A Portrait of a Woman as a Young Girl

Last night I dreamed that I was running through a forest. I looked down and realized that I was naked. I was confused by the serenity of my surroundings because my heart was pounding with fear. I had the feeling I was being chased. I glanced behind me and noticed an ominous shadow in my wake. I ran until I reached the bank of a rapidly flowing river. I spun around to face my shadowy opponent but I was only surrounded by trees and flowers and the soothing sound of the animated water below me. The distinctive aroma of cherry blossom suddenly occupied my olfactory senses. I looked across the river and saw a tall, pregnant woman staring back at me. "Am I dead?" I screamed, but the words caught in my throat and I was acutely aware that I could no longer speak. The woman smiled at me and dived into the water. I awoke expecting to find her beside me but I was alone. 

Love & light, 

M xx 

I Lost Myself on a Cool Damp Night

Sometimes I feel like my life is nothing more than a vague imitation of a badly written postmodern novel. Disjointed. Fragmented. Unfinished. I am floating around in a sea of grey, waiting for the epilogue that never comes. Some cliched indie film about a young ingenue suffering through an existential crisis. The not-so-enigmatic anti-heroine. A supporting character in her own narrative. A tragic victim of my neurosis. A thinly veiled portrayal of my poorly disguised desperation for a happy ending that is as tangible as a wisp of smoke.

Long hours spent on the dance floor tying to re-live my misspent youth. Is this what passes for music nowadays? Or is my repulsion just an indication that I have become jaded? These people are like the undead, wafting past one another, looking but not really seeing, speaking but not really listening, silently judging as they repeat their carefully constructed swaying ad nauseum. I have the gnawing suspicion that I should feel excited to be here but I am incapable of summoning the appropriate level of joie de vivre. I surrender and let the chaotic amalgam encircle me. I close my eyes and let the vibrations carry me.

The morning after the night before. Smudged mascara and the stench of stale cigarette smoke linger on my hair and under my fingernails. Re-watching old reruns of That 70's Show and pretending I don't exist. The canned laughter is my own. Stolen embraces in deserted stairwells. Juvenile wishes made under touching tree branches. I am anxious that all I will leave behind when I'm gone is the vague scent of Very Cherry lip balm and regret.

Love & light,
M xx

With a Wink and a Smile and a Vial of Meth, I Took his Hand and we Walked through the Shadow of Death...

More and more frequently I am beginning to think of myself as a lump of clay. Never fundamentally one thing except something that can be moulded into every possible shape or form. Perhaps this means that I am like the water, constantly flowing, moving, changing. I have grown weary of the constant desire to please everyone around me. Fear is a powerful motivator. Taunting. Teasing. Always second guessing. Too scared that what I say will be the wrong thing. Surely I can't always be the only one making an effort. Yet I am. It is impossible to live up to the unrealistic expectations that are unceremoniously thrust upon me. My troubled mind is so clouded by the desperate need to hold together that which is rapidly slipping through my fingers that I can barely keep my head from toppling off my shoulders.This is a dangerous place to be in. I can feel it. I can sense myself tip-toeing closer to the edge of the abyss but there is nothing I can do to stop my perpetual descent.

There are fleeting moments of blissful oblivion. A poorly lit, smokey room filled with strangers. The smell of whiskey and stale cigarettes. The familiarity of my friends' faces, their infectious laughter. The heady seduction of the warm, golden liquid sliding down my throat and embracing my insides. The unbridled excitement of tasting his lips for the first time. I am ashamed to admit that this is my favorite part of being with someone. That shiver of anticipation at the temptation of the unknown, that which has not yet been conquered. The fear that the inevitable boredom will descend and spread until it consumes me will only come later.

Sex has become shrouded in shame. Done behind closed doors, in the dark, naked but unexposed. Leaving the scent of guilt lingering until it is scrubbed off under scalding water. Yet, the idea of another person's flesh against my own thrills me. A warm body to thaw the impenetrable facade.

And still here I sit. Constantly reapplying lip ice as if it will make a difference. My mind is a whirlpool of various streams of consciousness. I struggle to arrive at any semblance of coherence. If I have an essence I have yet to discover it.

Love & light,
M xx

Jumping Jack Flash

There are a lot of really crappy things that come with being an insomniac - the long hours spent angry and frustrated, tired but unable to sleep, and defeat - finally giving up and watching crappy late night TV - like a zombie, not really taking anything in. But there is one thing that, I, as a sleep-deprived neurotic, am privy to that most (well-rested) people aren't. 4am is the best time of the day. Just before the sun rises, when the world is still asleep and everything is completely still. There is a sort of eerie calm that washes over the world at this hour. It is almost like being suspended in a perfect moment in time that is completely unaware of past, future or even itself. And then you get to watch and hear the world wake up - which in the moment feels so magical that you almost can't believe it happens every 24 hours. First, the birds start to chirp, stretch their wings and shake their feathers. Second, the sky starts to lighten, so slowly at first that, unless you are really paying attention, you don't even notice it happening. Then begins the gentle hum of traffic in the distance, front doors swinging open and the voices of people starting their day. And just like that, it is as if that perfect moment of solitude never existed. That's why 4am is my favorite time of the day.

Love & light,
M xx

P.S.: Lovely photographs courtesy of my lovely dad :)