I felt the rush of a thousand heartbreaks.

I spent the first hour of my day today lying on a mattress in Andrea's lounge room eating popcorn and reading about places to go in Austria. I don't even plan to go to Austria. But it was fun to read about nonetheless.

Andrea and I had a movie night last night that she graciously let me fall asleep during at around 1am. That girl makes me really happy. Being around her means not bothering to put on an act or a persona. She's so low key in the best possible way. And she has a beautiful puppy who tries to eat your hand.

I miss having time during summer to go to the Australian Open and look at the pretty tennis players. I miss cooking all the time when I had flexible Uni hours. I miss having the presence of mind to miss things when you're not working all day and resting at night time because you're weak and lazy and ... me.

But mostly I'm good. I saw Ryan yesterday and he put me in the right mood to enjoy the rest of my weekend and actually sit down to write this blog. Hopefully I'll be up to writing something of substance after our next meeting, although knowing Ryan that'll be a while away. Ah well, see you in June.

I don't know what's right and what's real.

I'm trying to write again. Like the old days (if you laughed hysterically at that, well, that's fair).

Sample 1 of my new attempts at writing:

tender hands caressed her eyes
tears simmered slyly, unmasking mute cries
They circled, sweating unrest
limbs held still; blistered; blessed
onto her They wrote a script
blood slithered out
as one, They sipped.

Can't think of a title yet. Hmph. Let me know your thoughts if you have any.

You just might need dynamite.

Been busy lately. Avoiding full sentences. Avoiding lots of stuff. But no longer.

I'm here. Present. Reporting for duty. Punching in. Whatever.

Every weekend has brought another party or three, which is loverly but sometimes one wants to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea, unpause the DVD player and continue watching a Judy Garland movie. Lame? Perhaps, but it's me, it's what I do, and I miss it. I haven't been reading much lately, either, which sucks because I had so many big plans. I still have an unopened copy of Sylvia Plath's journals sitting beside my bed (bigger than a bible and something I'm far more likely to worship). And I never write anymore. Not poems, not autobiographical snippets, not short stories, nothing. This isn't exactly a ginormous loss to the world, I know, but it did wonders for my sanity. Online visits are fewer and fewer for me. I miss anyone I don't have a tutorial with or sit with at lunchtimes. Cooking doesn't seem to be happening; I ate a meal out of a packet the other day (*shudder* ...although it was quite alright as far as Indian food goes).

I'm being more who people want me to be; my family are stunned but ecstatic when I come home from a night out partying and drinking, friends are amused and intrigued by my newfound social life, I have more in common with people I meet. And yet... I don't feel like me. And in weird ways it shows. I don't go out at night; I have nothing to wear to clubs and parties. I don't go out to eat; I sit and drink tea or water and then grab a burger on the way home. I start talking excitedly with people about University and TV shows when I should be ordering a drink.

And I miss my place on the couch, and my mug, and my movie. And yet I don't return to them. Someone once called me an enigma. I wonder, were Winston Churchill to observe me, what he would say.

Picture this:

Hannah sitting at home in an oversized boys' t-shirt and old, baggy school trackpants. No, not sitting, crawling on all-fours across her bedroom floor like a ferret excessively interested in DVDs (the ones she's arranging and searching through). She decides to look up a vegan brownie recipe online and pulls out a piece of paper. Needing something to lean on, she finds a small notebook in one of the many wooden tables/dressers/desks she has cluttering her room. Finishes writing out the recipe and flicks open the cover of said notebook. Finds three pieces of writing from two years ago. Gets on her laptop to post one online.


I've watched you mourn the loss of your best friend for two years. I've only begun to mourn the loss of mine, and you won't even notice until I am so torn at the seams that I stop being your cushion against the blows the world gives you. It's just the same truth I relearn all the time; no one catches me when I'm falling. It's when the crack of me hitting the ground wakes them up that they realise they need to scrape me off the pavement and rebuild me. But they settle for superglue and awkward smiles instead.


And there you have the early part of my Saturday evening. Emo, innit?