Sat up last night and read
The Virgin Suicides. Probably not a very good idea in my present state of mind. Keeping terminal thoughts from my head is a daily chore recently, and almost
24/7 operation which has to be immensely intensified at night. Perhaps it's the power of concentration, forcing myself to look away from death, that is sapping my strength enough to allow me to nod off. I was inspired by the
multivarious ways the Lisbon girls ended their lives; there are so many alternatives, so many final statements you could make. Then again, you'd need to make them when
the Lisbon girls did - young, self centered, still unaware of the monstrous selfishness and destructiveness of the act, rather accusing than guilty.
A funny thing: the inner turmoil and the outer lethragy are in direct proportion to each other. The more I torment, flagelate, eviscerate myself fom within, the quieter I become, perhaps even seemingly serene. I don't know which causes which - the outer calm sublimating the violence inwards, or the inner storm sapping emotion and movement from my face and body. When I open my mouth to say something about how I feel, even just to myself, in an empty room, nothing comes out. I'm not making this up - I open my mouth to speak and instead I sigh, or gasp, or smile. As if it's not bad enough to lose control of your own mind, now I'm losing control of my body too. My whole centre of balance has shifted. It's now at a hard, sour knot in my stomach, making me walk heavy, stooping, laden. Again problems of cause and effect - is my stomach churning because I am panicking, or do I feel panicky in response to the tight bowels?
Tomorrow I am going on holiday to Barcelona with my best friend. What bloody timing, huh? Still, maybe the sunshine and the sinuous distractions of Modernisme will help. I really don't think I can deal with this alone any more.