Welcome To The Crash

This past month I tried something new. I tried breathing. Not regular normal in and out breathing type stuff, I do that every day. I mean concentrated inhales and exhales, through the nose and out the mouth. Sometimes when I did it I closed by eyes and rhythmically pressed the tips of my finger and thumb together. I did it to try and create a tiny pocket of zen in an otherwise hectic and chaos filled head. A head in which sometimes, I feel so fucking mad at people, for no reason. A head in which I feel judgmental as fuck, looking around and laugh internally at other people I feel have less of a handle on this shit. A head in which I feel jealous. Sickly jealous. So jealous I think about destroying the things they love, and leaving a hole in there lives, the likes of which I have in mine. It's a feeling that ebbs and flows into me as regularly as the ebbs and flows of my depression, my anxiousness or my complete malaise, but of all these feelings it's the one I'm most

Every single time he lost his keys, he cursed himself for being so fucking clumsy. Feeling a red mist of self loathing and dire frustration descend, he patted each pocket, checked each table top, walked up and down the stairs, and to the car and back. He looked in coats, bags, shoes, plant pots and decorative bowls filled with miscellaneous items. He checked the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom, and the basement. Sitting, bereft of any new thought as to where the keys might be, he held his head in his hands and said: Why does this always happen to me? and if anyone else would have been there with him, they might have said: It doesn't. Since living here Peire has used his keys 1,475 times, and in that entire amount of usage, only once has he struggled this hard to find them. It seems it's the natural condition of our brains to focus in on each and every time something doesn't run smoothly, pushing out the memory of each time something does. Ins

He stood proud, a moment of clarity and confidence. “Will you take my picture?” he asked his friend. “Sure” came the reply. So he posed beside the pool he’d phoned home about, an example of how good he was doing and how great the place was. Meanwhile, in the background... No one even knew she was falling, until the water splashed their faces.

Writing is not necessarily an antidote to how I'm feeling. It's more a way of pulling something out of my body, to see it hovering, almost tangible, articulated in words, filling space. This helps me work out what things might mean, because I'm under no illusion that a lot of the time my experiences of abstract sadness are purely chemical reactions in my brain. It's just other times, they're not. Other times they are a consequence of the world around me, they are caused by the utter discontentment I have for myself, they are the thorn of living in a version of the world I never agreed to be a part of. So when all this is inside of me swirling around and settling down like a black-tar lead-lump of thick grim silt, sunken to the pit of my stomach, writing is almost an attempt to spew it all out, before rifling through the chunks of detritus and confusion, endeavouring to work out what might be causing today's pain. But like I said, writing is not the antid

Method 1: By Accident.

How do you feel today? Quite empty. ... is the response I give in my head right before I say out loud "yeah good". In a way I think it's only because saying it out loud would be hugely underwhelming. I don't think anybody would care, because feeling quite empty is not the same as feeling quite depressed, utterly sad, shattered or completely broken. Feeling quite empty actually sounds fine, it's much a muchness you might think. However, I often contemplate that it is much worse than feeling down. The feeling of being empty is a kin to nothingness, a common symptom of suffering from the void. In the (sometimes) comfortable milieu of existing with depression, feeling quite empty is as destructive a feeling as any other destructive feeling that might arise through the course of a year. With the void existing entirely inside of you, strolling into oncoming traffic means nothing. Like walking out to sea. Like climbing over the barriers of a multi storey

Welcome to the crash, my friends. Welcome to the crash. The dawn clock ticks on, as checked shirts torn off hit floors, and a vodka scented sweat soaks into the seams. His handlebar moustached lip, and mandible jaw click open, and begin to pour forth five oceans of spit ruined, rorschach tested, unborn, x-rated dreams and tears stream from in between blinks as he thinks "I should have done more things". Then suddenly in his neck he feels it, like a heart attack, his own pulse beating, thick with fat, and as we sweats he tries to catch breath, and breathes deep with a stretch, reaching out to grab hold of another cigarette and as he lights it, he looks straight into the camera, right down the lens and says; Welcome to the crash, my friends. Welcome to the crash. Because the iCloud is full, and the App Market's open, and she's hoping that we're all just going towards something else, somewhere else, close up, maybe in real life, or maybe just in