point of view. Two parallel worlds that intersect without many points of reference in common.

The scars made her beautiful. Physical scars or not, they’re my people. Wouldn’t trade them for anything. Not even cookies and a pair of mismatched socks.

The word “why” has been on my mind a lot today. Why do I have to draw in that faux-cartoony style all the time? Why can’t I just pick one, realism or not? Why does the knee hurt today? Why did I have to wake up? The last one is not so seriously meant, but really, I’m not happy.

Don’t even want to think about how it would have been without the medication. Probably awful. Sure, I’m not even sure what completely happy means any more, but you know, I’ve had bursts of joy and slight happiness — not enough of it, I can admit that. Still had them though. I can extrapolate. I can extrapolate the shit out of them.

World peace and free hugs to everyone, and good will towards all mankind. That’s a huge extrapolation. Still doesn’t remove the why that lingers on even there. Perhaps I’m too negative and I need to take the happiness where I find it. That might be a good advice in some way, except that one can’t control feelings like that and mostly it’s still platitudes from smiling fuckfaces who’s only concern is that my frown impede and threaten their happy sphere.

Here’s a drawing of Clawful, the STD of toys and a wonderful pun.