2005-12-12 - 17:08 p.m.
"Because it's ninth week, everything has been packed up and everyone gone away. A few faces, annoying like children. There's nothing (and too much) to do and the days don't really exist. I never know what time it is now it gets dark so early."
The last proper attempt to write anything here, and it died at that stage not just through lack of will but also through lack of anything more to say. since about second week, the term has been a nothing, an inbetween, a limbo. the winter draws in and the gloaming extends deep down into the afternoon. this is a nothing, inbetween time, not a proper, full, Abendrot. after about two thirty the sky goes grey and the light flies from it. what's left is a sort of milky half-light that isn't enough to keep me in my room or invite me out of it. the dense cloud air seems to choke and clog and prevent all motion and i feel like everything is covered over by a gauze, a layer of dead skin.
in eigth week i stayed up all night on my final Heidegger essay and waited to see the sun come up. the now grey light just bled through the drizzle. the flock of seagulls fluttering off the Town Hall roof seemed like the real dawn, fluttering above the High.
towards the end of term i gave up thinking about one boy, who turned out to maybe just be a bit boring, and felt like i was love in with another. Rosie told me one night that she thinks you can't really be in love with someone until they love you back.
somehow writing 'i decided i loved him' doesn't sound right - it sounds like it was a matter of choice. and this has been too painful, that peculiar feeling of being pecked at in the chest, or being thrashed by flame. my favourite line from 'The unabridged pocket book of lightning':
'I hope that you never love anyone as much as I love you'.
there was one good bop, to counter the bad bop in the middle of term. my "dj-ing" at this latter bop was better too - the crowd loved Gonzalez, but not Girls Aloud, bizzarely. one night was Beth's birthday celebration: the Juan Maclean at Cargo, made special by an unexpected dose of ragga and a White Stripes remix. one night i tried to kill myself again. in the end i went back to bed. i seem to have scarred too, which the attempt itself hardly warranted.
cutting is funny. the day i got home Tom T. came down to Lewisham and we ended up (quelle surprise) drunk at my house. i played Tom some of the songs that Pa played the night he found out Chris had died. i gave good thought to jumping Tom that night, and once again just went to sleep.that weekend Mummy, Sarahness and i went to stay in Walberswick. it felt like the first time in ages, and the weather was a perfect passage from biting blue to the bleak grey swirl that i always associate with being there. the Blythe and the moor over to Southwould looked more eerie than i've ever really noticed before. the weekend was haunted. i felt different knowing i was in the same county as the boy of the "love" mentioned above, knowing that Walberswick was the village he visits once a year, where he stays in a house and watches t.v. and drinks red wine in the afternoon.
i have too many ghosts, ghosts that haven't earned their hauntings.
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