Wight 2

Back in the Isle of Wight this weekend for a last bit of biking before winter. It was not good. Or rather, it was fine, if too cold and windy, but I was not.

I'm not well. Some part of me has gotten lost and what's left is tied in knots. I don't know what to do, don't even know what that verb means anymore.

I was out of the city, in the countryside, with friends. Laughing and joking and drinking, then slipping away to scream in silence. The riding felt like hell, just agonizing drudgery with no joy and no purpose. Tired legs, aching back, sodden shoes, freezing feet. Stupid. Why was I there in October? Why was I anywhere, anytime?

I was there, but in hiding. Time after time I found myself lurking outside rooms, on the landing or the stairs, listening to my companions chattering, unable to move. Unable to help myself.

Getting there was unbearable. Getting back just as bad. Hour after tedious hour of slow, overcrowded, commute surrounded by screaming creatures and bleeping alarms. I've vowed never to do it again.

I'm so tired of my life. I don't want it anymore. It's worn out, used up, a mess.

I'm not well. Perhaps it's not a nervous breakdown after all, perhaps it's just some stomach bug or fever and when I wake up tomorrow I'll be dandy again. Perhaps it's just the usual self-indulgent bullshit and I should fucking well pull myself together.

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

I need help, but the people I love can't or won't help me, or I can't or won't ask, and I am pathologically incapable of turning to professionals. I shouldn't even be writing about it, because I know who reads this and they shouldn't find out.

But you all know that I melodramatize. I keep telling you it's all fiction. I keep telling you not to believe a word of it.

See, I can joke. I can write. I strike these poses from time to time, but it isn't real. There's nothing wrong, really. I'm just playing with words, wondering how they sound together.

And you know what? They sound crap. I'm really going to have to give this some serious attention on the redraft, because right now it's rubbish.

Note to self: if this is the best you can do, don't fucking bother.
Posted by matt at October 10, 2004 07:56 PM